Duel of Assassins (28 page)

Then she was gone.

Later he had stripped her, launching his desperate plan to
kill Kostya and blame Eva’s murder on him. By then her naked body meant
nothing. Or if it did, Marcus had no time to think about it. Certainly he dare
not feel cheated of his intimate moment. If Eva had died too quickly,
nevertheless he had done what he wanted. So it could not be shame that he felt,
staring down at the violated corpse at his feet, but unholy power. He had
claimed that power now as his own, and it would never leave him.

The conjured face of Eva was replaced by Charlotte, whose
increasingly abandoned struggles were not to escape Marcus, but to subdue him,
make maximum use of him as a conveyance to her own completion. Marcus didn’t
mind being used in this way. He let his thoughts wander, deliberately holding
off his own pleasure, till she finally shattered atop him and collapsed in
diminuendos of delight.

Then he rolled them both over. As he began to thrust into
her, she opened her eyes, but they were glazed and didn’t focus properly. Which
was fine; indeed it was perfect. All Charlotte had to do was yield, lie there
passively while he pounded her into a semblance of female putty. She might or
might not like it, but she would feel it all day tomorrow, long after the
residual glow of her self-inflicted orgasm.

*

On the fourth day of Jack Sanderson, Charlotte felt drugged.
She had ignored several callback messages from John Tully. And it was getting
so she didn’t even glance at the daunting pile of reading matter she had
brought along, including the latest issue of
Foreign Affairs
, entirely
given over to advance analysis of the Potsdam Conference. Anyway, she could
fake all that stuff when the time came. It would take her maybe an hour of prep
to get current.

She had simply pushed as many things as possible off till
the following week, as Jack had apparently abandoned his own plans to tour the
Côte d’Azur east to Monaco. They hadn’t really discussed this, just done it—the
same way he’d moved his big suitcase and carryall out of the Hotel California
the second day and in with her. They couldn’t stand being apart, what could be
more obvious? And when they were apart—which probably hadn’t amounted to more
than a few hours in four days—Charlie’s nerve endings still tingled with him,
so that she felt constantly tethered to his body.

It was a little scary. She’d never experienced anything
quite like it. Not even way back, during her wild sophomore summer in the
Caribbean. And as devoted and energetic a lover as Taras had been, their early
days together had been quite different. There had been so many other facets to
their twoness. The long walks and endless conversation. Restaurants and movies.
Sharing and comparing childhood memories. There’d been precious little of that
with Jack. He didn’t seem to have a large fund of conversation. If Charlotte had
wanted a vacation from her mind, she was damn well getting it. He was more of,
well, a blunt instrument, and a relentless one.

And they were insatiable. They’d done almost no
sight-seeing. They hadn’t visited Bormes, the offshore islands, or even the lovely
neighboring coves of La Fossette. They ate, slept and made love. No, that
wasn’t right. You couldn’t call it love. They ate, slept and fucked. Watched
French-dubbed
Hawaii-Five-O
reruns on TV. When they got tired of the
pastel walls and ordering in, they’d venture out briefly, prowl a few shops,
lie in the sun. He bought her a lavender sachet, a Lavandou trademark. They’d
posed for a cartoon portrait on the beachfront and bought two color Xeroxes of
it, one of which was taped to the dresser mirror. It showed them with huge
heads, decent likenesses, and tiny cartoon bodies riding twin surfboards and
holding hands. It should have shown them fastened in sexual combat, Charlie
thought.

So how did she get over this? How should she go about
purging the X-rated images from her mind and getting on with her life? Thank
God, there was no emotional attachment. But the physical side had become
addictive, and she knew it. She recognized the flaccid overtones of the
unregenerate addict in her latest rationalization:
You’re just not ready to
give him up. Why not give it a few more days, and really get him out of your
system?

She waited till her last scheduled night at the Auberge to
decide. They were on the terrace, watching the sheen and shimmer of the marina
lights on the water. The next day she was supposed to take the bus back to
Toulon, the TGV to Paris, Air France to Berlin. She had a room reserved at the
Kempinski. Jack had been trying all day to talk her into putting off her
departure, since the conference didn’t actually start for four more days.
Charlotte had pretended to be adamant, but she was weakening, and they both
knew it.

“Well?” he had said. “What’s the verdict?”

“How can a girl make up her mind when she’s being end-lessly
fondled?”

“All right. Look, no hands.”

Charlie snorted. She wore only a cotton knit tank top, Jack
was nude, and she was sitting on his lap facing him, with him deep inside her.
They were being discreet about it, since there was a couple dining on an
adjoining terrace, the candlelight flickering through the pebbled glass
partition.

She whispered in his ear. “Hmm. Jack, I just had a thought.”

“You keep doing that.”

“Why don’t you come with me?”

“I’ve been trying. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
That’s why we have to keep practicing.”

“Be serious. You know what I’m talking about. Come with me
to Berlin.”

“To the conference?”

“Just for the first few days. I have to check in and get
credentialed, and so on. But I won’t have to really start hustling till the
main event on Friday.”

“Well, what would I do there, while you’re out getting
‘credentialed’?”

“You’d wait for me. Tied to the bedframe, maybe. Jesus, I
don’t know, we’ll find something for your, um, peculiar talents. As often as I
can get free. What do you think?”

“Well, what am I supposed to say? Hell yes, it sounds fine.”

“But you have to understand, Jack, seriously, it would only
be three more days at the most. When the real media circus starts, yours truly
will be running her little ass ragged, and won’t have any time for fun and
games.”

“Hey, I won’t make trouble. Jack Sanderson takes what he can
get on this deal, and not an hour more. Three days, and I’m history. However, I
have a proposition of my own to make.”

“Which is?”

“That we stop jiggling around out here wasting precious
time, and get into some heavy action.”

“I kind of like this, if you want to know the truth.”

“But my ass is getting cold.”

She sighed. “All right, if you must. Take me inside then,
and have your way with me.”

He rose carefully up from the chair, still wearing her. She
was a big girl, but he managed to breath normally as he carried her inside to
the bed and toppled slowly sideways, holding her close and twisting so they
landed on the mattress side by side, still locked together.

Then the telephone rang.

“Charlie?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Taras.”

“Taras, where are you? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Charlie. No. Actually I’m miserable. I want to
come back to you. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. You were
right... about everything.”

“Taras, listen, where are you calling from?”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“Of course I did. Taras, I’m sorry, but you’ll have
toforgive me if I sound a little... confused.” Jack was now on top of her,
grinning playfully and refusing to disengage. Ignoring her gestured protests,
he began to caress her breasts. “You disappear without telling me where, now
you call me out of the blue telling me you want to come back, and I still don’t
know where you are.”

“I’m in Washington. At the Holiday Inn on Connecticut Avenue.”

“Oh.”

“I’m quitting the Agency. I told John Tully to give you the
message. Did you get it?”

“I’ve been away a couple days... visiting friends in St.
Tropez. I got the slips that he called, but I haven’t had the chance to get
back to him. Did he give you my number?”

“After I threatened to burn down his building.  Or maybe he
finally took pity on me. Charlie, I’ve got to talk to you.”

“And I want to talk to you, Taras. But right now I can’t.”

“Didn’t you hear what I’m saying? Doesn’t it mean anything
to you?”

“Of course it does. But you can’t expect me—”

“It’s not too late, Charlie. We have the rest of our lives.
There’s still time for everything. Charlie. Are you alone? Is there somebody
else?”

Jack had wrestled them sideways together, palming her ass cheeks
as he moved slowly and rhythmically inside her. His mouth slid down to her
right nipple. Christ, what if Taras heard the sucking sound! Sara tried to fend
the man off, but he wouldn’t budge.

“No. I mean, yes, of course I’m alone, and no, there’s nobody
else. How could there be? It’s a working vacation... I’m... I’m surrounded by
books and magazines and newspapers in three languages, one of which I can’t
understand. I’ve got mountains of dull homework to get ready for Potsdam...
Which is why I just don’t have time to get into all this with you now, Taras.
When the conference wraps in a couple weeks, I’ll be making a quick visit to
Paris and London, then I’ll be back, and we can—”

“You’re talking about three weeks! Listen to me, please. I
want to fly over there now, wherever you’re going to be, and...we can talk.
Have dinner. That’s all. One evening is all I’m asking.”

“I don’t have one evening.” Jack’s grinning face popped back
up, hovering over hers, his ice-blue eyes mocking. Then, still massaging her breasts,
he began to lick her face like a cat—her chin, her cheek, the ear opposite the
phone. “Taras... I want to see you… but this week and next are crazy... and the
week after is worse. There’s the usual nonsense… of official receptions...
dinners... editorial meetings, briefings... maybe a couple of TV guest shots,
if it works out. You know how it gets... Taras?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t walk out on you. You walked out on me, after I
begged you to stay, because of your damn cloak-and-dagger games. I’m glad you’ve
changed your mind, but… I… I can’t just drop everything I’m doing and ignore my
career… you understand?”

“I know, it’s not fair.”

“It’s not!”

“Charlie, John Tully told me you may be leaving Le Lavandou
tomorrow. That’s why I had to call, even though I knew it wouldn’t work over
the phone. I’m getting bananas, Charlie—”

“Going
bananas. You can
go
crazy or
get
crazy, but you only
go
bananas.”

“You see, not only is my heart breaking, my idioms are going
to shit without you—”

“Going
to hell, you mean, or
full
of shit.
Not—”

“I know, I did that on purpose. To hear you laugh. Please,
Charlie, if you don’t want me to jump on the next plane, pleasegive me a phone
number in Berlin, so I can at least reach you. Don’t cut meoff.”

Jack, obviously gauging her mind’s weakening resistance and
her body’s unmistakably growing response to his erotic offensive, had begun to
accelerate his thrusting. Charlotte found herself straining to keep her
breathing under control, her voice unaffected. She was desperate to get Taras off
the phone. And even if she could, she no longer wanted to stop Jack.
Incredibly, in spite of her stubborn resolve and mild outrage at his
chauvinistic conduct, she was shuddering rapidly toward what felt like being a
major seismic event.

“Look, Taras, please! I have to think about this. Give me a
day or two. And let’s leave it that I call you, okay?”

“Charlie, you know I love you.”

“I believe you, Tarushka. And I’m glad you called. But...
but... I’ll call you. Take care. Bye.” She replaced the phone quietly, then
cursed the grinning face above her: “You bastard!”

They were the last coherent sounds she made for the next
several minutes, though her abandoned cries continued to fill the little room.

Later, when she was able to speak and moderate her thoughts
and feelings, she took a more restrained tone:

“That wasn’t very nice, Jack.”

“I thought it was fantastic.”

“You know what I’m talking about. I asked you to stop, and
you didn’t. At the least, you owe me an apology. If it happens again, I’ll ask
you to leave.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.”

“Taras is an old friend. I had to take the call.”

“So I gathered. Maybe I was jealous.”

“Well, you don’t—” she stopped herself from saying “need to
be.” She didn’t need to say that; besides, she didn’t know if it was true. She
lightened her tone instead: “It was an embarrassing situation all around. I
don’t exactly know what the etiquette is, Jack, but it sure as hell wasn’t what
you were doing. It’s damned difficult to carry on a coherent phone conversation
when your brains are being turned to jelly.”

The truth was, Charlotte wanted badly to call Taras back
now, to reassure him, even agree to meet with him. But she dare not—not now,
not with Jack Sanderson so prominently in the picture for the next several
days. If having Taras on the phone and Jack in her bed just now had been
awkward, imagine if Taras had been right outside, pounding on the door!

Suddenly she realized it would be impossible for her to take
Jack with her to Berlin as she had agreed. For how could she keep Taras away? He’d
pry the name of her hotel out of Jack Tully, just as he had the number of the
Auberge. Taras was a hotblooded Cossack, capable of anything, especially now,
especiallywith that desperate edge in his voice.

What should she do? Bring Jack with her and thereby
jeopardize any future with Taras? Or the obvious and rational course: Say
goodby to Jack tomorrow morning, go on to Berlin alone, immerse herself in
work—and, if need be, cold showers? As she began to weigh these alternatives in
the darkness, Jack’s fingers announced his wakefulness upon her flank, then
circled down to slowly trace the satin slopes of her inner thighs. She quite
lost her train of thought, and when at some length she recovered it, she found
the debate had been resolved in her mind’s absence. She damn well wasn’t ready
to give him up.

*

For Marcus, the phone call had been an exquisite miniature
of revenge—actually to hear the diminished and entreating voice of his rival in
the earpiece, while Marcus was in the very act of possessing her. And
nearly—oh, so nearly—forcing her to climax while she was still denying Taras’
pleas! Come what might in the protracted duel between them, the Cossack would
never be able to equal this. Twice now Marcus had brought it off, appropriating
Taras’ lovers for his own. And this time Marcus had done it with the breathless
consent of the lady in question.

A thoroughly delicious encounter, that phone call, one he
would savor again and again. And, he suspected, a disturbing one for the
Cossack on the other end of the transatlantic connection. For Charlotte had
sounded a surprisingly maladroit liar, certainly not up to the level of
dissembling Marcus had expected from an experienced reporter and woman of the
world. But, of course, she had been slightly distracted.

What must the Cossack be thinking now? And what would he
think when the next little phase of Marcus’ plan unfolded?

*

Taras had indeed sensed something peculiar in Charlie’s
reaction. Had she exploded in bitterness or feigned cold indifference, he would
have understood and yet tried to plead his case. He had been prepared as well
for righteous eloquence or simply to have her hang up on him. He had even
imagined, in a forgivable transport of euphoria, how her voice would sound
delivering a tearful come-back-all-is-forgiven speech.

But he had heard none of these. Instead Charlotte had
sounded hesitant, confused, uncertain—all emotions uncharac-teristic of her.
And in this odd metamorphosis Taras had felt the shadowy presence of a rival.

Certainly he couldn’t sit by the phone, waiting “a day or
two” for her to think it over and then to call him back. He could not endure
it; he must act. If there was another man, Taras’ pride demanded to know it as
soon as possible and to force Charlie to choose between them. Perhaps, as he
prayed, there was no one else. Then whatever the source of Charlie’s
uncertainty toward him, Taras would better be able to overcome it in person
and, as his own ambassador, to convince her of his sincerity.

And he was still packed.

*

Two hours later, at six p.m., he was strapped into an Air
France 747 nonstop from Dulles to De Gaulle. He dozed on and off over the
Atlantic, through an exhaustive article about the leisure pursuits of Fortune
500 CEOs and a movie with no discernible plot but in which an astonishing
number of police cars were crumpled. He was awakened from a final siege of
pressurized stupor by the lilting French of a passing stewardess:

“Rebouclez vos ceintures, s’il vous plaît.”
They were
landing; it was 7:30 in the morning, Paris time.

By nine, after an airport croissant and coffee, he was
strapped into another seat, a 737 this time, droning south by southeast toward
the Mediterranean. An hour and a half later the city of Nice was rushing below
the wing in a blur of red rooftops, followed by the long seaside runways of the
Aéroport Nice Côte d’Azur. With just a carryall, Taras managed to grab a taxi
and reach the Gare Centrale by 10:45, but was dismayed to find he’d have to
wait till noon for the next train to Saint-Raphaël or Toulon, from either of
which he could rent a car and drive to Le Lavandou. Taras strode back and forth
along the trackside, cursing himself. To hell with the cost, he should have
tried to charter a small plane from the airport direct to Le Lavandou, or as
close as he could get.

Instead, he pulled into Le Lavandou in a rental Ford Fiesta
around two in the afternoon, then wasted fifteen priceless minutes driving in
scenic circles before locating the Auberge de la Calanque terraced on a steep
hillside overlooking the marina. A minute later he was standing in the cool,
comfortable reception hall and being politely informed that Mademoiselle Walsh
had just checked out.

How long, exactly? Might she still be in the area, on the
beach, in a local restaurant, perhaps even in the hotel dining room?

The charming young thing behind the desk was certain
mademoiselle was not in the hotel; beyond this she wouldn’t venture a guess.
When, now quite desperate, Taras produced his Agency credentials and voiced
veiled concerns for Mademoiselle Walsh’s safety, the girl located the manager.
This dapper young man listened to Taras with a sympathetic gaze and slight
inclinations of his head, then went off to make inquiries of his own. He
returned ten minutes later with the information that Mademoiselle Walsh had
departed around midday in the company of a young man with an American accent,
in a small rental car that was not listed on her registration. The Auberge had
no record of her destination.

Would it be possible for Taras to see her room?

It would. A moment later he was ushered into a long, cool
room with eggshell walls, teal blue carpet, streamlined white furnishings. The
maid had already tidied up. Taras walked through, his pulse reacting
predictably as he pictured Charlie lounging on the queen-size bed, holding that
bedside phone to her cheek as she talked to him last night. What had she said?
“You’ll have to forgive me if I sound a little confused.” But why confused?

Taras moved past the bed, opened the double glass terrace
doors and stepped into the panoramic dazzle of marina, bright bay and
encircling hills. The little balcony was a skillet now at two-thirty, but would
be an idyllic spot for breakfast, an aperitif at sunset, or champagne under the
stars.

Oh God, I hope she was alone here!
But then, who the
hell was this young American? Some journalist of her acquaintance, dropping by
to give her a lift back to Toulon or Marseille? Taras couldn’t bear to imagine
otherwise, to visualize her in this romantic hideaway with any man but himself.

He went back inside, glanced briefly into the wardrobe and
the tiled bathroom.

“Ça suffit, monsieur?”

“Yes, thank you. I appreciate your cooperation.”

There was obviously nothing further to be found, lacking as
he did either Sherlockian powers of observation or a portable crime lab. And
Taras had sufficiently overstepped bounds, invoking professional credentials on
behalf of personal jealousy.

The manager led him back down a narrow corridor. Halfway
along, as Taras was squeezing by a maid’s cart poking out of an open door,
something caught his eye. He backed up a step, snatched a paper out of a
plastic trash basket hooked to the cart. It was a colored drawing. Taras stared
at it in horror.