by Paul Kenyon
The six old men made a meal out of beans and canned sausage. No one offered Penelope or Skytop any food. They were lying, tied, only a few feet from the fire, and one of the guards amused himself intermittently by kicking a hot ember or two at them.
There was a halfhearted effort to sing German camp songs, but, after much yawning and stretching, and a ragged chorus of the Horst Wessel song, the aging Nazis wrapped themselves in blankets and dozed off. One guard stayed awake, a bullnecked Prussian with gold eyeglasses and a little toothbrush mustache.
Penelope began edging closer to the fire, feet first.
The guard watched her without interest. He stifled a yawn and slapped himself in the face to stay awake.
Penelope waited a few minutes, then rolled over on her belly. She wriggled closer, an inch at a time. She could feel the heat of the fire through the soles of the plastic sandals.
The guard caught himself in a snore and snapped awake again.
Penelope waited.
A few minutes later, she saw the guard's head roll again. This time his chin stayed on his chest. She could hear the deep, noisy breathing.
She thrust her feet deep into the fire.
The heat seared her toes and ankles. She bit her tongue and kept her feet over the embers.
It happened suddenly, while she watched awkwardly over her shoulder. The sandal strap writhed and sprang straight out. It changed shape instantly, becoming thinner and more pointed as the neo-methylmethacrylate co-polymer, its molecular memory triggered by heat, turned it into a knife.
Penelope bent her knees, began sawing at the ropes around her wrists with the serrated edge of the blade.
Skytop, a happy look on his face, already was holding his bound wrists behind his back into the flames.
The ropes around her wrists parted. Penelope looked at the guard. He was still snoring. The gold-rimmed glasses had slipped down his nose. She went to work on the ropes around her ankles.
Skytop's hands were deep in the fire. No cry escaped his lips. In less than a minute, he rolled away.
His wristwatch strap was suspended between thumb and forefinger. Only it wasn't a wristwatch strap any longer.
It was a five-inch plastic knife.
Penelope finished sawing through the ropes around her ankles as Skytop began on his own wrists. She rubbed her limbs until the blood, painfully, began to circulate. When she was sure she could move, she rushed in a swift crouch toward the sleeping guard.
The heel of her hand went under the man's chin, forcing his head back. With a quick, deft stroke, she sliced his throat. A red smile bloomed in his neck.
She caught the submachine gun before it could clatter to the ground. She eased the body down carefully. The gold-rimmed glasses were dangling, bent, from one ear.
Skytop was beside her now, his own knife in his fist. They conferred silently with a few nods and gestures. There were five more Germans spread out among the trees at varying distances from the fire. Only three were visible.
The big Cherokee wriggled over to the nearest one. He was sleeping on his back. Skytop's huge hand smashed his larynx to cut off any cry. At the same time, the little knife slipped expertly into the sleeping man's ribs.
Penelope was already leaning over the next man. He was having an erotic dream, making little pleasurable moans, his body squirming under the blanket. His eyes suddenly opened and he saw Penelope's face a few inches from his.
"Liebe…" he sighed, thinking she was a part of his dream. Then his eyes widened in horror as he realized that she wasn't.
Penelope slit his throat.
Skytop stood up. The fourth victim lay dead at his feet.
Now they had to find Willi and Heinz. The two old friends were sleeping together somewhere in the nearby foliage.
Penelope and Skytop spread out, prowling deeper into the vegetation. In the dim starlight, something caught her eye. Skytop saw it too. They closed in from either side.
It was a small heap of blankets and gear. Willi and Heinz were gone.
The click of a safety from the darkness alerted them. They dove for cover. A burst of automatic fire pierced the night.
"You are a she-devil!" an anguished voice came from fifty yards behind them.
The Schmeisser chattered again. Bullets hit the trees around them.
Penelope could see them over by the fire. Willi was standing there, the dead bodies tumbled around him, waving his gun wildly. Heinz was beside him, wringing his hands, the precious Hasselblad dangling from his neck.
"It's stalemate, Baroness," Skytop said beside her. "Willi doesn't know exactly where we are. He can't hit us except by accident. But all the guns are over there. We don't have anything that can kill at long range."
"Don't we?" She stripped off the wide plastic belt she wore.
Skytop nodded in understanding. He produced a packet of matches from his pocket and moved behind a tree, out of the line of fire.
Willi fired a couple of times at the stray glow of the matches, but the bullets thudded into the thick tree trunk. Skytop passed match flames along the length of the belt four or five times.
"It isn't going to work," he said finally.
Penelope stripped off her torn shirt and the skirt. Skytop contributed shirt and jeans, standing massively beside her in his jockey shorts. He added whatever dried vegetation he could reach to the little pile and tossed a match into it.
The fire caught. Penelope put the belt in a tight coil right in the middle.
The belt uncoiled like a sprung watchspring, scattering burning bits of cloth. It was a supple, gracefully curved arc now, as rigid as spruce. She plucked the bow from the fire.
Her finger found the thread protruding on the left side of her bra, just to the rear of the cup. She pulled gently on it, and unreeled the two-foot filament that Sumo had sewn in there.
Stringing the bow took only an instant, with Skytop helping her bend the curved plastic band. As short as it was, it had a tremendous pull. It would take all her strength.
"I should be doing this, Baroness," Skytop said with an embarrassed grin, "but it's up to you. I hate to admit it, but for an Indian, I can't shoot a bow worth a damn."
"You can make me two arrows, darling."
"Just two?" he raised an eyebrow. "Is that enough?"
"It is if you make them straight."
It took Skytop an hour, finding a couple of perfectly straight branches and stripping them, notching the ends, fitting in flights made from the cockatoo feathers he found strewn around the floor of the jungle. The arrowheads were the blades of Penelope's two plastic knives; a match passed under the strap of her remaining sandal gave them the other one.
"I'm keeping my own knife, Baroness," he said. "I promised to use it on one of those characters."
"Hurry, dawn's on its way. We'll lose our only advantage if they can see us too."
As if to punctuate her words, there was a burst of gunfire from the direction of the campfire. The bullets went at least twenty feet wide of the mark.
"All finished," he said, handing her an arrow. "Make it count."
She could see the two Germans plainly in the firelight. Willi was marching back and forth with the Schmeisser, in an insane parody of sentry duty. Heinz was sitting, looking dazed, fondling his stolen Hasselblad like a child's toy.
Penelope stood up and assumed the archer's stance, a trim huntress in her bra and briefs. She nocked, drew, anchored, aimed and released. The arrow whistled into the night.
The arrow sprouted from Willi's chest. He dropped the Schmeisser. His fingers clawed reflexively at the arrow. He staggered backward and fell.
Penelope had already nocked the second arrow. But Heinz, with a shrill cry, sprang to his feet with amazing speed and dived for the trees.
"Come on!" she yelled.
They started after Heinz. He had a fifty-yard lead on them. They could hear him crashing through the underbrush, but they couldn't tell where he was.
"We'll never find, him,"
Skytop groaned.
Then there was an excited barking. In the dim light from the stars, two ghostly white shapes flitted through the trees.
"Igor and Stasya!" Penelope yelled. "They must have trailed us all the way through the jungle!"
Borzois will chase anything that runs, even a man. Their gazehound instincts make it impossible for them to control themselves. Joyously they ran after the prey that only they could sense.
Penelope followed the sound of the baying. She found Heinz on the ground, Igor's big paws on his chest. They hadn't hurt him, of course. He was a man, not a wolf. They'd just knocked him to the ground. It was a game.
Heinz looked up at her, the rheumy old eyes dull with fear. Skytop came up behind her, the knife in his hand.
"I'll take that," he said, reaching down for the Hasselblad. He handed it to the Baroness, then bent over Heinz with the knife. "Bad luck, Heinzi," he said.
Chapter 17
"An irregularity has been reported," the official said. "Please to show your passport."
Penelope handed it over for the second time. "Will you kindly explain what this is all about?" she demanded with rather more hauteur than she felt.
The little man with the skimpy mustache sucked on his lip, not answering. He had looked at all their passports — Skytop's and the others — twice.
Each one of them had a microdot pasted over the letter «i» in the word "height." But it couldn't possibly be detected unless he knew exactly where to look. Unless someone had given customs a tip.
The other passengers on the flight to Rome were already boarding, filing past them with curious glances. Wharton was off to the side, talking earnestly to the Varig clerk.
"I don't understand the delay," Penelope said, tossing her head. "Our exit permits are already stamped."
"In good time, Senhora," the little man said. He was the same one they'd had trouble with when they'd arrived. When he'd seen Skytop and the camera cases being checked through, the joyous light of combat had kindled in his eyes. He'd had their luggage removed just as it was being loaded.
"But we'll miss our flight!" Penelope said.
Skytop, beside her, rumbled dangerously, "Careful with those cameras, amigo."
They were all spread out on the counter. Penelope tried to keep her eyes from dwelling on the Hasselblad with the doctored lens. The little bastard had picked it up twice and turned it over in his hands. But the diamond wasn't visible. It floated in its liquid womb, its index of refraction exactly matching that of the special medium. You couldn't know it was in there unless you'd been told.
"You have no export permit for these cameras," the little man said finally.
"Export permit?" Skytop exploded. "I'm not in the camera business! Those are my property! I brought them into the country! It's stamped on my documents!"
"I cannot allow it," the official said stubbornly. "The cameras will be confiscated."
Penelope stopped breathing. It couldn't be! After coming this far, to have it all made meaningless by some self-important little fool! She leaned forward, the smile frozen on her face, knowing in advance it would be no use. "You're not going to confiscate all the cameras? Surely every tourist is allowed at least one." Her eyes were fixed guilelessly on his, but her hand was reaching for the Hasselblad.
He snatched it out of reach. "Six cameras!" he said obstinately. "So many cameras cannot be for personal use. Why would one person need so many?"
"Because he is a photographer," an authoritative voice said just behind Penelope. She turned around.
"Silvio!"
He smiled at her. He was dressed in an impeccably white linen suit, an expensive flamboyant tie with matching handkerchief arranged in the breast pocket, a flower in his lapel. He was leaning nonchalantly on an ivory-headed cane.
"My dear fellow," he scolded the official, "do you realize that you are becoming an annoyance to a very important lady. A baroness. If she misses her flight, there will be unpleasant consequences."
"This does not concern you, Senhor," the official said.
"A lady who is a friend of the President himself," Silvio continued, paying no attention to the interruption. He reached into his pocket and took out a newspaper clipping. Penelope looked at it upside down as Silvio flattened it on the counter for the official. It was a photograph of General Medici taking her by the hand at Heidrig's ball, that night during Carnival in Rio about a million years ago.
The official gulped. He looked at the picture, then Penelope's face. He checked the name in the caption against her passport. Then he handed the passport back to her with a little salute. "Your exit permit is in order," he said.
Silvio took Penelope by the arm and drew her off to one side. Skytop and Wharton were closing up the cases, the Hasselblad safely inside, while Sumo ran off to find a porter.
"I saw in the newspapers that you were leaving on this flight," Silvio said. "Your face has been everywhere. I couldn't let you leave without saying good-bye."
Impulsively, Penelope flung her arms around Silvio and kissed him. "I'm glad you did, darling."
"Will you be returning to Brazil?" he said.
"I don't know."
"I can't leave the country, you know, or otherwise I would promise to follow you. But at least you must return for Carnival next year."
"Perhaps," she said.
"If you don't, I'll come after you." He laughed. "Some day, that is. When Brazil acquires its next set of generals, I'm sure my passport will be restored. For a while, anyway."
"Silvio, what will you do?"
"Whatever I can to make life uncomfortable for the bastards."
"Be careful."
He kissed the tip of her nose. "Of course I will. I'm looking forward to our date for Carnival."
The loudspeaker blared. Sumo was gesturing to her urgently. She gave Silvio a last thirsty kiss and ran to the boarding gate without looking back.
* * *
The President's man nodded curtly to the armed sentry standing outside the door of the conference room. The soldier saluted and he stepped inside.
The others were already there, waiting for him. He smiled with an apology that he didn't mean and that no one took seriously, and said, "The meeting's in session. Sam, let's start with you."
The head of DIA shot a triumphant glance at his CIA counterpart. "Coin did it again. We've got a new type of laser. A new way to trigger a hydrogen bomb. The scientists are going out of their minds. They're working on it now."
"What have we got? Plans, blueprints?"
"The works. Nine microdots packed with precise measurements, stripped-down pictures of components. And the critical component itself. A matrix diamond that our boys can duplicate."
The President's man looked at him owlishly. "A diamond? How did your Coin manage to sneak that past Brazilian customs?"
DIA laughed. "Key won't tell us."
The President's man turned to the CIA director. "What about Heidrig? Is your phony Tupi Indian still keeping an eye on the estate?"
CIA looked uncomfortable. "The estate… isn't there any more. Just a lot of debris. And the ruins seem to be radioactive. We assume Heidrig's dead. And everybody else in the place, too."
The President's man lifted an eyebrow. "Coin plays rough," he said to DIA.
* * *
Helena Pontarelli was singing "The Queen of the Night's" aria from The Magic Flute, the role that had made her famous at La Scala, when Penelope came in. She broke off immediately, in the middle of the startling passage with the Fs above high C, and hurried across the crowded drawing room. The pianist, young Burton Ives, straggled on for a couple of bars, then modulated smoothly into a current Broadway show tune.
"Baroness!" she said, taking Penelope's hands. "When did you get back?"
Penelope nodded toward the piano. "You shouldn't have stopped for me, Helena. You're disappointing your guests."
Helena grimaced. "Oh, Burton would rather play his own music anyhow. And I think most of the people
here would rather hear Burton than Mozart."
She led Penelope to a divan and motioned for her butler. He hurried over with a tray of martinis and gave one to Penelope, deftly twisting a lemon peel and dropping it in with a little flourish.
"You missed some of the best parties of the season," Helena said accusingly. "This little affair of mine is practically the last gasp."
She gestured inclusively at the room. Penelope looked around. The little affair numbered at least two hundred people, milling about in the drawing room and the adjoining room beyond the sliding doors, and spilling out into the terrace and the garden beyond. Penelope recognized an American film director and his current mistress, an English rock star, the famous Irish novelist whose last book had definitely ended speculation as to whether he might really be interested in women, a well-known British parliamentarian, the new French painter whom everyone was talking about, the Texas millionaire who was Helena's current lover and the usual members of the Italian aristocracy who liked to spend the end of winter in Tuscany. The atmosphere was deafening, with the two hundred competing voices and the small dedicated group that had gathered around Burton to sing songs, and yes, Penelope sniffed, the contingent of pot smokers seemed to be larger than usual.
"I've been in Rio," Penelope said. "You'll see it all in the May issue of Female."
"Rio! Then you were there for Carnival! Maraviglioso!"
Penelope made a face. "I'm afraid I spent most of my time working. Very tedious."
Helena gave a tinkling laugh. "I wish I could get paid for having a good time. Confess! It wasn't all that tedious?"
"Well…"
Helena clapped her hands with delight. "You had an affair!"
"Perhaps just a little affair."
"Who was he? Tell me all about it!"
Penelope laughed. "Helena, you're incorrigible."
"I'll worm it out of you. But first, are you free now?"
"Free as a bird."
"Then I have just the man for you! Very beautiful, very exciting, molto dilettevole! He's the new guest conductor at La Scala. Ruggiero Franchetti. He's here tonight. Let me introduce you!"