Assault on England (3 page)

"And thus ends another brief but glorious holiday," I said. "I just wish I had been able to get something from Fergus."

"He may not have had anything," Hawk said. "The most they could find out about the poor devil is that he served as a commando quite a few years back and then went downhill from there. Of course, he might have done some sub-agent work for the Commies and overheard something. At any rate, that's irrelevant now. The British need all the help they can get to crack this. I'm sorry, Nick, that you seem to get all the nasty ones, but that goes along with being so good at what you do."

I acknowledged the compliment. "Thanks. When do I leave?"

"Early tomorrow morning. It's the first flight out." He grinned. "You'll have time to see her again tonight, I should think."

I grinned back. "I was counting on it."

The Mirimar Hotel was a pre-colonial vintage building that managed to retain its european flavor. The club was located at the rear of the lobby. I took a table and ordered a scotch on the rocks. When the waiter left with my order, I scanned the surroundings. The room was dimly lit, with most of the illumination coming from the candles which sat atop each table. The clientele was mainly Europeans in Tangier on holiday, with a smattering of modernized Arabs in western garb sipping Turkish coffee, talking animatedly among themselves.

Just as my drink arrived, the lights dimmed and the show began. The first act was a French singer who went through several numbers bemoaning the heartache of lost loves. She was followed by a procession of belly dancers whose talent was more worthy of Eighth Avenue in New York than the Mid-East.

Finally Hadiya was announced, and a respectful hush settled over the room. The musicians struck up a beat, and Hadiya slid onto the stage from the wings.

She was dressed in the standard belly dancer's costume, but that was as far standard as she was. From the onset it was evident that she was head and shoulders above the average belly dancer. Her abdominal muscles quivered with a control that must have taken years to perfect. Her breasts shook as if they had a mind of their own, and even her arm movements betrayed a grace that was from long ago, when belly dancing was an art rather than the bastardized striptease that it has been relegated to in recent years.

She swirled on bare feet, her body responding to the tempo of the musicians, rising passionately on the upbeats, slowing seductively on the downs. About me I could hear the labored breathing of the male customers as they bent forward to get a better view of her. The few female onlookers glared at her with envy, all the while studying her every movement, trying to copy them for the moment when they could use them in privacy, with their men.

Toward the end of the act the music grew fiercer, but Hadiya kept pace with it, perspiration dripping down her face, following the taut muscles of her neck and disappearing into the deep valley separating her breasts. She reached her peak with a final crescendo of drums, then fell to her knees, her body bent at the waist.

For a minute an awed silence hovered over the room, then, as one, every member of the audience burst into wild applause. Several men stood up, their hands working like pistons — me included. Hadiya acknowledged the applause, then modestly scampered offstage. The hand-clapping gradually subsided, and as if on cue, a collective murmur issued from the customers, each tongue reliving every movement of her act.

I called for my check, paid the waiter and made my way backstage. I was halted in the wings by a burly bouncer who restrained me by placing his meaty hands on my chest. I brushed his hand aside and continued toward the door which, I assumed, was Hadiya's.

I felt the bouncer's heavy hand on my shoulder as I knocked. I was just about to make an argument out of it when Hadiya emerged.

"It's all right, Kassim," she said, and the grip on my body relaxed. I walked into the dressing room, shutting out the fat Arab.

Hadiya disappeared behind a curtain, changed to street clothing, then walked out the door. When we reached the street, she hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of her apartment as I settled in next to her.

Hadiya's place was on the top floor of an old, well-kept building in the silversmiths' quarter, overlooking the sea. She opened the door, let me pass, then followed me in and locked it. Light from the full moon poured through the window. I scanned the living room for traces of Fergus. There were none. It was a female's habitat through and through.

Hadiya poured herself a snifter of brandy, handed me one and sat in the only armchair in the room. I sank into the couch and regarded her over the rim of my glass.

Finally I said, "The photograph Fergus said you should give me?"

She reached into the folds of her dress, and from a pocket pulled the picture. She handed it to me. I studied it. It was an old photograph, faded with time. There were 20 men in it, all wearing desert battle dress, all arranged in a formal group pose of four rows.

"It is Fergus' old commando unit," Hadiya said. "He's in the second row, second from the left. It was taken in 1942, in Cairo."

I turned it to the back, hoping to find something written there. All it bore was the name of the photographer. Whatever Fergus wanted to tell me was in that picture, probably concerning one of the men.

"Tell me about Fergus," I said.

She sipped her brandy. "I don't know anything… about his business, I mean. He was arrested several times for smuggling gold. Once he was questioned by the police about something to do with hashish — I think it was selling it. Other than that, he visited me once, maybe twice, a year. Sometimes he brought me money. Other times he borrowed money from me."

"The suitcase where the photo came from? What else is in it?"

"Nothing," she said. "Just a few old clothes."

I got up, entered the bedroom. The suitcase lay open on her bed. I rummaged through it, finding nothing but a few changes of men's clothes and an old, moth-eaten wedding dress.

"It was my mother's," Hadiya said behind me as I held it up.

I turned to her, questioning her with my eyes.

"It was my mother's wedding dress," she repeated. "She was Fergus' wife."

"His what?"

"His wife. She married him when I was four. Fergus was my stepfather."

Then, for the first time, she betrayed emotion at Fergus' death. Tears flooded her eyes and she buried her head on my chest, her hands clutching my arms. I soothed her the best I could, assuring her that everything would be all right. The tears subsided gradually, and she managed to say, "He was good to me, Nick. He was like my own father. He may have been a bad man, but to me he was good. After my mother died, when I was 10, he cared for me like I was his own daughter."

I nodded, understanding.

We were still standing very close to each other, and suddenly I was aware of a new, different feeling. Hadiya's breasts were pressed against me and I could smell the warm, sweet scent of her hair. My arms moved around her body. I kissed her hard, my tongue snaking into her mouth, exploring it, meeting and entwining with her tongue.

Hadiya reached around behind her and unfastened the buttons of the dress she was wearing. It slipped to her feet. Underneath she wore only tiny sheer black bikini panties that clung to her bronze curves. Her bare breasts which had so excited the tourists at the Miramar a short time earlier thrust outward, full and free, their brown tips erect.

I fumbled for a moment with my own clothing, and then found myself beside that warm, exciting body on the bed. Hadiya's dark eyes glowed softly in the dimness of the room. Her arms pulled me to her and her hands moved down my back.

I kissed her, and now her tongue flicked into my mouth and explored it while her hands caressed me. I laid a row of kisses along her shoulders, moved down to those swelling breasts and finally down across the rise of her belly to the navel that had held a small artificial gem during her dance at the hotel. I lingered at the navel, caressed it with my tongue, and a low moan escaped her.

Her thighs gripped me, and I sought the depths between them. We united with a soft gasp from her. And then those hips that did magic things in the dance began moving in response to my measured thrust. The torrent built inside us. The wild hips thrust and quivered with a primitive rhythm, reaching out for me.

She raised her legs high above my shoulders and I gripped her buttocks with both hands. She moaned as she moved in perfect unison with my thrusts, deeper and deeper, harder and harder, trying to lose myself inside her. Hadiya's hips kept moving with me for a long time, but then she arched her back, her fingers raking my arms, a sharp scream coming from her throat. I shuddered, heard myself make a strange animal sound, and collapsed atop her. I was covered with perspiration. I moved off Hadiya. My head sank into the pillow and I dropped off into satisfied sleep.

I was wakened by a tugging at my shoulder. I bolted upright to confront a terrified girl.

"Someone's at the door," Hadiya hissed in my ear.

I reached for Wilhelmina, but it was too late. The door burst open and a man charged in. He threw a shot my way. T rolled off the bed, landed on the floor. I grasped the night lamp and flung it, then leaped. I hit him just as he was raising his gun to fire again. The palm of my hand swept upward and caught him under his chin. His neck snapped backward with a crack which echoed off the walls of the room.

I reached for the wall switch, turned it on, and looked at the body before me. The man was obviously dying. Then I glanced at Hadiya. A crimson red blotch was spreading below her left breast. She had taken the shot meant for me.

I lifted her head in my hands. Pink bubbles trickled through her lips, then she shivered and was still.

The man on the floor muttered a groan. I went to him. "Who sent you?" I shook his arm.

"Ayoub," he coughed, "my brother…" and he died.

I fished through his pockets, found only a stub from a United Arab Airlines flight. If he was Ayoub's brother, it was natural for him to track me down. Blood vendettas are a part of life in this part of the world. I had killed his brother, and it was his duty to kill me. It was all so damned stupid, and Hadiya was dead because of it.

My BOAC flight 631 arrived at London Airport at 11:05 of a sunny morning the next day. No one met me because Hawk had not wanted a reception of any kind. I was to hire a taxi, like any other visitor, and ask the driver to take me to the British Travel Association offices at 64 St. James Street. There I would see a man called Brutus. Brutus, his real identity a well-guarded secret, was Hawk's opposite number in London. He was the head of Special Operations Executive's Select Missions Division. He would give me specific instructions regarding the assignment.

I used a password to gain access to the off-limits top floor of the Travel Association building and was met by a two-man military guard in spit-and-polish British Army uniforms. I identified myself.

"Follow us, sir," one of them told me, deadpan.

We moved down a corridor in close, brisk formation, the guards' boots pounding in hard rhythm on the polished floor. We stopped before a large paneled door at the far end of the corridor.

"You may enter, sir," the same young man told me.

"Thank you," I said and opened the door into a small reception room.

I closed the door behind me and faced a middle-aged woman seated behind a desk, evidently Brutus' secretary. But my eyes traveled quickly past her to a truly lovely sight. A girl in a very short leather dress, her back to me, was leaning over a window seat to water a plant in a box outside the window. Because of her position, the dress revealed every inch of her long milky thighs and part of a well-rounded, lace-covered little behind. I liked Brutus's taste in office help.

The older woman followed my glance. "Mr. Carter, I presume," she said, smiling.

"Yes," I said, reluctantly shifting my gaze. As I spoke, the girl turned toward us, holding the small watering can.

"We've been waiting for you," the secretary said. "I'm Mrs. Smythe and this is Heather York."

"My pleasure," I said to Mrs. Smythe, but my eyes returned to the girl. She was blond, her hair cropped short. Her eyes were large and blue, the most vibrant blue I had ever seen. Her face was perfect: a straight, finely-shaped nose over a wide, sensuous mouth. The micro-mini she was wearing barely covered her even when she was standing straight. The brown leather swelled out over a well-rounded bosom above a narrow waist. Her calves were sheathed in brown boots that matched the dress.

"Brutus will see you immediately, Mr. Carter," said Mrs. Smythe. "The paneled door on your left."

"Thank you." I gave the blonde a smile, hoping to see more of her later.

Brutus got up from behind a big mahogany desk as I walked in. "Well, well! Mr. Nick Carter! Good! Good!"

His hand swallowed mine and pumped it. He was a big man, as tall as I, and had one of those square British army faces that is all jaw. There was gray in his sideburns and there were wrinkles around his eyes, but he looked like a man who could still lead a military assault force and enjoy it.

"I'm glad to meet you, sir," I said.

"My pleasure, my lad! Distinctly my pleasure! Your reputation precedes you, you know."

I smiled and took the chair he offered me. He didn't go back to his seat but stood at one corner of the desk, his expression suddenly somber.

"We've got a big one here, Nick," he said. "I'm sorry to get you involved in our problems, but you're not well known here for one thing and, frankly, I wanted an experienced man who would have no hesitancy about killing, if it becomes necessary. Our only man of your caliber is inextricably involved in a problem at Malta."

"I'm glad to help," I said.