The long-awaited radio message arrived, and the youthful operator wakened the baron from a deep, exhausted sleep. The baron started to chastise the frightened, blond-haired lad, but the urgency of the message superseded his anger. He thanked the boy, and dismissed him.
The baron yawned, sat on the edge of the bed, and smiled at his own image that was reflected in the huge mirror above the nearby dresser. "At last," he said, running a hand over his hairless scalp. "Ada will be pleased."
He leaned toward the box on the nightstand, and flicked the switch that connected him with Ada's room. He hoped she would see the light and answer the call because otherwise he would have to interrupt her personally. He dreaded such intrusions as much as the radio operator must have dreaded disturbing him. Ada could be very difficult. Especially if her recreation were disrupted. He gave the switch a series of vigorous shakes, but it was useless. Ada would be far too busy to notice a tiny red light next to her bed. It was three in the morning, an hour when her recreation would be well underway. He sighed and started to dress.
Baron Von Kemp dressed fully. Black shirt, garrison belt, and full-flared breeches. Finally he grunted and eased his tired feet into the highly polished jackboots. He rose, stood at attention before the full-length mirror, and thrust his right arm forward. "Heil Hitler!" he barked. "The Fourth Reich shall live."
His turtle features contorted into a wry grin as he ran his thick fingers over his hips. He regretted the thickness there, but after all, he was no longer a Bund athletic instructor. He was two years under sixty, and for that age he was in remarkable condition. This was true, he reassured himself. "Der Fuehrer would be proud."
The baron's wing of the castle was separated by the courtyard from Ada's, and to reach her apartment he had to walk the distance of a city block. The corridor of his wing ended at a winding staircase. A matching staircase ascended from Ada's corridor and merged into a broad marble stairway that fed into the mammoth foyer. Directly below the railing of the veranda that connected the matching corridors was a fountain surrounded by greenery.
The baron had passed the unique art object thousands of times over the years, but he never failed to pause in passing. The water trickled down from the stone statue of a nude maiden. The ripe young body glistened in the continuous bath that came from tiny orifices built into the stone. In addition to the water that shimmered over the sinuous stone body, two streams of water fed into the pond from her strong breasts. Each nipple spurted the water. The statue was priceless, but it was more than a thing of material value. It was an item that Herr Hitler had chosen himself. It was shipped to the Scottish island from Oslo long before the fall of the Third Reich.
The baron drew in a long breath as he paused before the double doors of Ada's rooms. Then, still reluctant, he used the heavy knocker to announce his presence. The sound of brass against brass filled the corridor with ominous echoes. In a moment the door opened slightly and a scrubbed, Teutonic face peered up at him quizzically. "Ah-would you please inform the baroness I am here," he said politely. "It is an emergency."
The pretty young face registered concern, and the baron pushed the door open and entered the anteroom. The girl drew back fearfully and brought her hands over her nude breasts. "The baroness doesn't wish to be disturbed, Herr Baron," she said fearfully. "This is what she ordered."
Now the baron was angry. He knew Ada's rules, but she must know he would never disturb her unless it were of utmost importance. After a searing glance over the voluptuous female figure, he lifted an arm and pointed to his wife's bedroom. "You will give the baroness my message-at once!"
The naked girl backed to the door, still holding her breasts. Then she turned to leave the room. The baron was accustomed to nude young bodies. He had seen hundreds of them about the castle and the grounds over the many years. He had indulged himself with them freely, in every sexual alliance known to man. But the strong young bodies still filled him with lust and desire. Now his eyes centered on the young girl's taut buttocks as she hurried out of his view. So firm, so round, so very young and ripe. Ada picked only the best.
The baron paced as he waited, and in a few moments the girl returned. Her earlier modesty had apparently disappeared with the passage of the crisis, because she now stood before him boldly, almost at attention, her naked secrets exposed for full view. "The baroness will see you sir," said the girl, holding open the intricately carved door.
The baron paused as he passed the girl and used his left hand to cup the flaxen down at the Y of her thighs. In a whisper, he said, "You are lovely."
"Thank you," said the girl.
He would have the girl certainly, but he thought no more of it-not for the moment. He was in his wife's forbidden chamber. He was interrupting her night of joy. He must quickly explain the importance of the visit. "Ah-my dear," he said, moving toward the huge four poster bed. Ada lay naked on her back and she wasn't smiling. A brunette beauty snuggled against Ada's long, shapely curves. The girl looked ecstatic, but frightened. Near the bed, on a couch plush with pillows, was a young couple. The boy was about sixteen, the girl perhaps younger. Eeveryone was nude, and they all looked dreamy from the drug of sex.
"How dare you burst in upon me," Ada said in a low, menacing voice. "We allow no pigs in a chamber of love."
The baron took no issue with the insult. His life was full of them. "I attempted to alert you," he said, nodding toward the intercom box beside her bed. "The message has arrived."
Her smoldering anger trailed off, and she sat up. Her round breasts bobbled with the sudden move, and her trim, conditioned body picked up flattering highlights from the rose-colored light. Ada had greased her body, and it looked beautiful. "The message-you mean ...?!'
The baron was back in control. The interruption was clearly forgiven. He nodded with a curt smile. "At last," he said with a sigh. "The day we have awaited all these years."
"What is the date?" she asked impatiently, "Is it soon?"
"We both know our instructions," he said. "We start the operation at once, and each phase will interlock. First, we wire Heinrich in Oslo."
"Yes, yes, of course," said Ada, nibbling on her thumbnail. "You will attend to that at once. Is there anything else to be done tonight?"
"Each step in its proper turn," said the baron confidently.
She nodded nervously and the baron was pleased. It had been years since Ada had depended on him. Perhaps his circumstances would finally change. He couldn't resist putting the plan to a test. "I will send the message," he said, "and then I will return. I think I should like to celebrate in a game of sex. Will that be permissible, my dear Ada?"
A grimace crossed her brow, but she quickly replaced it with a smile. Her pale blue eyes were large and beautiful, but her smile was cold. "Is there a girl you prefer?" she asked almost pleasantly.
"The flaxen-haired one will serve me nicely, but you, my dear-you won't deny me, will you ?" Now the smile dissolved. She sent her steel eyes grinding over his ugly features. "Never," she said bitterly. "Never again!"
The baron knew he had gone too far, but he didn't falter. He nodded with a tight-lipped smile, bowed, and withdrew from the bedside. "Then ice some champagne, my dear," he said at the door. "I shall partake of the crumbs."
When he was alone in the hall, he paused to smash a fist into his palm. How could she taunt him so? How could she be so cold and cruel? How would things be today if he had failed to tell her who he was? It would have been different, wouldn't it? Much different. He would have had Ada as his devoted slave. But he couldn't deny her heritage. He had been too well schooled in the Nazi tradition. The teachings of his fuehrer had been too complete to be overshadowed by lust-even love. When he received definite word of Martin's existence he had to tell her. She would play a tremendous part in the plan, and nothing was more important than the Fourth Reich-nothing!
After coding the message to Heinrich, the radio operator sent it. Von Kemp stood by. When its receipt was acknowledged, Von Kemp leaned over the young German and patted his cheek. "Well done, Karl," he said affectionately. "Soon we will all be masters."
The well-trained young Nazi smiled dutifully, seeming pleased with the gesture of affection. "Ja, mein general," he said, his perfect, white teeth glistening. "The time has come."
"If I am needed, you will find me with the baroness," said the baron, once more tweaking the rosy cheek. "Tonight, I give the girls a break."
"Yes, sir," said the youth noncommittally.
The baron was intrigued by the sweet young girl he had met at his wife's bedroom door, and he would keep his date. But he was tempted to remain with Karl. Recently he had spent an evening with the lad and found him delectable. Not only did he execute his erotic duties to master-race perfection, but he accepted his whippings in stoical tradition. There were more thrills when his whip brought cries of anguish, but the baron could admire those who took it with courage. Karl was a good boy-a potential leader.
With his mind clinging to the whip, Von Kemp made the long trek to his own rooms. His wife had whips of her own that he could borrow, but his own instrument was a tool of sentimentality. It had once belonged to none other than Herman Goering. He always despised the swine when he was alive, but he had seen the havoc he had caused by the whip. To possess it meant power. Yes- Georing's own hand-crafted cat o' nine tails must accompany him to the party.
While in his quarters Von Kemp grunted through the undressing. He gazed at his nudity in the mirror, and touched himself with reverence. Yes, he was aging in years-but his body didn't know it. He had the vigor of a teenage Buddhist, and for that he was thankful. He donned a silk Japanese kimono and made the long walk back to Ada's rooms. It had been a long time since he had been allowed to appear nude before his wife, and he would take full advantage. Perhaps when she feasted her eyes on his manhood she would rescind her restrictions.
If he were particularly successful with the young girl, Ada would have to show interest. She was the most erotic human being he had ever known.
He didn't bother to knock, and when he opened the door his senses were bombarded with lust. The visitors were all very busy now. The young couple was on the bed and they were energetically engaged in sex. Ada, lay next to them with two other young girls playing oral homage to her sex. A brunette head was devouring a breast with both hands cupping it provocatively. The lovely blonde head was all but hidden between her mistress's legs. Von Kemp licked his lips and moved closer. As he strode forward he let the kimono drop to the floor. He tested the leather handle of his whip, and when he was close to the round bottom of the young blonde he arched the tool and brought it down heavily. The strap bit flesh, and the girl let out a shriek. The cry halted the frenzied action.
"What? How dare you!" It was Ada bracing upward.
"But I-was invited," said Von Kemp helplessly. Sometimes he simply couldn't understand his wife.
"You have no right to mutilate my lovers!" she said, pushing all the hands and heads and bodies out of her way. She lifted from the bed, and while her friends cowered, she strode catlike in a circle around the baron. As he turned to follow her with cautious eyes, she snatched the whip from his hands. "Bend over swine-take your punishment!"
"Oh no, Ada," he pleaded. "Not for me. This is not for me. You know that."
She lashed the whip in a short stroke and it bit into the flab of his lower belly. Another inch lower and catastrophe. The baron whimpered and got down to his knees. "I beg you-please. In the name of Hitler, I beseech you!"
A look of cruelty devoured Ada's Teutonic beauty. Her straight ash blonde hair fell over her shoulders, her strong, shapely legs were braced athletically. "You dare use his name . . ." The whip began to bite at Von Kemp's hips. As the first pain was felt the baron heard her call to the boy. He knew he was in for it. She ordered the muscular youth to carry on the flogging.
The boy was hesitant, but Ada promised him a flogging of his own if he refused. With this as incentive the youth carried on. Again and again he smacked the whip into the baron's exposed flesh. Von Kemp no longer pleaded. The whipping was inevitable, and he was, above all else, a soldier, He crouched on the floor and forced his mind into limbo.
While the beating took place, Ada fondled her two girl friends, one on either side. Brigit, the blonde, couldn't look, and buried her face against her mistress's breast. The other, Carla, smiled wryly as the bizarre exhibition took place. The girl who had been beneath the lad earlier watched alone, with wide-eyed excitement.
"The pig," Ada said to her partners. "Since I was a child he fed me the whip. That's where my scars came from. But no more. Now it is his turn."
The girls didn't have to look at the red tissue stripes covering Ada's backside. They had all noticed them before. In fact, it was often the topic of discussion in the dormitories. Now they knew from where they came.
After ten minutes Ada finally allowed the punishment to cease. Then she gave Brigit a slap on the bottom. "Let him have you, dearest. It was our bargain."
"I?" she questioned fearfully. "Please, mistress-must it be me?"
"Are you refusing?" Ada questioned curtly.
"Oh no-never. But men frighten me. He, especially."
"He will not use the whip, and I'm rather interested to see what he can do without it. Nothing, probably."
Von Kemp was hearing everything, but his pain was too severe to allow him to speak. It was all he could do to keep from tears. He rose, however, and stood very straight. "I will show you my passions, my dear Ada," he said. He took the young blonde by the hand and led her to the cushion-strewn couch. When she was lying on her back, he moved over her, bathing her beauty with wet, noisy kisses. He kissed her throat, ears, and breasts with loud wheezes. He finally burrowed his head between her thighs.
Ada laughed a hollow laugh. "You waste your time, my fat husband. Brigit has known far better lovers in that specialty. We wish to see what your superior male sex can produce. Do something that girls cannot do."
Von Kemp took the cue without acknowledgement. He grunted his body high and gave Brigit's knees a nudge to open. The thighs separated, and Brigit grimaced with resignation. The baron settled into her warm nest, and without gentility, made a blatant merger. Brigit closed her eyes and let it happen.
The baron growled and hugged her limp body. The golden thighs responded, but without vigor. Brigit's round breasts were crushed beneath his hairy chest. He stroked furiously at first, sending Ada questioning glances. When Ada began to laugh again, he was defeated. He lurched furiously against his young mate, but it was useless. He had nothing to give.
His face crimson with anger, Von Kemp clumsily removed himself and snatched up his robe. He started out of the room, but returned when he remembered his whip. Ada handed it over, smiling contemptuously. "Yes," she said, "you will certainly need this. It is your substitute for manhood.
He took it and stormed out of the room. He called down the stairs when he reached the veranda, and Karl came running into the lower foyer. "Come to my room," Von Kemp ordered. "I need you."
The young soldier obeyed, and didn't express the slightest regret. Von Kemp would have his fun despite his cruel wife. Young Karl was beautiful in his own right, and he knew how to take a whipping.
CHAPTER TWO
Matthew Pyne found the opener in the center drawer of his roll top desk, and finished a bottle of stout from the bag. He opened the bottle, took a sip, sighed, and settled back in the squeaky chair. He propped his feet up on the desk's extended side panel, and burped.
It has been a long, long, night, and the beverage had been gin. He and Carey had killed a half bottle of Beefeaters together, and he personally had polished off another full pint. The drinking was spaced over six hours of time and four bouts of hectic lovemaking, but he still wound up loaded. Now, several hours later, he was hungover, unshaven, and extremely depressed.
It would have been easy to keep the gin habit alive, but he thought better of it. He settled for the medicinal boost of the potent beer, or what-the-hell-ever the stuff was.
He had gallons of stout over the last couple of decades, but was wondering for the first time what it really was. That was how his mind was working of late-full preoccupation with trivia. But he planned it that way. If he started to think of pertinent matters, he would cast himself into an abyss. There were too many major problems lurking around the corner to snatch him.
He had time for only one more deep swig when a sound came from the outer office. Through force of habit he listened quietly for Carey's interception, but then he remembered.
Carey was officially fired as of the day before. That, in fact, had been the reason for their all night celebration. He straightened in his chair with the creaking resounding loudly in the sparsely furnished studio. These sounds inspired a call from his visitor.
"I say-are you there?" The voice was outside the door.
"Enter," he said with another swallow.
The door opened and Matt was startled by an incongruous figure. It was male, but it didn't fit in this setting at all. There was the bowler, the black umbrella, the dark topcoat with the chesterfield collar. The highly refined gentleman wore a meticulously plucked moustache. It was reddish with apparently waxed ends. "Matthew Pyne," he said as he crossed the cluttered studio.
It wasn't spoken as a question. The man seemed to know him. Matt's first impulse was to rise to his feet, but his ego held him back. Instead, he settled back again and propped his feet. "Which remaining sticks are yours?" Matt said, drawing again on the bottle. "The view camera and the enlarger went yesterday. The couch the day before. The desk and chair came with the bloody office, so I'm afraid you're a bit late. Unless you want those cables and that battered floodlight. Go ahead-be my guest."
The face was closer now. It was just above him, and the thin lips formed a smile. "Up against it, eh?" said the cultured voice.
Matt killed the bottle and dropped the empty into the wire basket beside the desk. As he took the second bottle from the brown bag on the floor, he weighed the smile and the question.
"You are a creditor, aren't you? You must be. You sure as hell, aren't here to get a portrait made."
"Look at me, old man," said the voice patiently. "You can't have blocked all memory. Or have I changed that much?"
Matt did look, and he squinted. He'd be damned if he'd take out his reading specs. For a moment he shook his head in negative response, but then recognition struck. He felt a lump of heat charge through his solar plexus. A sudden impulse tensed his muscles for attack, but just as suddenly the impulse subsided. Twenty years ago he'd have smashed the sensitive features of the stodgy Britisher, but that was then. He was mature now, wasn't he? Time had etched irrevocable changes. Time, time, time. My God, Matt thought to himself, twenty goddamn years of time. "Roland Guthrie," he said finally. "The years have been good to you."
Guthrie removed his hat and ran his hand back over the abundant blond hair. There was an interspersing of gray, but it was hardly noticeable. "I was thinking quite the same of you, old boy. You're a bit heavier, but you were half-starved when I knew you then. No, you're a remarkable specimen, Pyne. I couldn't be more pleased."
So much for the pleasantries. Roland Guthrie wasn't Matt's idea of a rainy day playmate. He put the bottle on the desk and sat up. "What brings you here, Guthrie? How the hell did you find me?"
Guthrie put the umbrella over his arm as he brought out a silver cigarette case. He extracted a long, non-filter cigarette. As he tamped its end on the base, he glanced at Matt intermittently. "The American vice-consul provided your last address. You were easy to find from there. But now that I've seen you, I'm amazed that we haven't crossed paths before. I'd surely have recognized you."
"We don't travel in the same circle, Rollo," said Matt restlessly. "Want one?" He held up the bottle.
"Guinness?" he said. "No thanks. Too bitter for me, old chap. I-suppose you wonder why I've come."
Matt nodded.
"I intended to ease into things by reminiscing a bit. That's the usual British approach to things. But your Americanism seems even more evident after your years of exile. One thing though-are you still married to that pretty fraulein. My, she was a beauty. All of us envied you terribly-despite the trouble she caused you."
An overpowering throb of heat glowed in Matt's temple, but he still controlled himself. Grimly, he said in a whisper, "You know goddamn well what happened, Rollo."
Guthrie blinked innocently. "No. I don't know what you mean."
Matt's reflexes did it. It simply happened. He cocked the full bottle of stout and slammed it against the far wall. With its splash and clatter he rose and walked through the gray light of the skylight to the front window. As he looked down into the snarl of the rainy-day traffic, he saw the sweet, clear-skinned face of Rachel. He saw the transparent blue eyes, the pout, the dimple on her cheek. He felt her frantic embrace, too. During that fleeting moment the warmth of her hungry body seemed very real. She had sneaked back into his consciousness like the haunting melody of a forgotten tune. He cast out the nostalgia as quickly as it came. "Her throat was cut, Rollo. It was all very mysterious," Matt said quietly. "I was refused permission to marry her, but I insisted-right ?"
"I thought you did marry, old chap-really."
"She stayed with me all through the proceedings, and when I was released and discharged we had a lifetime to spend together. That was what I thought, but it didn't work. She went out for a loaf of bread one night. I never saw her alive again."
"I-I'm sorry, old chap. Truly. I swear I didn't know."
Matt spun around to face Guthrie, who had followed him a few paces toward the window. The face seemed sincere. Perhaps he didn't know. But somebody knew, and someone wanted to make sure he didn't blab the allied intelligence secrets to a fantasized enemy. That was why she was removed. Although he had done his share of wartime dirty work in the Counterintelligence Corps, he would never forgive what they did to Rachel. No matter what the reason. He might have been partially stunned by his love for her, but he had never blown his cover. Rachel never learned the first detail of his military activity. Her information about Bormann was strictly voluntary. His mistake was passing it on. He should have forgotten about it. Hell, the war was over anyway.
"Easy, Matt," said Guthrie steadily. "I remember that look of death. I didn't come here to die. Perhaps you hold me responsible for what happened, but I left the service at the end of the proceedings. I had no knowledge of what happened. I hope you'll believe that."
Matt heaved a sigh and returned to his desk. "You did your share to destroy me," he mumbled, "but that wasn't really important."
There was only a moment of silence, but it was filled with a flurry of subliminal scenes. Matt was pleading with Allied Intelligence to check Rachel's story. He had information that was potent, but his words were ignored. Then came his drinking and the frustration. It was Roland who had discredited Matt. It was he who recommended that Matt be relieved of his credentials, and as a result, he was quietly mustered out. They called him fatigued, incompetent. The discharge was honorable, but the shame was deadly.
"It's true that I was instrumental in your removal from duty," said Guthrie. "I confided to my superiors that you were drunk and brawling, and that you might be divulging secret information to a questionable German subject."
Matt nodded with a lingering sigh.
"We couldn't risk that, Pyne. I was only guessing, but my superiors insisted that I make a formal charge. I doubt now that you told the girl anything."
"Thanks a lot," said Matt, his bitterness stirring again. "That's very helpful-twenty years later."
"You were hitting the bottle a bit heavily, weren't you? And many of our best men let down after the peace. We couldn't risk a leak."
Matt shot him a wry grin. "So you let the top Nazis slip right out of your fingers. We could have nailed Bormann at his Alpine hideout, Roland. Rachel had been one of his girl friend's. I even saw the man face to face on the streets of Munich in 1946. Nobody believed me."
"I know. We should have listened."
The rest of the story had been published in various forms. It became well-known that Bormann was heading a colony of Nazi bigwigs in South America. Matt had read every word published on the subject. He followed Herr Bormann via the printed matter, from Austria, to Argentina, Brazil-and was reasonably convinced that Bormann was running his Nazi underground movement from Parana, Brazil-near the Paraguay border. But it didn't matter to Matt-not any longer. That patriotic juvenile -Major Matthew Pyne-was as dead as if they had cut his throat along with Rachel's.
"How would you like a chance to complete the job you started in 1946, Matt?" said Guthrie gently. "How would you like to involve yourself in the capture of Martin Bormann?"
Nerves may have caused it, but the laugh was spontaneous. When the paroxysms trailed off, Matt shook his head. "You phony bastards. You still aren't short on guts. Is British Intelligence willing to expend a dispossessed American photographer to blaze a trail to the world's number one war criminal? Damn decent of them, I'd say."
"Intelligence has nothing to do with this," said Guthrie quickly. "I've been cold for years. My department is fiscal planning. But I do occasionally receive classified information. Chums, you know. It happens that rumblings show Bormann about to make a bold move."
"Who do you represent, the Israelis?"
He shook his head. "Let's say this will be a free-lance venture. Our pay will be the bounty. Bormann will bring $28,000 from the West Germans alone. There will be other rewards for him and his associates. We can finish up with more than fifty thousand each. I don't know about you, Matt, but I could use the money. I'm headed for automatic retirement in another two years, and I have a daughter just entering college."
Matt squinted and frowned. He clasped his hands and leaned over to stare at them. "I don't give a damn about money," he said quietly. "But if you can make me come alive again- I'm damned interested."
"I hoped you would be," said Guthrie with a full grin. "That's good-that's jolly good. I need you, Pyne. You came to mind the minute the scheme presented itself. I was prepared to go after you in America. I had no idea you were still in London."
"Let's hear your information," said Matt, impatient now that he had committed himself, "and I may as well tell you now, I have no operating money. I'm down to my last five pounds."
Guthrie nodded and brought out a long black wallet. "Here's something to tide you over." The note was a twenty. "I have some savings to draw upon. Perhaps as much as a thousand pounds. I'm willing to place it all on a winning number. You, Matthew, improve those winning odds appreciably."
"You may be misplacing your confidence," said Matt, folding the money, "but I'll give a fair day's work."
"I know," said Guthrie, extending a delicate hand. "That's all I ask."
Their handshake sealed the bargain.
CHAPTER THREE
There were times when Ada experienced pangs of conscience, but the emotion was one she couldn't honor. It was out of keeping with her lifelong mental conditioning and in total discord with her environment. Thus, on those occasions when the strange phenomenon occurred, she dealt with it severely. In combating the unwelcome emotion she struck out at everyone in sight. This was how she attained the reputation of being cold, cruel, ruthless.
When her subordinates cringed in fear she felt the strength surge back into her veins. She was strong again, once more in control.
Such a day came following the news delivered by the baron. She knew she should be elated, and in a way she was. At least she was relieved. They had all been awaiting this day for many long months-even years. Yet, the rejoicing was hollow. Her mind was staggered by doubt.
Could they indeed rule the world? Or was their distant leader absorbed in the fancies of senility? Times had changed since the days of the Third Reich. The world populace was naive then-benighted. Now, with communications as they were, all minds were brighter, more sophisticated.
Of course the strides made over the last years were remarkable. Their network of agents were pyramiding all over the world. Even in America Die Spinne was firmly entrenched in every major population center. It was amusing that one of the Reich's most ruthless officers was enjoying not only acceptance in a California beach community, but was being championed by politicians and citizens alike. "The Spider" she said aloud between sips of breakfast coffee. That was how Die Spinne was translated into the English language. And The Spider was indeed spinning a formidable web. This thought reassured her somewhat. Perhaps the world was as gullible as before. Perhaps technology and education provided only surface rewards. Perhaps the world's inner soul was as naive as ever.
Not that she doubted the efficacy of their cause. She didn't. She was emphatically convinced that Nazism was the only hope for the troubled world. This had been successfully ingrained into her thinking. But the Nazis had failed only twenty-some years before, and the Nazi concept was at odds with the ruling philosophies. There were dictators, of course, who shared the Nazi belief of safety only under totalitarian rule, but they were opportunists- the handful of dictators-and they wanted their countries for themselves. No, the fascist cause was greater than a single man or a single country. To be workable in any lasting form the entire world had to be taken over.
In a sudden spasm of nervousness, Ada sent the breakfast tray crashing to the floor beside her bed. "The world," she cried aloud. "The world is so very big."
In an instant, her door opened, and Gerda, her aging servant, came rushing in. Her wrinkled eyes were alive with fear. "Is something the matter, mistress?" she said fearfully.
"You're late," Ada snapped, defensively.
"Clean up that mess, and get my white leather at once!"
"Yes, mistress," said the trembling servant, already scurrying to collect the broken dishes. "At once."
Ada turned away from the groveling elderly woman. Her fawning obedience disgusted her. The young ones knew fear the same as the old, but they knew how to conceal it. Perhaps Gerda should be replaced. The thought seemed fascinating at this moment. She would toss Dr. Rosch the old woman to play with. He would surely have some sort of improvisation at hand for one of age. Of course he preferred the young ones, but who didn't? She would consult with him later on the subject. The wrinkled old servant would be good discipline for the slightly maddened scientist. It would remove some of his arrogance.
Gerda wheezed as she ran out of the room with a tray. In another moment she was back, rummaging in one of Ada's three closets. Ada could hear the old woman whimper in failure. Ada threw back the coverlet and pounced out of the bed. She straightened her strong Aryan body, splendid in its nudity, and despite her anger, she viewed her movements carefully in the full-length wall mirror. She went to a closet where a whip always waited. She took it with her to the closet where Gerda was frantically searching for the white leather suit. At the sound of her mistress, Gerda let her arms fall. She knew what was coming.
"I'm sorry, mistress," she said desperately. "I do not find the garment."
Ada drew back the small whip and lashed it across the wrinkled face. It caught a cheek and lip, and almost at once blood gathered at the corner of her mouth. The woman cried out and fell to her knees. Again and again Ada struck the woman, blind with rage, but silent. She finally gave the woman a kick in one of her breasts and spun her to the floor. The servant sobbed and begged for mercy, but her plea made Ada more angry. Ada didn't step up the flogging, but resolved her plan more firmly. She turned her back, and permitted the sniveling domestic to retreat from the rooms.
Ada found the leather garb after the woman left. It was folded in a cabinet drawer exactly where she knew it would be. The old woman should have known that Ada had placed it there. If she were efficient, she would surely have known.
The impudence and inefficiency of her aging maid was forgotten momentarily. With the soft leather in hand, Ada once more captured her image in the mirror. She immediately dismissed her angry frown. She couldn't bear to see her face in anger. No-a smile was more becoming. She attached the smile, and paused to brush her long, ash blonde hair.
With this done quickly, she put the leather suit aside to caress her figure. Her hands cupped the large, round breasts, lifting their rose-colored nipples higher. She used her thumbs to flick the wide-pointed tips. She had had large nipples from the time she was twelve. They were wide and soft even before their bases bloomed out to protect them. She had been proud of them then and she was proud if the now. "What would fat pig Kurt Von Kemp give to suckle you again?" she said to her nipples. "He had you when you first sprouted and for too many years afterward. But never again. Not ever."
As troubled as her mind was, Ada couldn't resist a pause for lust. To acknowledge desire was to sate it. There had never been a time when she hadn't served her every lust, "Ah, let me think," she said as her hand caressed her lower body. "Who shall be honored today? Boy -girl-child?"
She lay back on the bed, caressing herself leisurely as her mind leafed over the extensive menu of sex possibilities. The list was almost endless. In the cottages and dormitories there were dozens of strong young men. There were girls too, those soft and sweet like Brigit, or others bold and masculine. But this was daytime and variety was needed. Then a wonderful idea came to mind. Dr. Hans Rosch-why not?
Dr. Rosch wasn't unattractive, despite his piercing black eyes. He had been at the camp for several weeks now, and she had never entertained him. This would be a good time. And knowing the reputation of the good doctor, Ada was sure he would possess a veritable warehouse of innovation. She quickly lifted the house phone and ordered his presence.
While she awaited him, Ada skinned into the white leather. It took time because the fit was perfect. The legs caressed every curve tighter than nylon. When she zipped up the trunk along the crease of her round bottom, the suit clutched every mound and crevice in a lover's embrace. Her leather loved and comforted her. To keep the sensation fresh, she seldom wore it. Only on special days-such as this.
She added the top and watched in the mirror as the carefully sewn skin captured and held her breasts. The texture of the leather was so delicate it allowed her precious nipples to press their detailed imprints. The suit cost more than the finest fur coat, but it was worth the price. It was her finest, most treasured garment.
During the day Ada usually wore her hair drawn up in twin buns over each ear. One of the girls helped her with the daily task, but not today. She liked the loose feel of it, and loose hair was more appropriate for sex. The knock sounded at the inside door. She called her invitation to enter.
The door swung open, and the wiry, uniformed doctor stepped inside. He clicked his heels, bowed, and stood at attention. "Doctor Rosen at your service, my leader."
"My, how efficient you are," said Ada, eyeing him from her bed. "Come, Herr Doctor. Come closer. And please, be at ease."
She struck a seductive pose as the doctor crossed the room. He had his peaked cap in his hand and his uniform was impeccable. The swastika showed brilliantly on his sleeve. Doctor Rosch was lean and trim, making him seem younger than his obvious years, and this made him far more desirable than most older men. Ada supposed he would have to be all of fifty, but there was one way to find out. "How old are you, Doctor?" she asked. "You seem remarkably well preserved."
He tried to smile, but Ada could see that the expression was uncomfortable. Perhaps the praise disarmed him. "You're too kind. I am forty-five."
"But you were at Auschwitz, weren't you?"
"Ja, but I was young. I was assistant to Dr. Mengele, and attained my medical degree later in South America."
"Dr. Mengele is well, I presume," said Ada.
"I'm sure. I saw him last in 1960 in Argentina, but he is now in Brazil."
Ada nodded, and her thoughts of sex were postponed momentarily as she recalled Dr. Mengele's penchant for sterilization operations. Although his crimes were minor to those of his Buchenwald counterpart, Dr. Hans Eisele, Mengele fled from Europe. Eisele was convicted of manslaughter, but after serving six years in Landsberg prison, he received a good conduct pardon and a 4,000 mark reward, a loan substantial enough to start a medical practice. When later charges made political waves, Eisele fled to Egypt, where she knew he was well and successful. In fact, Nazi benefactor Nasser put Eisele on the staff of Cairo's largest military hospital. "I suppose you learned a great deal from Dr. Mengele."
Rosch nodded curtly, and his present smile was more in keeping with his personality. It showed pride and Fatherland dedication. "I learned much indeed," he said. "But even more on my own. I will be a credit to the Fourth Reich. And you, my leader, will fill us all with pride."
Ada had been resting on an elbow on the soft bed, but now she sat up. His reverence hadn't been anticipated. "I thank you, good doctor," she said. "I hadn't expected such flattery."
"Praise, my leader. I sensed your inherited power, your magic. And it is fortunate you picked this day to receive me."
"What is meant by that, Herr Doctor?"
The stern, officious face was lost in thought. The black eyes darted aside, but then returned to hold Ada's curious stare. "Herr Bormann has ordered that the world movement, masterminded by thirty thousand devout Nazis, should be headed by the purest blood of all of us."
"So you know," she said, astonished. She knew the information would eventually be known in the party, but she hadn't known when.
He nodded, and his smile was strengthened by rising passion. His passion, however, was greater than physical. It was Godly-spiritual. "By now, the entire movement knows of you, and it is your image all of us will covet while we carry out our great work."
Ada lost composure momentarily, and stared blankly. But she quickly regained her aplomb. She was becoming aware of her growing stature, and she must play the role. "You have brought me good news," she said with restraint. "Will I be briefed on all strategic information?"
He nodded militarily. "An advisor is en route from South America. He will be constantly at your side. In the meanwhile there are certain orders that have already been instituted. One will be carried out today. Have you heard of the eminent scientist, Christine Lavie?"
"No," she said, unable to disguise her ignorance. "The name means nothing to me."
Rosch grinned. "Von Kemp is a fool. He should have told you everything he knew. Madame Lavie has a drug formula that she and her husband are holding out for high bids. She is a leftist, but her reverence for money has made her play one side against the other. She is playing games with East and West, but we in the middle will intercept everything. The plan already is in effect."
Ada was so taken by surprise she was without questions to ask. At the moment she almost wished for her anonymity. Sex was such a tranquilizer, and so rewarding. She wasn't at all sure she could cope with more complicated problems. "Am I free-I mean truly free of Von Kemp?"
"He is a pig, my leader. You may forget your marriage vows, and assume your rightful name. His fate is in your hands."
"Good," she said with the sweet kiss of vengeance narcoticizing her brain. "I will give this great thought, and while I remember, I have a trivial matter I would like resolved."
"Your slightest wish is my life," he replied with a click of his heels.
"My maid, Gerda. She is old and worthless. I hoped you would use your genius to make her death meaningful."
He stared into her eyes, awaiting further clarification.
"Couldn't you transform her into a baboon or something? Death is such an easy exit."
The man before her sighed, and Ada could almost sense his thought waves. Then a wry grin emerged from his countenance. His first real smile of the meeting. "It is just a thought, my leader, but would it be amusing to see your old servant exchange brains with the baron? As I say, it is only a thought."
She couldn't restrain herself. She let out a shriek of laughter, clapping her hands. "Wonderful-how perfectly wonderful. Do it, my good doctor'. Do it at once."
"My instruments are en route," he replied. "We shall operate upon their arrival."
"Doctor?" she said more coyly.
He snapped a receptive nod.
"Do you find me beautiful?"
"I have observed your beauty several times since my arrival. I constantly search for you in the garden or the recreation area. My eyes are glorified by your charm and beauty."
"I never go out of my rooms, but I shall now. But, doctor-I feel hot inside. I have a strong appetite for sex. Could you possibly ease this torment?"
He faltered for the first time. "But, my leader-I am not worthy of your company. It is improper."
"Suppose I ordered it?"
"Then surely I would obey."
"I give the order then. Get out of those silly clothes and make love to me. I give myself in gratitude for your good news."
"As you wish," he said, already unbuttoning his tunic.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dr. Rosch was adept at petting, and immediately upon his first bodily caress, Ada was primed for sex. She clasped the doctor's narrow hips and guided him between her strong thighs. The doctor seemed confused, so Ada broke her sensual trance. "The leather parts with my flesh," she explained, lifting her leg high to show him.
"Aha," he said with surprise. "How ingenious. But please-call me Hans."
His hands enclosed her double-skinned body and with her deft guidance they became one. Ada didn't know if it was the novelty of her outfit, her physical perfection, or the good doctor's natural talents, but he was good-very good. He was no freak in his movements. In fact, his possessions were nominal, but he could love. At first it was easy. Just warm and soothing and comfortable, but as she began to tremble with excitement, he responded. In fact, he seemed to know her sensual whims before she knew them herself.
It was all so very normal, too. She expected wild and bizarre action from one so notorious. Certainly he was a beast beneath it all, or he never would have survived duty under Mengele. No-he kissed and caressed, and then sought her womanhood. He made no overtures toward aberration. He mounted her and was making an epic production of the sharing of his male-ness. Around, down, light stabs, and plunging thrusts. He used his manhood to score a controlled symphony of sex. Ada gave up her introspective analysis and lost herself to his supremacy. He proved there was much to be said for experience. She had had hundreds of healthy young bodies over the years, but few had provided the pleasure this strange Nazi was providing. At the exact moment of her break in tempo, Hans joined her. Their strokes were ponderous, spastic, and they clamped together in their final, unison plunge. He moaned with rapture. Ada, digging long nails into hard buttock flesh gurgled a call of triumph. It was as though her soul had been ignited by the flare of his sex. She owned what he gave for this moment. It was hers and seemed permanent in its ecstatic occupancy. A shuddering sigh released her body and flesh from its straining pinnacle, and the most pleasurable joy swept over her. She was basking in a garden of roses. It was her first visit to such a garden in a long, long time.
Long moments later she opened her eyes to see her spent lover watching at her side. He seemed serene, although his black eyes were still cruel. "I-I'm pleased," she whispered, too exhausted to say more.
His lips smiled fully, and his hand touched her reddened cheek. "That is good. I'd have killed myself at failure."
"Did you enjoy my love?" she asked, sounding like a child.
"I've never known such glory," he said softly. "You're an angel in a world of pigs. I've just learned the full glory of the sense. I'm entranced, truly."
Ada smiled and snuggled against him. Her mind refused to calculate. It rejected the parade of patterns that continually possessed her. For this moment she was drifting in the free land of love. There had been another such excursion, but it was relegated well to the past.
There was a period of drunken sleep, totally sound and impenetrable. But when she wakened, she was quite awake. Hans had wakened before her, but he lounged on the bed, still naked. "Did I sleep long?" she asked, suppressing a yawn and stretching.
He shrugged. "Not long. You slept like a child. I enjoyed watching you."
She drew against him, letting her hand touch what she had previously owned. It was no longer hers, but she enjoyed the memory. "You were very gentle," she said. "I had forgotten how gentle a man could be. Most aren't, you know. Most men, even those who are very young, are bestial-animal."
"There is the animal in all of us at times, but one doesn't abuse a goddess. It would be the gravest form of sacrilege."
"They held together closely and Ada was very still as she felt the manifestation of his male awakening. How obedient was his maleness-how flattering. He was playing tribute to her flesh. But not flesh-leather. "Does my costume excite you?" she had to know.
"The flesh beneath is my source of pleasure. Why, may I ask, do you wear this? Is it an erotic symbol?"
She had never been asked this question before. She wasn't sure she had an answer. "I'm not really sure," she said, lifting to an elbow. "But I think I know."
"I didn't mean to be impertinent," he apologized suddenly. "You needn't explain."
"But now I wonder myself. Of course I'm jaded, as you might understand, and the extra skin does give me certain wicked pleasure, but I think there is a more reasonable explanation." She broke from his grasp and rose from the bed. She skinned out of the top and cast it aside. She cupped her bobbling breasts with both palms and looked down at them. "I love my body, this part surely. And I'm proud of my shapely figure, but there are major flaws. Hand-administered flaws."
He watched with great interest, but was clearly puzzled by her latter remark. "What does that mean?"
"I will show you."
Ada went through the ritual of undressing. The leather was too tight to dispose of simply. It had to be skinned away from her curves inches at a time. When she was finally free, the doctor stared at her contours with obvious relish. She was still facing him.
"I see no flaw," he said, with his eyes devouring her precious womanhood. He studied her navel, her gently flaring hips, her long, shapely thighs, and then his eyes lingered over the portion of her anatomy he had explored with intimacy. "You are perfection."
With resignation, she did a slow turn. With her back exposed to his view, she heard his audible gasp. "My God-how did this happen? What swine did this to you?"
She faced him again. "Now you know why I despise Baron Von Kemp."
"He- did this? Death must be slow. Very slow. It must result from great creative thought." The venom was real in the fierce eyes. Ada saw the concentration camp butcher now, and knew that he could have caused such scars easily. But that wasn't the way she should think, was it? She was different from a low-blooded worm. She was Ada. She was German. She was the daughter of the greatest man who had ever lived. She must retain her hatred of Von Kemp. It should take priority over everything else. Perhaps when this hate was relieved, she could think with her other party members. "He must pay," she said, kneeling at the doctor's knees. She circled his hips with her hands and nestled her head on his naked lap. "You will help me, won't you ? I can never think a thought to completion without my hatred of Von Kemp interceding. These thoughts have warped me."
He stroked her soft hair. "He will be paid -in full. You can depend on me-my leader. A man who could mar the perfection of such a flower deserves the death of a devil."
There was quiet then. Hans was absorbed in his project with Von Kemp, and Ada became entranced with Han's manhood. Soon they returned to more pleasant behavior. Ada caressed, fondled, and worshipped at her lover's bodily shrine. She sat on the carpet; he was on the bed. She lost herself in her task of pleasure. The doctor lay back on the bed, groaning and clutching in response to her skill as a lover.
That was the second excursion, but more followed. Her gesture was returned, and they then served each other in unison. By nightfall, they slept in total exhaustion, their bodies humming with delight.
Between sessions, Ada had explained her earlier life to the doctor; how she was born in the secret chambers of "The Eagle's Nest." How, when the war neared Berlin, she was secretly removed to a convent near Oslo, and then, finally, how she was claimed by Von Kemp and transported to this island off the northern Scottish coast in a fishing tug.
She learned the details of her own life only when Von Kemp confessed her identity five years before. Until that time she was his ward, and therefore, his slave. She was educated on the island, and given Nazi indoctrination from the time she was a child. She was only three when Berlin fell and she was orphaned.
Dr. Rosch seemed fascinated as she unfolded her story, and probed for details of her brutal treatment as a child. When she related the details of the series of brutal incidents, he feigned shock, but she was no fool. She knew he was erotically stimulated. Although details of the Nazi operational procedures were denied her as a child, she had learned of them from books. These books, magazines, and newspapers were from the personal library of Von Kemp himself, so there was no doubt about their authenticity. If they were untrue, Von Kemp would never have kept the records.
She wasn't particularly disgusted by the grim accounts. She was taught that the means was always subordinate to the end. If her father and his council deemed brutality essential to the cause, then who was she to argue? The years of training had grown calluses that were there to remain. She not only condoned the Nazi wartime behavior, but acknowledged a growing hunger of her own for brutality. Her many island playmates would attest to that. She had administered many beatings, and when she was assured the action was justified, the sight of blood at her own hands was stimulating. It was like acquiring a taste for exotic foods.
What she did confess to Hans was her initial seduction at the age of ten. This she described in detail. She had known bodily kisses and had been a party to mutual erotic play, both with Von Kemp and older playmates, but her defloration was saved until her size allowed it.
On that monumental night, Von Kemp was drunk and bitter. He had been disappointed by a resident student. The girl denied him, and, Ada learned later, Van Kemp beat her to death with his fists. But this only stoked his desire for young flesh. He roused Ada from sleep that night, and before she could come fully awake, his nude body was being pressed in her face. She did what he demanded, but there was much more. Von Kemp mauled at her childish figure to make it ready to receive him fully. She was frightened, despite having seen others do the same things many times. It wasn't a total mystery, but those she had witnessed were older and bigger. Even they had moaned and grunted. It was a secret kind of brutality that had puzzled her. Her questions were always met with smiles, but no answers. So she feared this more than the whip. Still, she submitted with minimum restraint. Von Kemp had proved many times that he would have his way.
Ada had never been one to cry, but she did that night. The pain was unbearable, and it lasted for hours. He tried once and failed. He drank more and tried again. He kept trying until finally success took place at daybreak. She thought she recalled passing out, and explained her feeling of chocking to death from inside, Rosch nodded and demanded every detail. Ada supplied them, and when the story was finished, he took her in the most frenzied sexual encounter of the long erotic day.
Later, she told Rosch how the beating rituals were conducted. As a child she was beaten as a form of punishment, but as Von Kemp became older and more jaded, and more impotent, he turned the beatings into a means of sexual fulfillment. He had to draw blood or the beatings were meaningless. Ada saw many young bodies mutilated, but hers was a repeated target for punishment. At least one time a week the baron used his whips to open her partially healed wounds. This lasted from the time she was fourteen until the time her identity was revealed. Once she learned of her importance she refused Von Kemp. His compliance to her restrictions proved the truth of his tale. He was afraid of her. He began the desperate process of making amends. She supposed he believed a few years of subservience would overshadow a shattered childhood. But she had never forgotten. Now, in Hans Rosch, she had found not only a superior lover, but a means for revenge.
Once, during the long naked encounter, she asked Hans to detail stories from the concentration camps. He refused emphatically. He wasn't rude, but he was adamant. He said he shouldn't detail acts committed by a superior officer. He was only following orders in those days. She asked him to confess acts by his own hands, but he was equally reluctant. Ada let the matter rest. If he had been anyone else, she would have punctuated her demands with a beating, but Hans was different. He wasn't one of her youthful pals; he was mature and important. She permitted his silence.
Yet, she wondered. Were these perpetrators of evil this ashamed? Even Von Kemp refused to account for his wartime behavior. What did it mean? If brutality were a necessary evil, why did they all disown it? Perhaps she would learn the answer to her question when she attained more power and, she would seek it, certainly. In a corner of her troubled mind, it seemed' terribly important.
"What was my father really like?" she asked the doctor, after she had ordered their dinner brought up.
He smiled. "I wasn't important enough to meet him personally."
"I wish I could remember something about him, or even my mother. I've never met anyone who could tell me much. Von Kemp knew them both, but he only spouts the usual praise. Never details."
"Perhaps your father was too great to be well-known personally. But when you meet Herr Bormann you will gain insight. He knew him as well as anyone on earth. They were inseparable."
"I hope I will meet him soon."
"It won't be long now."
"Will I be a good leader?" she asked dreamily, once more seeking the feel of his body.
"The second best in history," he assured. "Your father must rank first. No one, male or female, could dream of surpassing the greatness of Adolph Hitler."
Ada smiled an turned her attention to the doctor's sex. The mysterious phenomenon of the male sexuality continued to fascinate her.
CHAPTER FIVE
Over the twenty years since Matthew Pyne's discharge from the service he had moved more than nineteen times. He took count one night over a lonely bottle of gin. That didn't include his brief visit of Ohio when his father died in 1951. He remained long enough to sell the family acreage and pay off his father's debts, and he used the remaining four hundred dollars for his return passage to London.
Before 1951 he had remained in Germany, but he chose England afterward. He wasn't sure why. It just seemed the thing to do. He made brief trips out of the Isles, when finances permitted, but London became and remained his headquarters. He even managed to secure work papers, and that was quite an accomplishment.
In West Germany, after the war, Matt worked for an American consulting firm as a public relations director, but the novelty wore off when his duties were reduced to occasional interpreting jobs for the boss. He loafed for a while on his war bonus forwarded from Ohio, and later took up residence with a flabby German countess who wanted a man around the house to help her adjust to postwar life in her native land. She had weathered the war in Spain.
The alliance began with sex, and several delightful months transpired before the countess became hung up with a young German actor. Matt had to close their account when the countess once more looked to him for love and affection. He had grown accustomed to gardener duties and chauffeuring, and she had grown fatter by then and wasn't getting any younger.
He landed a small part in a American movie, playing an American Air Force officer. He later acted as liaison between the Hollywood studio and the German film industry. This job petered out when the American production company went bankrupt. Since the office was leased and the rent paid for another year, he gathered together the abandoned klieg lights purchased in Europe for the earlier film, and called himself a "famous Hollywood photographer." This happened after he had bought a battered view camera in a pawn shop for ten dollars. His first sittings were a series of disasters, but he practiced his technique on every pretty fraulein he could entice to the studio. Before long he was fairly skillful.
The original equipment remained in West Berlin because he never returned there after the death of his father, but when need came for a livelihood he reinstituted his professional photographic status by the acquisition of some more secondhand equipment. He bought out a retiring photographer with promises, and, by a series of flukes, was able to finally pay off the aging lensman.
Matt had never been short on charm, not when it was important, and his ability to mix landed him several good advertising accounts. His professional career thrived for five years, but the inevitable happened. Love reared its devastating head. It very nearly destroyed him.
His choice of lover was a successful model who was a ringer for Rachel. But she lacked Rachel's devotion. Once he was firmly hooked, she started sleeping around, and he neglected his business to play detective after her. He crouched in a Mercedes back seat in Cannes, peeped through a French window in Nice, and bugged her bedroom in Madrid. He pulverized her paramours on each occasion, and won her remorseful attention in between lovers. But her compulsion for promiscuity continued. He finally abandoned the hopeless cause after she married a Greek shipping magnate. He didn't give up easily. He even attempted to storm her honeymoon cottage. But her husband's five bodyguards were there to receive him.
After a slow mend in a military hospital, Matt changed his ways. He didn't love less, but he became more quiet about it. He didn't give up booze, but he stopped letting it rule him. He turned into a fairly respectable human being. That, in a sense, was his downfall.
He lost his accounts in advertising, and, in his passivity, soon found himself struggling for the rent for his dusty upstairs studio. He lived there, made love there, and, for the better part of three years, starved there.
A pleasant refreshment arrived when Carey discovered him, but fun didn't pay the bills. She turned down modeling jobs to run his office, but her austerity program was too late. The funds weren't there to be careful with. It was a lost cause.
As Matt relaxed for the last time in the creaking swivel chair, he contemplated his misspent past. At the same time he speculated on the intrusion of Roland Guthrie into his present. He had always hated the sissy jerk until today, but now he wasn't sure. His proposition was interesting, and the twenty pound note was real. Matt would have to weigh it all, and wait until later for final decision. Of course he had already promised Guthrie he would join him, but what was just one small lie in a lifetime of giants?
Matt packed a cardboard box with odds and ends of personal belongings scooped up from the back sleeping room, and started out for Carey's flat. She had invited him to park there, so perhaps he would. For just a few days, of course.
The month was May, but it was cold. It wasn't at all like the balmy springtime days he recalled from his childhood in Ohio. The air was clammy. There was the snarl of evening traffic as Matt walked the six blocks through the back streets of London, and he felt a deep chill burrowing into his bones. He was lost in deep introspection when the beep, beep of a cab horn brought him awake.
"Taxi, Gov?" shouted the cabby, idling beside him at the curb.
Matt waved him on, and plodded forward. The sound of a rowdy pub almost drew him off the sidewalk, but he sniffed the beer, sighed, and remained on his path. Carey would have supper waiting, and he had no money. There was Guthrie's twenty, of course, but that was Carey's. He owed her that and fifty more.
He was touched by a dirty-faced old vendor who mournfully reduced the price of his last bouquet for Matt's benefit, and Matt would have enjoyed surprising his girl, but no-Carey was too practical to appreciate flowers when the cupboard was bare. He refused the offer apologetically, and turned into the hallway of 112 Dewhurst.
The doorway was hunched between a betting shop and a chemist's. The narrow door was painted black, and the upper part was multi-paned with sparkling, clean glass. This was Carey again. She painted the door and kept its glass clean. Quite a gal for a mod.
She adopted the standards of the American hippies except for one single, all-important detail. Carey was the cleanest human being Matt had ever known-with one exception of course -with the exception of Rachel.
He climbed the three flights and paused at Carey's door to detect what cooking aromas might be emanating from there. Strange-no smell at all. Matt was sure each neighbor judged the others by their cooking odors, but Carey's place offered no competition. He shrugged and rested the box on his lifted knee, and managed to open the door. Once inside, he could see why no cooking odors were escaping. The rooms were dark. Carey wasn't home.
Matt turned the light switch inside the door and glanced about the living room, dining room, and kitchen combination. There was a couch and two chairs to the right. The dining room table and chairs were directly in front of the door, and the kitchen was to the left of the dining room. Each insert was separated by a partial wall with double doors in their center. Beyond the kitchen was a wall of windows. Beyond the windows was the narrow bedroom. It overlooked the downstairs court. "Carey," he called out to be sure. No answer.
He put the box down on the chair inside the door and went into the kitchen. Then he found a note pinned to the cupboard door. "Lover," it said. "Took a job. If I'm late, have a drink on me. Booze in the fridge." It was signed with a C.
Matt sighed and opened the ancient refrigerator. He found a fresh bottle of Beefeaters and an accompanying bottle of dry vermouth. He grinned. She must have blown her last farthing on the booze, and she hated martinis. The vermouth was all for him. He hastily built a drink.
Matt took his liquid refreshment to the dining room table and analyzed his attitude. When he had walked in and found the rooms vacant, he had felt dispossessed. Why? Now, as he sipped his private poison, he wondered if the old insecurity was creeping upon him. He hadn't cared about losing his smelly studio, but he was behaving strangely.
It made one thing very clear. He would call Roland to reassure his commitment. He wanted the adventure to get underway at once. He didn't want to go through what he had experienced twice before because this time it would really be ridiculous. Carey was a swinger. She was carefree, emotionally irresponsible, and was even a vociferous advocate of free love. And besides she was hardly more than a child. She was twenty-he was forty-two. He drank and laughed aloud. "You're a sick man, Pyne. A sick, dirty old man."
After his second blast he went downstairs to the hall telephone. He called Guthrie to emphasize his growing enthusiasm for the project.
"In that case," said Guthrie, "perhaps we should get together at once. Can we meet tonight? I'll run over what we have."
Matt gave Carey's address and went back to the apartment to wait. He mixed another drink and was finishing it when Carey arrived. It was seven and he was hungry. "Where the hell have you been?" he said without humor.
She tossed her make-up case next to the chair that held Matt's cardboard box, and lifted her arms joyfully. "I got me a smashing job, Ducks," she said, dancing across the room, her lithe body undulating provocatively under the tight miniskirt. She plunked herself on his lap and locked his neck in a tight, affectionate embrace. "Wait'll ya'ear about it. It's a dilly, it is."
"You're loaded," Matt said, avoiding her kiss.
"True enough, but ow'd ya know?" she said, staring at him in puzzlement.
He shook his head. "Your cockney's showing. You always drop the culture when the gin takes over."
She giggled and hugged him again, "not gin, luv," she corrected. "Scotch it was. Very expensive Scotch."
"Then let me catch up," Matt said grouchily. He took her tiny waist in his hands and easily removed her from his lap. As he mixed another martini, he listened silently to her account of her day. She said she had posed for a new agency, and afterward they were so pleased they made some sample poses for a lipstick company. The boss took her with him along with the prints to the advertising company manager, and she was hired on the spot.
"We're rich bastards," she exclaimed. "Our worries are over. I'm guaranteed twenty thousand by contract, but there are millions of extra fees. Ain't- isn't that smashing, Matthew love?"
"If you walk in with that accent, they'll tear your contract in a million pieces," he said sourly. "Want a drink?"
"Nope," she said, hanging on his neck, and grinding her curves against him. "I want your naked body. That's all I want."
"Cut it out. Carey '' he protested. "I'm not in a very good mood."
"But you have t be in a good mood. Our luck has changed."
He sighed and slipped around her to the dining room table "You're lucky baby. Not mine."
He had seceded in ruining her gaiety. She dropped her arms a id followed him forlornly. "I thought you'd be happy. I couldn't wait to tell you the news."
"I am happy," he said sarcastically. "Happy for you."
"We can start another studio for you," she said hopefully. "A fine one-in a good location -with new lights and cameras and everything. Maybe I can help you find some new accounts too."
He shook his head. "I landed a job today myself," he said. "I won't be around much anymore."
"A job? You'll be leaving London?"
"Mm hmm. A guy I used to know wants me to do some contract work for him on the continent. He's meeting me here in a few minutes to fill me in. Hope you don't mind."
She stared blankly, almost on the verge of tears. "I-thought you were beginning to like me, Matt. I thought . . ."
He managed a grin with his shrug. "Sure, I like you. We've had some great times. But we both agreed it was for kicks, didn't we?"
"Sure, Matt," she said, stunned. Her pretty face had lost all traces of happiness. She looked like an abandoned child. She sat on the edge of the nearest chair and stared at the sugar bowl in the center of the table. "I said I liked variety, and you said you wanted no encumbrances. Guess I forgot that for a minute."
He gulped down his drink. "The intelligent way to handle a love affair is to know when to stop. You have to read the signs. You got a great job today, and so did I. You'll be meeting all sorts of guys now. Those in a more realistic age bracket."
She nodded. "That's true, but I've always known men. Lots of them. But I felt comfortable with you, Matt. I can't explain it."
"Look," said Matt, "I know this is your place, but could you do me a favor? I'd like to be alone with this guy for an hour or so. Could you hide out in the bedroom maybe?"
"Have you eaten?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I'm not very hungry."
"I am," she said, already lifting the mini-dress over her head. "I'll change to some pants and go out and get us something."
Matt started to protest but was halted by the sight of her fantastic nudity. The knitted orange and white dress was tossed aside, and Carey was utterly naked underneath. Her strong, handful breasts bobbled, their tiny pink nipples pointed and proud. Her delicious belly moved gracefully, her lean hips slithered forward as she stepped close to Matt. Carey's legs were long, considering her moderate height, and her upper thighs were beautifully shaped. She wore her hair extremely short. It was very black. The hair on her head would suggest a hirsute body, but this was not the case. Her body was white and silken with legs that rarely needed shaving. There was a splash of color prominent in his view, but even here it was minimal, and soft to the touch-like down. Matt wanted to ignore her nudity. He had seen it before. But the light was bright and there she was. She put her hands about his neck tenderly and drew his head against her belly. That was all she did, but Matt was lost. He locked his arms about her hips and kissed her feverishly. "You are a terrible whore," he murmured. "Do you know that?"
She ground herself against him, strengthening the embrace. "That's what bodies are for," she whispered, clinging. "Take me, Matt. Get your clothes off and give it to me good."
He held her buttocks with both palms and dug his fingers into her firm flesh. "I told you -this guy's coming."
"We'll have time. I know we will."
That was enough invitation. Matt let go and rose to his feet. Within moments he was naked. The closest nest would be the living room couch, so that was were he headed. They plunked down together in a savage embrace, and soon her body was opening to accept him. The warmth of her bodily welcome was electrifying. She locked her young thighs about his hips and began her wild, searching, thrusting, arching ride. Matt removed all thought to enjoy his pleasure. He knew she didn't believe it, but this would be one of their last mergers. As such, he was determined to make the most of it.
Their moment came simultaneously, but that wasn't unusual. Only the degree of fulfillment was surprising. They had always been good together, but this was greatness. "Eeeuhh!" Matt grunted in his final surge.
Her body quaked and shuddered, and he felt her pelvis cutting against his groin. Up, up, up, she lurched to steal every trace of his gift. "Mmmmm," she said, locking his head in both arms.
They held together long after their rush of joy, and were in exactly that position when a light knock sounded at the door. Matt tensed in waking and recalled his expected visitor. He was about to call out, but it wasn't necessary. He looked up to see Roland Guthrie standing in the doorway to the living room. His mouth was open.
Matt was good at holding his cool in moments of crisis. Some inner mechanism refused to let him show alarm ever. "Ah-there you are, Guthrie," said Matt casually, "Meet Carey Harper."
"I-I-I'm sorry," he said gesturing toward the door helplessly. "You see-it was open a crack. I thought ..."
Matt eased off his partner and sat up on the couch. When he freed her, Carey sat up beside him, running a hand through her dark hair She seemed more sleepy than shocked, but that was Carey. "Hello," she said, leaning her head against Matt's shoulder. "Guess you caught us."
"I say," said Guthrie, "I am sorry-truly. Suppose I go out and come in again."
He was already headed for the door off the dining room, so Matt let him go. When he was outside, Matt retrieved his trousers in the dining room, and Carey exited to the bedroom beyond the kitchen.
In a moment Matt was dressed sufficiently to receive Guthrie. As he let him in, Carey returned wearing a sweater and form-fitting slacks. She smiled at Guthrie as though worried about his embarrassment. "You should shave off that silly moustache," she said confidently. "You'd look much younger."
"As a matter of true fact, I intend to," he said in a remarkable recovery. He smiled as Carey kissed Matt's cheek and departed.
"That's quite a girl you've got there, Pyne. The interruption was unintentional, but I can't say I regret it."
"She's just an oversexed street urchin," Matt said with a shrug. "Makes the cold nights a bit more comfortable."
"My word-I should certainly hope so," said Guthrie, removing his coat. "You're remarkable, Pyne. Absolutely remarkable."
"Shall we get down to business?" Matt said, taking a chair at the table.
"Yes, of course-by all means."
CHAPTER SIX
In Carey's absence, Matt learned much about the task that lay ahead. Roland Guthrie explained what he had learned. The discovery of the young French scientist could cripple an entire civilization overnight, and for that reason, was given top priority by both East and West.
It was a highly concentrated tranquilizing agent that, when added to a city's water supply would place great masses of the population in a state of catatonia. As little as a pound packet could pollute an entire city the size of London. Its delayed effect would negate all purification efforts, since, by the time it acted, almost every citizen would have absorbed enough to render himself motionless. Its effects would assume control of the victim within about fourteen hours.
It was no wonder that the major powers were anxious to control the chemical. But the Nazi party had never been considered a potential bidder. Not until recently. The scientist, Christine Lavie, had been seen in the company of recognized Neo-Nazis, and that ignited panic both East and West. Neither British Intelligence nor the CIA knew quite how to cope with it, and Russia's countermoves were, of course, unknown. The Nazi enemy was virtually invisible.
The intelligence organization knew about Die Spinne, and had many ODESSA figures' under surveillance, but not enough was known. Too much was underground and in foreign countries.
The significance became apparent, however, when word seeped through that this was the Nazi year of celebration. It marked the second decade since Martin Bormann's escape from Europe. Celebrations were scheduled in the Tyrolean village that served as the escape route for Bormann into Italy. It was obvious that the Nazis wanted to make the anniversary a memorable one.
"That's establishment stuff," Matt said restlessly. "You don't suppose the allied intelligence forces would let the Nazis break loose, do you ? They probably have this Lavie broad isolated right now."
Guthrie had been seated across from Matt at the dining room table. He rose and went to the cupboard for a tumbler. He was shaking his head when he returned. "As I said, I'm in the cold now, but from what I've heard my son saying . . ."
"Your son?" Matt said as Guthrie poured a drink of gin. "What's he got to do with anything?"
Guthrie grinned. "My son Charles is an agent, old boy. Didn't I mention that? We aren't very close, I'm afraid, so he seldom confides in me. But I've made a point of listening to a few telephone conversations. Facts added up. Anyway, to get on-the western establishment is biding its time. They believe this will be a good time to nip this Nazi thing in the bud. They hope to time their moves to coincide with the meeting of all the Nazi leaders."
"Where is that supposed to take place?" Matt said, pouring himself another drink.
"Intelligence is working on it around the clock, but I think I already know. I'm not naive enough to think intelligence won't learn what I know, but I don't think they're in on it yet. We have just enough jump on them to cart off our Nazis for bounty. We'll be highly patriotic and mercenary as well."
At Matt's insistence, Guthrie came to the point. He explained about the Nazi organization behind all their former members, providing the families with funds, and even schooling. ODESSA, the organization founded by former SS officers, was known to operate one school in Austria, but Guthrie was aware of another that few people knew about. Guthrie told Matt about the fog-shrouded island off the tip of northern Scotland. There was a school there that had been under private ownership for many years, having been purchased in the late 1930's with Swiss money. Guthrie pointed out that its students, a few at a time, had been enrolled from all over the world-Cairo, Brazil, Argentina. He said that practically every child screened through England was of obvious German descent. It had been a hunch of Guthrie that this remote island, referred to by many as Fog Island, was actually an ODESSA-sponsored school for future Nazis.
"My God." said Matt, his gin buzz taking on a tone of irritability, "British intelligence must have every face on file, every room bugged and photographically monitored. If what you say is true, they'd have infiltrated that joint a hundred times over the years."
Guthrie finished his gin, and smiled. "You would think so, but I have strong doubts. It's too obvious, you see. The tree blends with the forest. No, I doubt if Intelligence has a listing on Fog Island at all."
"How do you know about it?" Matt said, rising to stretch.
"That's where my son enters in," Guthrie said, gesturing with animation. "I heard him mention a short wave radio that had been pinpointed in London. For a short time there was some suspicion. It seems a German radio enthusiast immigrated recently from Rio. While at first the man was considered highly suspicious, he has since been cleared. I'm not that easily convinced. I did some investigating, and through short wave monitoring, traced more than fifty pick-ups in Oslo. There were three exchanged between his radio and an unknown transmitter in the vicinity of Fog Island. The conversations were mundane, but who's to preclude a simple coding system?"
"What were the conversations?" Matt asked.
"They were in German, and very brief, and nothing much was said, but I can play them for you, and we can pick them apart. Anyway, it's a start, and coincidentally, this radio buff holds a striking resemblance to you. A bit thinner, perhaps, but close enough. If my hunch is correct, we could work something out. Since this chap hadn't left South America until six months ago, and since he has made daily radio communications with them, it's doubtful he's even been to Fog Island, isn't it?"
Matt flopped down again and stared at Guthrie. "Go on."
"Well-I've rented a flat a block from the chap's place. Perhaps we can get to know him in some way. With your sparkling command of the German language, all sorts of possibilities might arise."
"You bastard," Matt said in a deep growl. "You're damn sure of this Fog Island set-up, aren't you?"
Guthrie blinked in reaction to the sudden anger, but didn't lose his composure. "It's a commanding hunch, old chap."
"You know damn well this guy is a Nazi, and you want me to try on his shoes."
Guthrie faltered, and then shook his head with incredulity. "You are really quite amazing, Pyne. The OSS should never have sent you down. You seem to be reading my mind."
Matt poured a half glass of gin and slugged it down. He grimaced, then spoke in a gin-toned, rasping voice. "I study the lad, practice his voice qualities, and when you say so, I'm supposed to infiltrate that lousy goddamned Fog Island you're talking about. You're dying to get my balls in a vise, aren't you ?"
"Easy, Matt. Easy does it. That's precisely what I had in mind, but nobody's forcing you. I had hoped a chance to nail Bormann would be enough incentive to bring you around."
"You're a one-way bastard, Guthrie, and a sneaky bastard to boot. Why didn't you say straight out you had me measured for a long pine box?"
"It shouldn't be all that dangerous. In your brief wartime career you found yourself in sticker situations. There were several reasons I chose you, incidentally. First of all, your general physical make-up, but more importantly, there was my recollection of your uncanny talent for mimicry. That's in your file, you know. You were regarded as a first class imposter, and-a master of the language art. Then, of course, there was your feeling about the Nazis to single you out."
Matt sighed, no longer angry. "And money means this much to you? Or am I to take all the risks?"
"Money is of great importance to me. I might as well make a personal confession. Matt. Perhaps it will bind us a bit closer. I have a particularly prodigal wife. When I married her, she was quite wealthy, but the money trickled away. It was the children, I think, that made me do it, but I've been dipping into her majesty's funds just a bit. I can't retire, you see, until restitution is made."
"Well, I'll be dammed," said Matt with wry amusement. "I would have pegged you as a paragon of virtue."
Guthrie shrugged wearily. "I do give that appearance, fortunately. That's why I've never been audited."
"How much have you pinched?"
"A few thousand pounds more than I have on hand. But an amount that our reward will cover nicely."
"I see," said Matt pensively.
"Then I'm divorcing my wife," Guthrie volunteered. "I've despised that vulture for lo, these many years. Lord, how I envy your life, with girls like Carey, with fun, sex, and freedom. I hope I'm not too old to enjoy life. Once in my life I'd like at least a chance."
Matt didn't react to his emotional outburst. It was obvious the gin was taking its toll. Matt simply stared at him, hoping to get back to the business at hand. Soon Guthrie straightened up and returned to the point. He asked Matt if he could sever all previous commitments, to give his full time to the project. Matt assured him that he could. If Guthrie wanted it that way, he could accompany him right now to the new headquarters. He wouldn't leave Carey as much as a note.
Guthrie agreed to the wisdom of the move and helped Matt carry his boxes of belongings to the car on the street below. For a moment Matt hesitated, remembering the twenty pound note, but then he recalled Carey's financial windfall. He could use the twenty, and she wouldn't need it.
The flat was well north of the city, in a lower social setting. The rooms were comfortably furnished, but no penthouse off Park Avenue. There was a small sitting room, kitchen, and two small bedrooms. There was a gas-burning fireplace in the living room. Matt started to take his things into the first bedroom, but Guthrie halted him. "Uh-my things are in there old chap."
"Your things?"
"Of course, I'm moving in with you."
"Won't somebody at the office get nosey if you don't show up for work?" Matt asked.
"No, I'm beginning a fortnight holiday starting tomorrow. My wife thinks I've gone fishing. I'm free, old boy-for two glorious weeks."
Matt mumbled and proceeded down the narrow hallway. The rooms smelled musty. The previous tenant must have smoked cigars.
It was late in the afternoon when Matt started receiving involuntary mental flashes of Cary's sad face. It had been a dirty way to ditch her, but perhaps for the best. But when visions of her compact body joined the saddened face, Matt started to dread it. It would be lonely without her warmth and comfort and good-natured presence. Rollo Guthrie was one hell of a poor substitute.
Matt was tired and hoped he would get to bed early, but Guthrie had other plans. "This chap always leaves his room about now. He goes to a pub just a few doors from our flat. I've already established myself with the woman who runs the place, and I've seen this German on several occasions. Let's go for a drink, all right?"
Matt shrugged and got back into his coat. He needed a shave quite badly by this time, but it could wait until morning.
The pub was typical. The paneling was scratched and worn in places, the seats were wooden and hard. The lights were low at the bar, but brighter toward the rear where a boisterous dart game was in progress. Guthrie greeted the huge over painted proprietress and ordered gins. Matt had to look again at the girth of the amazing woman as she bent down to get their glasses. She weighed at least three hundred pounds, and was obviously devoid of upper teeth. She chomped her gums rhythmically. "There y'ar, gentlemen," she said between gasps for breath. Guthrie paid her. "Hope you lads will like our part of town."
Guthrie thanked her, but his mind was elsewhere. He whispered to Matt that their German target was just entering. Matt casually gave the man the once-over, and was mad. Guthrie said he looked like Matt, but how could he? The guy was blond, and weighed at least ten pounds less than Matt. Matt didn't consider himself competition for Rock Hudson, but he felt he was more attractive than the German.
The German stood at the end of the bar and ordered a stout. In the light, Matt was able to look at him closer, He had a straight nose, blue eyes, and rather even features. He appeared to be around Matt's age, and his hair was short cropped. This was observed when he removed his seaman's stocking cap. Perhaps with the help of some peroxide, a diet for a week or so, and a short haircut, Matt could make the description match. Matt was already at work on the transformation. But halted himself.
This was crazy, wasn't it? What was he letting Guthrie lead him into? He must really be off his rocker. But despite his momentary lapse into rebellion, his mind refused to put the challenge aside.
Matt waited for the German to have two more beers, but then it was too late for contact. The bar was closing. On the way out, Matt spoke to the German in a friendly way, but made no attempt to communicate further.
Matt was keyed up after this and lay awake for half the night plotting his next moves. He would circulate in the neighborhood as much as possible in the hopes of running into the German, and would hope that the chap was lonely for company. He would see who visited the man's rooms, and at the proper time he would take a look through his things. Matt was aware of the time problem and would let no moment pass without progress.
The next day Matt spent several hours listening to the German's tapes over and over. He detected no code in the variant message. It was mostly ham radio gibberish, but he did use the tape to get a fix on the voice quality. A day later, when Guthrie was out of the flat, Matt simulated one of the tapes verbatim. When he returned, Matt played it to him, and fooled him completely. Guthrie was sure the tape was the original one, and that was good. The voice and the accent were captured completely. Matt had his hair cut, but would wait until the strategic time to use the peroxide he had purchased. Food wasn't particularly important to him, unless Carey prepared it, so a liquid diet was easy to follow. It consisted of milk, vitamins, and plenty of gin. He would easily lose the necessary weight.
On the fourth night, Matt managed to engage the stolid German in a brief conversation. He used the fellow countryman ruse to break the ice, and they spoke briefly in German. The man, whose name turned out to be Fritz Heintz, was obviously pleased at the discovery of a fellow countryman, but when the conversation touched upon the personal, he withdrew his friendliness. Matt didn't press. He would wait for the Nazi to come to him. Later, if Fritz still shut him off, Matt would employ other tactics. But there was time.
The night following their initial meeting, Fritz invited Matt for a drink. They had both downed several at the pub, but it was closing.
This was the time for Matt to move swiftly, so he purchased a bottle of gin to help things along.
Fritz was very nearly drunk after the first gin, and made no pretense about his Nazi philosophy. This was baited by Matt, who spouted party line expletives to get the ball rolling. But when Matt would direct the conversation to specific areas, the German responded with a change of mood. He would become maudlin, and fraternal, and reminiscent about the fatherland. Fritz didn't admit that he couldn't return to his homeland, but the tone of his nostalgia implied it.
It was nearly two when a buzzing sound scratched the silence of the room. Fritz glanced toward the bedroom door and rose nervously from his easy chair. "You must leave me alone now, comrade," he said urgently. "We meet again tomorrow night."
Matt didn't show alarm at the sound of the buzzer, although he knew what it was. It was obviously a signal Fritz had devised to announce an incoming radio message. Before this juncture, Matt not only had seen the high-powered radio equipment, but when Fritz had gone to the bathroom, Matt had planted a bug in the lamp of the living room. Now they had the personal sounds of Fritz Heintz completely covered.
The surveillance proved only one thing to Matt. This was that Fritz was one hell of a solitary character. He had no callers, had few radio messages, and wasn't even prone to talking to himself. He was sure Guthrie had ushered him into a blind alley.
But then a significant message came over the airwaves. It said from the other end: "We are starting to celebrate now. We have a beautiful French cousin staying with us." Later, after a series of meaningless contacts with half a dozen hams, another message was recorded. This time it was from Fritz to a station in the area Cairo. "I spoke with your friends to the north," said Fritz in a chummy voice. "They have a French visitor, so they won't be communicating for a while."
There was no code as such, but the message would have meant little to the average ham operator. Often personal information was passed along by members of the club. Only Matt and Guthrie knew what this bit of gossip was really saying. Apparently Miss Lavie was in the hands of the Nazis, and Fritz was passing the news along via a secret network of hams. The moment was drawing near, and it was time for Matt to take his first big swing at the ball.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When the advisor arrived from South America, Ada was officially installed in the huge office off the main foyer of the mansion. Not only was she the sovereign ruler of all she surveyed, but much, much more. She was today the leader of the entire Nazi movement; and tomorrow-the world.
The office had previously been occupied by Baron Kurt Von Kemp, but he lost his position as school commandant as well as his role as Ada's husband. But she didn't permit the experiment so ingeniously devised by Dr. Rosch. At first the idea delighted her, but once she felt the power of her throne, a strange spirit of noblesse oblige pervaded her consciousness.
The compassion was not for the baron, not at all, but for Gerda, the simple-minded servant. To be old was not sufficient cause for punishment, and to inflict pain for pleasure was a product of her aimless past. There were more important matters to be considered-to dwell upon to the exclusion of all others.
So she deposited Kurt in the sub-level catacombs, and relegated Gerda to the barracks detail, where she would be out of sight. Kurt would have his punishment, but she would give him some time to worry about it.
In the meantime, Ada was no fool when it came to Dr. Rosch. It was soon evident that he would take advantage of her. The fool believed that his sexual expertise would put him in the political favor of his leader.
This was foolish of him, of course, but for the moment she would feed him the rope with which he would eventually hang himself. She needed him and all the others who were in key positions, but at the proper moment all of them would discover that they had a leader in more than name only.
Was it overzealous of her to look ahead a few years? She thought not. Herr Bormann honored her with new power, so who was to say she should step aside when Bormann was gone. She would mark time and be watchful.
In the meantime, from the reports she had read, Bormann was 67 years old. His face was puffy and florid, his paunch was booze bloated. As far as she could see, he was drinking himself into an early grave. She would gladly follow his command while he lived, but who could say how long that would be?
When he appeared in the flesh, she would appraise him further. If he seemed healthier than she anticipated, Dr. Rosch might prove to be of help to her. A single jab of a hypodermic needle could do it.
But these were things she would have to ponder, and she must not be impatient. She had waited too long for recognition to negate everything by impetuosity.
Ada was highly keyed on the day Christine Lavie was delivered to the island. This would be her first official assignment, and she was determined to carry it out without incident. Her orders were to secure the formula from the French woman without delay, and to have the material in production by the time the South American party members congregated at the island. The date for the latter meeting had not been designated for security reasons, but it would be soon. For that reason, Ada was determined to work fast and efficiently.
She ordered Dr. Rosch to bring the woman to her office the moment she awakened from her narcotic sleep. So far the plot had worked miraculously, and that was a good omen. The woman had met with the party representative in Oslo to discuss a price for the formula. But terms had never been discussed. Because the social drink preceding the talk had been so heavily drugged the woman had fallen into somnambulistic slumber almost at once. She had been flown to the island and would eventually awaken in a castle bedroom that was both locked and barred.
Perhaps the woman would be indignant, and would almost surely demand an outrageous price, but Ada was prepared for this. If the woman would accept one million dollars in gold certificates, the transaction would be made. If her price was higher, other means would be instituted to aid in the bargaining.
Now Ada was becoming impatient. It was after eight o'clock and dark outside, and she had taken to pacing the carpeted floor. She had been told the prisoner would awaken much earlier than this.
The office hadn't been changed appreciably for Ada's occupancy. The mammoth hand-carved desk faced the door. The giant Nazi flag was on the wall behind it. There was a long leather couch against one walnut paneled wall, and two leather chairs faced the desk. There was a water closet off to the side, and a bar that opened in the paneling of another wall. She had admired the office when Kurt had occupied it, so she could see little reason for change-except for one item. It was the curious lamp that decorated the long carved table below the book shelves. When Dr. Rosch laughingly told her what the shade was made of, she angrily ordered it removed.
Dr. Rosch was displeased with her anger, but she didn't care. She simply could see neither humor- nor the least intrinsic beauty-in a lamp shade that was fashioned from the skin of concentration camp victims. She hoped decisions didn't suggest softness on her part, but her hand was firm.
This episode marked the initial decline of affection toward Rosch. His true color had begun to show. More and more he had related concentration camp torture techniques, and something in his nostalgic pleasure repelled her. It made sex with him all but impossible. She had the feeling he was measuring her buttocks for a lamp shade.
She looked into the mirror above the table and adjusted her tie. She smiled harshly at her image. She would prefer her leather to this silly Nazi uniform, but this was a day for business and her image was of great importance.
There was a uniform with accompanying skirt, but this again wasn't for her. She instead wore the pants she had designed that fitted her body stunningly. She wore jack boots, too. She might look a bit masculine, especially with her hair drawn back in its twin buns, but who was to complain? She felt majestic and comfortable. If she were to assume a man's job, she should dress for the part. In her own quarters she could dress any way she desired-as long as it was done with the proper persons, but on the job she must exude strength.
One source of discontent was her denial of the erotic games with her underlings. She was too much above their rank now. She supposed she could sneak in a game or two at some later date, but first she must allow her stature to steep into everyone's mind.
As she was losing herself in introspection, a knock sounded at the door. It was Rosch. She gave the command to enter, and was asked if she wanted to see the French scientist, who had awakened moments earlier.
"Of course I want to see her," she snapped. "I said I wanted to see her delivered the moment she awakened."
"As you wish, my leader. I'll have her brought down. Shall I join you in the interview?"
"No-if I need you, I will ring. First allow me to establish an acquaintance. Then I will decide which track to use."
"We took the liberty of sending the message of her arrival," said Rosch, pausing at the door. "Our second message will be expected within twenty-four hours, I suppose."
"Wait!" she said, halting him. "You took this liberty without my permission ? How dare you ? I thought I was in command."
There was a trace of arrogance in Rosch's smile. "That is true, my leader. But there are certain orders I had been given before-from Herr Bormann. This was one of them. I was to announce the moment of her safe arrival, and then the moment of our success."
Ada was burning with internal anger, but she fought it down. She would save her contempt. This was not the time. "Bring the woman."
Ada had no preconceived notion of the French woman's physical appearance. She supposed that she expected to see a large woman of considerable age. One that was angry and demanding. The tiny French beauty that was brought to her was a total surprise.
Two uniformed guards escorted the girl, and placed her on the couch. At Ada's orders they withdrew, closing the door behind them. The scientist had soft brown hair of shoulder length, and very sensitive features. She was small and delicate, but her short skirt showed beautifully sculpted legs. She wore a white blouse that revealed a tiny waist, but full, protruding breasts. She was disheveled from travel and sleep, and her hair was falling over her face as she leaned forward to support her head with her hand.
"Good evening," said Ada finally. She stood above the lovely woman. "I am surprised at what I see."
The woman looked up, and tried to bring her large brown eyes into focus. "What will you do to me? Where am I?"
"You're safe," Ada assured, seating herself beside the woman. "We had to give you something to keep our location a secret, but soon you will feel well."
The brown eyes squinted, and seemed to come into focus. "Who in the world are you?" she asked incredulously.
"Do you find me grotesque?" Ada asked resentfully.
The woman shook her head wearily. "It's like a dream, is all. How long have I been asleep?"
Ada looked at the square clock on the wall. "I would say about twenty hours. It's no wonder you feel groggy. You're weak from hunger."
"Yes-I'm starved-and terribly thirsty."
"I have an idea," said Ada. "I haven't had dinner either. Suppose we go to my quarters and dine. We can discuss business afterward."
The woman sighed and nodded weakly. Ada rose to help her to her feet. She supported her on their long walk to the upstairs room. When they were comfortable in the sitting room, Ada ordered dinner with champagne. While they waited, Ada fixed a Scotch and soda for both of them. "Here," she said, handing over the highball. "One drink should help. I think it is best to go easy though-until you have eaten at least."
There was very little conversation between them before dinner. The woman was regaining her energy, but was less determined to demand knowledge of her whereabouts. She seemed willing to make the best of her own error. Actually, her demeanor disarmed Ada. She was certain she would face the wrath of an indignant egoist. But such was far from the case. It proved to Ada that in her new position she would be a fool to presuppose anything. She must keep flexible, poised, and open minded.
She liked this gentle creature and was mystified by her. How could a woman so young and so beautiful gravitate toward the cold world of science. But more puzzling: how did she justify her mercenary attitude? Ada wanted to ask all these questions, but for the moment she settled for one. "How old are you, Mademoiselle? I must ask."
Her guest managed a faint smile. "Twenty-nine."
Ada nodded silently, looking again at the lovely legs that were crossed gracefully. Then dinner was served.
As they dined, Ada established a first name relationship with Christine. She explained she was the representative for the Nazis and was authorized to bid for the formula. This seemed to satisfy Christine. After Ada's apology for the unorthodox treatment in the interest of security, Christine seemed even friendly.
The wine brought the visit to a friendly glow, but the brandy afterwards produced an even greater effect. It brought Christine out of her taciturn shell and made Ada practically giddy. The acquisition of the chemical formula became the farthest thing from Ada's mind.
Ada had been so isolated all her life, and recently over the last few days, she had been without the usual camaraderie afforded by her subordinate acquaintances. With Christine's visit came an opportunity to relate to somebody. Ada took full advantage of the circumstance.
"You must tell me about France," she said when they were both seated on the long, comfortable sofa. "Paris, especially. It must be beautiful, exciting."
"You've never visited Paris?" Christine said in astonishment.
"I've never been anywhere," Ada answered forlornly. "We're on a tiny island now, and that is my life. Many years ago I was flown over Oslo, and I was desperate to land and simply walk the streets, but it was forbidden."
"Amazing," said Christine.
"Is it that amazing?" Ada asked. "I imagined there were many others like myself-who have been prisoners of position."
"The amazing factor is our common ground," Christine corrected. "I was hidden in a convent until I was sixteen. Then my guardians married me off to a monster of a man. He was a retired American colonel who wanted nothing more than the Pyrenees hillside. With my usual lack of courage it's a miracle, I guess, but I ran away to Austria. The first protection I was offered was snatched up fearfully. Again I was imprisoned. This time by a middle-aged scientist. His laboratories were secreted in the Alps, and his sympathies were decidedly communistic. It was here that my skills were developed, though. My husband-not really my husband, but my master you could say-was in love with my mind. He called me a genius."
"Did you run away with your formula?" Ada asked in fascination.
"My husband died and I was free. I was left no money, but I did have my discovery. I am using it to pave the way to a new life. I feel I am at least ten years of happiness in arrears. Somebody has to pay the bills."
The message was strong, but it was declared without bitterness. Christine simply stated the matter as a cold fact. "But playing cat and mouse with world powers is a dangerous game," said Ada. "You could be killed."
Christine smiled fully, exposing rows of straight white teeth. It was her first expansive smile of the evening. "Then so let it be," she said, looking directly into Ada's pure blue eyes. "I'll have lost very little actually."
"But this freedom you long for. Now you have it."
"There is no freedom with poverty," she said. "You speak of the magic of Paris. Without funds it is nothing more than a grimy, smelly ghetto. The glories are locked up, and the key to the door is forged of gold."
Ada wanted no business thoughts to pierce the euphoria, but she had to use this opening. "Uh-how much do you expect your secret to bring, Christine? Have you set a firm price?"
Christine had started to smile before Ada spoke. It was obvious her mind was taking a detour. "It's funny," she said. "Here we are-two lovely women, alone, lonely, adventure starved. And both of us intent upon destroying the world. We make quite a pair."
"The Nazi party is not destructive," Ada said caustically. "Only we can give logic to existence. Only we can save the world."
"Please, dear," said Christine softly, her hand touching Ada's, "you're among friends. Surely you can't mean what you say."
"But I do-I do!"
Christine smiled and sighed. "Then I'm afraid you're a fool. But then so am I. I know what fate my discovery can cause. In the wrong hands it can precipitate the destruction of the world. Yet, I am determined to sell out for a price."
Ada was on the verge of an attack. Her fists were clenched, and without previously conditioned temper control, she almost lashed out.
But some deeper voice halted her. This was not one of the resident students with a narrow scope of vision. This was a brilliant young woman, with beauty, warmth and wisdom. Ada must listen, and judge her later. "I-don't believe you will find your pot of gold," said Ada restrictively. "You will find death. I can give you money-perhaps a million dollars. And that is all I am concerned with. But I see no happiness for you."
Christine listened intently, and then let her eyes lower sadly. "You will kill me when I release my formula. I sense it."
"No-you're jumping to conclusions."
Christine, still gazing at the folded hands, shook her head. "No- I can tell. But there is something I must ask of you. I hope you will not be offended."
"What-is it?"
Christine looked at Ada and smiled. "You're the most handsome woman I've even know. I've met few who honesty attracted me, although I've made love to dozens. I'd like to feel the excitement of one I really desire."
Ada's mouth dropped open. She hadn't for one moment suspected. "You are attracted-to me? You are asking me to make love to you?"
Christine turned away sharply. "I'm sorry. Please forgive my faux pas. It's not that you're masculine. If you were I couldn't bear you. It's just that I sensed something in you. And I can see I was wrong."
Ada moistened her lips, her mind leveling in on one thing-sex. She put an arm around Christine's shoulder and turned her, small face toward her. Ada smiled gently-as gently as she could. "Your intuition didn't deceive you, she said, gazing in the life behind the dark eyes "To love you would be a great honor."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Christine Lavie felt her mouth go dry. Her heartbeat increased to the tempo of her runaway imagination. From the moment she had first seen Ada, she had been irrevocably attracted to her. How handsome she was with her erect posture, her flawless skin, her penetrating blue eyes. The black SS uniform in itself was a potent symbol, but clinging to Ada's magnificent figure it became a sex object.
Christine should have been angry or lost in despair, but instead she felt the greatest surge of sexual desire she had known in her lifetime. There had been plenty of female lovers in her life, and she thanked God for that. Otherwise her sex parts would be withering from neglect. Oswald, her first husband, was totally sexless. He tried to provide her with sex, but it was useless. His wrinkled sex organ would lift its head as a water snake seeking prey, but when its prey was found, it consistently wilted.
To make the best of a ludicrous situation, Christine tried desperately to bring her aging husband back to vigorous life. She would stroke it, kiss it, and fondle it fervently. She would assume the most extraordinary positions, and stage the most bizarre bedroom games possible. But it was all for naught.
She was benighted as a child then, having just come from the convent, and his demands ran against her moral grain, but she was willing to do anything to make this masterpiece of mismatching a marriage. It wouldn't work. Nothing helped.
When total frustration threatened to destroy her sixteen-year-old mind, a village matron came to her aid. She was only a simple peasant woman, but she possessed understanding and insight. She saw in Christine something of herself, perhaps, but she knew how to solve her immediate problem. She invited her to the farmhouse for an afternoon visit, and while her boorish husband tended his sheep, the woman began to hug, soothe and caress Christine. The warmth of understanding soon turned to the breathless urgency of sex. The heavy matron undressed Christine and gave her eager body a new dimension.
At the moment, Christine's mind ordered retreat, but she was through following orders-even from her own mind. Instead, she submitted fully, allowing her hunger-wracked body to assume control. The woman's mouth was deft and devouring. She made no effort toward refinement when the physical plateau was reached. She pressed Christine's lithe limbs into a receiving nest and nosily, demandingly took what was there.
Biweekly trysts with the coarse farm woman kept Christime alive temporarily, but the time came where her restlessness caused her to escape over the mountains. She was huddling fearfully in the doorway in a small Austrian village when a portly gentleman with a huge mustache paused to eye her. He asked who she was and where she belonged.
At first his demanding manner frightened her. She styled him a public official, possibly the prefect of police. But he turned out to be a rather eccentric man of science who had a paternal instinct, and an eye for beauty. He took Christine home to his mountain sanctuary, where for a time she was happy. But later the same old prison doors clanged shut, and she was once more trapped.
She had been with this bizarre mate for a month before any sexual hints were suggested. Even then it was Christine who presented the possibility. She said she was eighteen and had strong desires for the physical aspects of marriage.
The phlegmatic scientist had become accustomed to her laboratory help, her thorough housekeeping, and her good cooking; he didn't want to loose her. With such inducements in mind, he offered her his overweight body. He wasn't quite as old as her first husband, but he was no sexual fireball.
Yet, it was through him that Christine experienced her first minimal joys of vaginal sex. He was lacking to be sure, but there was at least hope. But he too abandoned the pretense.
He once more retreated day and night into his laboratory, and Christine began to search about. There was a man, the assistant to the doctor, but the very sight of him disgusted Christine. He had a beard and was coarsely mannered. No, he would never do. Then she sought and found the other kind of love. The kind that was forbidden, but thoroughly satisfying. It came with the housekeeper's daughter, Taina.
She was perky and pretty and spent hours devouring the stacks of movie magazines left behind by the American tourists. After gaining her confidence by feigning mutual interest in the Hollywood idols, Christine touched repeatedly on the subject of sex. Soon she had the fifteen-year-old in bed, showing her the joys of homosexual love.
Taina visited Christine's room nearly every night, and at other times she made friends with several of the nurses at a nearby hospital. The readiness of most women to submit to lesbian sex surprised Christine at first, but then it became a matter of course. She supposed it was always this way.
Only once, in Paris, was Christine rejected when she made an advance toward a girl. The girl was an Australian school teacher, and was more masculine than any female lover Christine had known. But the pass infuriated the girl, and she slapped Christine. This occurred only a week before Christine's abduction in Oslo. She was less aggressive in suggesting the diversion to Ada. But now Ada was accepting her, and pleasure would soon be theirs.
She started to strip, but was arrested by the spectacle that was in progress across the room. The tall, exquisite fraulein was undressing, and Christine wanted to observe the bodily treasures as they came to view.
Ada kicked the boots aside after struggling out of them, and her tunic soon followed. When the body-clinging white shirt was unbuttoned and dropped, Ada's strong, rounded breasts bounced free. Christine was delighted. They had been without a supporting bra, and with a great shimmering bounce as they were revealed for inspection. And they were magnificent.
Large, they were, but that wasn't all. It seemed as though the distended nipples were aiming at the moon.
When Ada became aware of her audience, she struck a provocative pose, "You like what you see?"
"Magnifique!" Christine whispered in awe. "Tres magnifique!"
Ada, still smiling, unzipped her fly and stepped out of the breeches. Now she was naked but for the brief white panties. Christine felt a deep stirring at the sight of the long, strong, shapely legs. Christine had never seen anything to equal this. The thighs were perfectly proportioned. There were muscles beneath to give tone, but the muscles were hidden under the most exquisite paddings of flesh. Christine watched the panties come off, and her goddess was naked. The hair was so blonde-so appealing. This would be a night to remember. It could turn out to be her last-but it would be glorious.
"Don't you want to undress, my pretty one?" said Ada, moving closer. "Perhaps you are modest, and prefer to use the bathroom."
"No. I'm being enchanted by your beauty. I've never seen anyone with your magnificence -truly."
Ada was proud and flattered. At first she stood very straight, giving her breasts added uplift. But then a stab of withering truth destroyed her dream. "Would you like to examine the backside of your handsome lover?" she asked with a trace of bitterness.
"Yes," said Christine quietly. "I would."
"You might as well," she said, turning. "We can get it over with now."
Ada listened as she made her turn, but the usual gasp wasn't forthcoming. As she was about to make the turn back, she felt soft hands clutching around the front of her thighs. Then she felt a hot mouth against her scarred buttock flesh. The arms clung tightly, and tongue-darting-kisses bathed the tissues of past beatings. The gesture was grand, but Ada couldn't stand the embarrassment. She pictured the full, red lips kissing the ugly surface of her abused body. The picture disturbed her. She quickly turned about to make the vagrant kisses fall where she would welcome them.
As Ada, breathing heavily, looked down at her adorable young friend, she was touched by what she saw. There were tears in her eyes. Real tears-and they were for her. Ada clutched Christine's shoulders and moved her pelvis forward. She brought the face firmly against her womanhood and held it there. It was good to feel her warmth-her willing mouth.
"Come my dear," said Ada, running her fingers through Christine's disheveled hair. "We'll go to the bedroom, where you can take my gifts. There's a whole storehouse for you."
Obediently, Christine released her hold and rose to her feet from where she was kneeling. She leaned against Ada as her strong arm guided her through the large door.
Inside the bedroom, Ada unbuttoned Christine's blouse, but Christine hadn't the patience for this. In a half dozen hasty moves, she made herself naked. Christine started to fall into Ada's arms, but Ada restrained her. "No, wait," she exclaimed. "Let me look at you first." She took several steps. "Just as I imagined you would look. You have a perfect figure. As good as mine but in smaller proportion."
"You're kind," said Christine, with a wavering smile. "But you needn't flatter me. I am a mutation compared to you. "Look, she said, cupping a small, firm breast. "I'm small and puny." She smoothed a hand along her nicely rounded hips. "And my hips lack the smoothness and symmetry of yours. I was never ashamed of my figure until now."
Ada came back to her, and kissed her tenderly on the lips. Smiling tolerantly, she reached down and balanced a breast in the cradle of her hand. "I have never felt a firmer breast. You have good posture, compact and shapely legs, and this. . . ." Ada lowered her hand to find Christine's venus warmth. She pushed her hand between the thighs, capturing the pad of warmth in her palm. She gently tested it with her fingers. "This is adorable. Its foliage isn't overabundant and what there is, is as soft as kitten fur. I have always considered the term 'pussy' to be a misnomer, but not in your case."
Christine laughed musically. "I didn't know that part of the anatomy could be so different from one girl to the next. But yours is different. So blonde and fine." Now her hand matched the caresses of Ada. The two women stood before each other boldly exploring the other's most intimate flesh.
"Let's go to bed," said Ada. "I'm burning up inside."
As Ada opened the covers for Christine to crawl in, she made a sigh, then, "Didn't my scars disgust you?"
"I saw no scars," Christine murmured as she snuggled into position in the silken sheets. "I can see no imperfections in my beautiful new friend."
Ada joined her then and took her into her arms. She kissed Christine's mouth with fervor, poking her tongue tip between Christine's parched and probing lips. Their tongues met, and their warm, sex-hungered bodies pressed together. Arms held the bodies tight, and rhythmic moves made each aware of the other's sexuality.
The pads of flesh and fur met and mingled, establishing their friendship in physical terms. Christine's smaller breasts pressed against the firm strength of Ada's pendants. Bellies, each flat and lean, felt the muscles of the other. Lower, the union was more meaningful. Sex met sex, blonde and brunette showing no prejudice.
"Oh," Ada cried out, her hand gripping a taut sphere of flexing buttocks. "How wonderful you are. Wunderbar!"
Then came a flurry of movement, with Ada scurrying lower on the bed. As she made her hasty descent, her tongue tip flicked over hardened nipple and paused at the navel for a lingering moment. Ada clutched the arching hips in both hands and lowered her kiss to Christine's womanhood. As the kiss livened, Christine's trembling legs fell open.
Ada took the thighs in each hand and spread them back. They were high, they were wide. Gathering the thighs in separate arm locks, Ada made her kisses more demanding. The flesh folds seemed to be smiling as Ada paid homage. The erected protrudance pulsed with eagerness, but soon was fed. Ada's tongue taunted it. Soon her face settled in, and the rhythmic movements began in earnest.
Christine was already weeping with joy. She clung to Ada's head with both hands. Her small hips churned up and down, rising-falling. The quaking hips rolled right, left, lifting against the magic kisses. Christine was free of all thought as the intense pleasure devoured her soul. "Oh, oh, oh!" she cried, her hips accenting each clipped sigh. Up, up, up her body went, and then-glory.
She lurched and trembled as her joy was completed. She boldly gave all of herself to the German: her sex, her soul, her life. It was all Ada's now, given with gratitude and pleasure. The hip contortions subsided, but Ada's mouth kept moving. Each morsel of Christine's love was wanted-demanded. In broad, encompassing mouth strokes the love chapter ended.
This had always been pleasurable for Christine, but had never been this grand. When it was over, she felt a deep narcotic sleep sweeping over her. Could drugs produce such pleasure? Christine thought no. Nothing could. This was the epitome, the zenith of earthly joy. Her seated body trembled in after-shock. To steady her quaking limbs, Ada held Christine closely. She kissed her mouth gently, fully. Her mouth was wet, gloriously wet.
"Was it good, precious one?" Ada whispered.
"So very wonderful," she gasped. "I want to take you. I must. . . ."
"No-not yet," Ada insisted. "First have your ecstasy. We have a whole night ahead of us."
Christine was grateful for this. She did want these moments. They were so very pleasant and fulfilling. She drew Ada very close, savoring the feel of her smooth, womanly warmth. It would be a perfect night.
CHAPTER NINE
Matt was puzzled at first, and then suspicious. It was the lovely young girl he found himself continually encountering. He originally noticed her on the first day of his adventure in the flat with Guthrie. He was at the corner grocer's picking up some breakfast items, and she entered the store. She appeared to be seeking someone, and upon seeing him, she seemed startled. It was almost as if he were the object of her search.
The next meeting occurred on the second night when he was entering the pub to check on the German. At first Matt marked it off as mere coincidence, supposing the girl lived somewhere in the area. But it didn't seem reasonable. This area of the city was obviously of a lower socio-economic level than that of the girl. She wore expensive, rather modish clothes, and didn't act familiar with the surroundings.
The third meeting caused even greater concern. He saw her on that occasion, but she didn't see him. When she entered a side street, Matt followed. He saw her get into a red Fiat Spyder and buzz off into the night.
Was she an agent? He discounted this possibility at once. She was much too obtrusive and flamboyant. She certainly wasn't typical material for such assignments, at any rate. But then times had changed, hadn't they?
He went to Guthrie with the story, but Guthrie wrote it off. He said the girl was probably having a lark with some truck driver or something. He philosophized that with the emasculation of the average London male, she had to travel afield for virile companionship. Matt admitted the possibility, and dropped the subject.
Matt wasn't satisfied, however. Guthrie's light treatment of this matter disturbed him, but so did his behavior in general. Rollo was out of the flat too often to please Matt, and seemed to be withholding too much information.
While Matt risked his life to establish rapport with the dangerous German, Guthrie seemed occupied by matters outside the basic operation. Twice Matt asked Guthrie where he went during the evening, and received no valid explanation. The second time he questioned him, Guthrie grinned and implied that he was having a final fling with a very special friend.
This angered Matt. Because, if it were true, Guthrie was doing what Matt had been warned not to do. Matt could still be enjoying Carey's bed if Guthrie hadn't insisted that he sever all previous relationships. In answer to Matt's anger, Guthrie asked him to simply trust him. He said he knew what he was doing.
Matt didn't persevere, but his confidence was rapidly fading. His intuition ordered him to withdraw at once. He should have relied on memory and instinct in regard to Guthrie. But it wasn't that simple. For one thing, his intrinsic curiosity would demand a denouement to this bizarre happening, but secondly-if there were indeed a chance to nail Bormann-he would have to take it.
With his doubts firmly established, Matt went to the boxes of belongings to uncover a trusted companion, his souvenir luger. As he rummaged through the material, he remembered. Once there had been evidence of a prowler at Carey's apartment, and he had loaned her the weapon. He even recalled where she had kept it, on the high shelf above the kitchen sink. Well, he would have to get it, and there was no better time than the present.
Fritz Heintz always isolated himself in his rooms between the hours of eight and ten. It was during these hours, obviously, that he was ordered to stand at the radio. Almost every message taped by Guthrie's man had been transmitted during that time. It was only seven now, so Matt had at least three hours to himself. He hadn't seen Guthrie since early afternoon, but left no message for him. If Guthrie could come and go as he pleased-so could Matt.
Matt took a cab to the center of London. The chances were remote that Carey would be home. When she was employed, she seldom returned to the apartment before nine, at the earliest. He was certain he would let himself in, secure the luger, and leave without his visit being known. That was his plan.
The gun wouldn't be needed for Fritz-there were quieter methods of liquidation. He simply wanted a weapon nearby. He didn't want to be put in an embarrassing situation by Guthrie's mysterious shenanigans. He had no reason to consider Guthrie a personal menace; he would never be that foolish. But who could tell what fringe activities the character was involved in.
Matt paid the cabbie and entered the downstairs hallway. After climbing the stairs, he listened in front of Carey's apartment. All seemed quiet; no light was showing beneath the door. He quietly used his key and let himself into the silent rooms. Just as he eased the door shut, he realized the rooms weren't absolutely silent after all. There were definite sounds coming from the back bedroom.
Matt took care not to be heard. He secured the door and stepped softly through the kitchen. To see into the bedroom would be easy because of the windows. Between the kitchen and the bedroom was the row of windows covered half way up with adhesive shelf paper. Carey had chosen the checkered material to give the bedroom at least a semblance of privacy.
He almost stumbled over a chair, but grabbed it just in time. By then the softly murmured conversation was becoming audible.
"But we shouldn't be here," Carey was protesting. "You said you were my friend."
Matt continued his move to the windows and stretched to peer through the upper panes. In the light from the sign above a distant building, he could see Carey lying on the disarranged bed. A man had her pinned there and was busily kissing about her neck.
"I want to be a better friend," mumbled the man between the kisses. "After all, you like a good time as well as the next girl."
"Don't," she moaned, resisting and snuggling at the same time. "I'm too plastered and sleepy. Please-uh-don't."
The protest was of the token variety and Matt knew it. Otherwise he'd have interceded. As it was, he could wait. It might be very interesting to see what kind of girl he had been associated with.
"A pretty girl like you-shouldn't be without-a lover," said the man. Matt saw a hand in the lights as it covered Carey's breast. She seemed to be wearing only pants and bra. The hand pressed and squeezed as the kiss on her mouth made an indistinct silhouette. The swath of light was only capturing the hand and the breast at the moment. Matt saw Carey's hand feebly attempt to pry the hand away, but the effort was minimal. The man shifted his weight to make a firmer body-to-body contact. Before Matt's eyes he was watching his former girl friend submit herself to seduction. He couldn't justify interference. He was the uninvited member of the threesome.
The kiss broke finally, and she let out a gush of air. Now her hands pressed back the man's body to gain respite. "Whew!" she moaned. "Easy-eh? You're making me sexy. And that silly moustache-it tickles."
The male figure moved back, and in the very dim light, Matt saw a flurry of movement. A garment flew past the light. The bastard was getting undressed. Carey? She simply lay there, waiting. She lifted a knee, and her glorious leg could be seen in the light as it swayed back and forth.
"Whatya think you're doing?" she inquired sleepily.
The man failed to reply, but Matt could swear that he heard his heavy breathing. He was hurrying with his undressing, but Carey was giving him plenty of time.
"I don't think I want to screw you," she said. "I've always been a one-man girl. I pretend to be a swinger, but I'm not really. Anyway-I'm drunk. Too drunk to be any good."
She started to lift from the bed, but a hand gently restrained her. "It will be fine," he whispered soothingly. "Just wait and see."
"I hate moustaches," she argued.
He was over her this time, and he was without clothing. Matt saw him center his eager body over Carey's, but this time her arms went around his neck. The kiss was meaningful, and his body began to move up, down, from side to side. His hands were all over her, probing feverishly.
"Here," he whispered. "Off with this."
He was fumbling behind her back at the bra catch, and Carey cooperated fully. "Are you sure-he said he was-bored with me?" she asked in a whimpering voice.
"Yes-he told me to be his guest." The bra was off, and Matt caught a glimpse of her shimmering breasts in an instant of light. "He said you were good-very good."
Matt was puzzled now. He was caught up in the action, so the words had hardly registered. But as he saw the man tap Carey's bottom to make it lift, it all started to fall into place. Carey's panties were being yanked down from her rounded hips.
"The bastard!" she cried, naked and ready. She clutched her lover and her legs opened. He snuggled between them and the embrace strengthened. As the man felt below to make way for sex, Carey lent a helping hand. "Put it in," she cried. "I'll prove Matt was right. I'll show you the best piece of ass in London. And-when we finish that, I'll do other things to prove my talent. Then you can tell Matt all about it. You can brag about your conquests.
The two of you can compare notes. Oh-yes, yes, yes. More, more, more. . . ."
Already the bodies were thrashing together in deep sexual strokes. Carey's knees lifted and she hooked her ankles about her lover's slim hips. She arched her lithe hips very high, clutching his buttocks in her frantic hands.
Matt sighed. He reached up for the luger on the high shelf and went around to the hallway that led to the bedroom. The door was open, so all he had to do was switch on the light. He did it, and the thrashing bodies stopped in mid-stroke. The frozen forms were almost comical, but Matt wasn't laughing.
"Hi, Carey," Matt said quietly. "I came back for this."
Roland Guthrie let out a gasp and practically flew out of Carey's embrace. He cringed against an outside window, whimpering in panic. His eyes came to focus on the blue steel luger, and he was like a cornered, doomed animal.
"You wouldn't. Matt, please. I beg of you!"
Carey had drawn a fist to her mouth upon the burst of light, and remained that way. She wasn't eyeing the weapon. She was studying Matt's face.
"I heard what that sniveling slob said to you," Matt said to Carey. "It wasn't true. I'd never do a thing like that and you should know it."
"But he said. . . ."
Matt nodded. "All you needed was an excuse, wasn't it? As long as you can justify it, it's all okay. Well-hope you two will be very happy. You deserve each other."
Matt turned to leave, but Guthrie scurried after him. He ran to Matt naked, and clutched at his sleeve. "Look, old boy," he pleaded with a bit more composure. "You can't hold this against me." Matt glared into his eyes. "I mean, after all, you did say you were through with her. I mean. . . ."
Matt put the gun in his inside pocket, and in a swift move spun Guthrie around and twisted his arm up behind his back. He marched him bedside where Carey was huddling. "Okay, you slimy bastard-tell her why I moved out. . . ."
"But Matt-ow-oh, please-you're breaking my arm."
"I said-tell her."
"It will spoil our plan. How can I tell her?" Guthrie was half bent over resisting the muscular stress. "He-didn't turn you over to me, Carey," he finally said, his voice thick with pain. "We're working on a project. I told him to move away. It was-my idea."
Matt released him, and Guthrie fell to the floor.
Carey's eyes were wet with tears. She extended a hand, but Matt wasn't having any. "I-believed him," she cried. "Oh, Matt-Matt, darling. . . ."
Matt drew in a heavy breath of air and turned around. He left the room and the apartment. Carey called after him, but he ignored her cries. When he was halfway down the stairs, he heard her leave the apartment and follow him.
"Please, Matt-wait. Don't leave me with him. I love you, Matt. I'm crazy about you." Matt didn't hurry his stride, but he didn't pause either. She clutched his arm and sobbed as they reached the front door. Matt burst out into the street and paused finally. "You'd better get back inside," he said coldly. "You don't want to get yourself arrested."
"I don't care," she cried. "I would never go with another man-not if. . . ."
Matt studied the abject "form standing naked on the sidewalk before him, and in a panoramic glance, saw at least a dozen people converging on them. It was early evening and the streets were crowded. A car squealed to a stop; a catcall came from a passing cab.
Before a bobby was included in the curious throng, Matt yanked her back inside the doorway. "Get back upstairs, do you hear? Don't be a worse tramp than you already are."
She seemed to come to her senses then, and made a feeble attempt to cover herself. Despite the urgency of the drama, Matt let his mind speculate on this peculiarity about women. Why, when they were totally naked, did they reflex-ively try to hide only their breasts? Her triangle of pubic hair was in clear view, but the breasts were safe.
Carey turned then and rushed up the stairs. Matt lingered long enough to capture the picture of her round buttocks as they rhythmically shifted in her stride.
When she was lost from view, Matt left the doorway, and had to fight his way through a group of young men whistling and calling from the sidewalk. As they started to present a physical challenge, a small red car pulled to the curb. He looked that way and immediately recognized the driver. It was the ubiquitous doll that had been around every corner for nearly a week.
"Get in," she said gaily.
Without hesitation Matt complied.
CHAPTER TEN
The girl drove the car deftly through the London traffic, but made no conversational overtures. Matt fumed over the events in Carey's apartment for a time, but soon his thoughts became more local. Who was this gorgeous young girl? What did she want of him?
He glanced at her intermittently, until she finally caught him looking. She smiled, showing a deep dimple in her right cheek. "Shall we have music?" she asked rhetorically.
She was already dialing the dashboard radio and stopped at the raucous sound of rock music. She returned her attention to the traffic, but her naked knee swayed to the upbeat music. She was truly a lovely girl, and voluptuous.
Matt gave his head a weary nod and settled back in the bucket seat. She seemed to be headed for the section of the city where their paths had crossed before, but this was no surprise. Matt had no illusion that their meeting had been coincidental. Not this time, nor before. The challenge now was to outwait her.
When they reached the proper street, she made no pretenses.
She made a U-turn and pulled to a stop at the curb in front of the flat.
"Got a drink in there?" she said, switching off the engine and dropping her keys into her purse.
Matt studied her a moment, and his mood was solemn. But she didn't falter under his gaze. She sat brightly in the driver's seat to await his response. A momentary impulse would take him out of the car and into the flat without comment. But this was impossible. He didn't feel up to playing word games, and didn't give a particular damn if the girl was a friend or enemy. As long as she was content to evade the issue, he could, too. "Yeah-I got a drink," he said. "Let's go."
Matt got out and led the way while she scurried around the car to catch him. When they were inside the rooms, Matt went to the kitchen. He returned to the living room with a half-full bottle of Beefeaters and two tumblers. His guest sat on the couch with her legs gracefully crossed. Her thighs, shapely, well-developed, were nicely exposed below her white and gold miniskirt. He could see the edge of white panties along the hem of the skirt. He placed the drinking equipment on the wobbly coffee table and poured two half glasses of the gin. He took one of the drinks and sat down beside her. She had to lean over to gain possession of her own drink, but she didn't seem insulted. "No mix?" she asked sweetly.
He shook his head. "Nope-take it or leave it."
She took a reinforcing breath that made her breasts rise and fall under the knitted dress, and brought the glass to her lips. With a premature grimace she took a sizable gulp. The liquid went down and she seemed surprised. "Hey-that isn't bad. I thought it would gag me."
"It's good gin," he replied, clutching his tumbler with both hands. He was staring at the gin. His flame of curiosity was fanned to the point of ditching his pledge of silence, but he couldn't be too obvious about it. Then he devised a means of drawing her out. "When I bring a bird to my rooms, I never fail to score. How does that grab you?"
She giggled slightly and took a second sip. As it went down, she said, "with your looks, I bet you score with inordinate frequency."
No-this girl was not from this end of town. She spoke with a cultured accent, and was damn bright. "Can't complain," he said. "You're quite a woman, know that? Mini-clothes make sense with what you've got."
Her smile was disarming, and as suspicious as Matt had learned to be, he could sense no danger from this source. She accepted this comment with a happy nod and finished her drink. She immediately poured another one and looked at his glass.
"Am I drinking alone?" she asked.
Matt gulped down the gin and let her pour another long shot before lifting his hand to halt the flow. "Do you have to get stoned to go to bed with a man?" Matt inquired.
"Lord, no. I don't need pot either. All I need is a strong inclination. The rest comes naturally."
The stupid words were boring Matt. His mind leafed back to Carey's apartment and his fever rose. "All right, kid-I'll bite. What the hell inclines you toward me? I've seen you poking around all week, and I want to know why."
She lifted her brows and gave her head a nod. "You've seen me before?"
"A half dozen times, and you damn well know it."
"And I thought I was being so ruddy cool about it."
"What's your name?"
"Uh-Penny. My friends call me Penny. Uh- what's your name?"
Matt grinned. "As if you didn't know."
She faced him more seriously. "Yes-I do know your name, Matt Pyne, and I've known it for some time. But when I saw the features that went with the name, it became much more important to me. I know I seem brazen, but I could think of no passive way to get to know you. I admit I've been very much on the make. After a time these things become obsessive, I suppose."
Matt extended his grin. "I'm afraid you're counting on more ego than I've got, baby. I won't buy any of that."
"It's true," she said brightly. Her eyes were very large. Their color was a bluish gray. Her complexion was creamy; she had a small, straight nose, and full, kissable lips. The honey-colored hair was abundant and curled out at her shoulders. On this occasion a white ribbon was drawn through the hair above her forehead. "I'll explain how it all came about," she continued. "A girl friend of mine-Shirley Maro- spoke of you as being one of the most charming men she had ever met. That was a couple of years ago. At that time you had suddenly dropped out of sight-closed your photo studio. Well, as luck would have it, I was having lunch with Shirley last week, and she halted in the middle of a bite of her tuna fish sandwich. She saw you passing the tea room window. Everything she had said before was true. You were all man, and most attractive. I-followed you to your present studio."
Matt was listening, but had long since detected a lie. "I have one studio at the present time, dear."
"Well, you did last week, because I saw your name on the directory in the doorway."
"And you've been following me ever since?"
"Yes-well, many times I did. I happened along when you were moving here. That's how I knew where you were. That's why you saw me so many times."
"You're attractive, Penny. Otherwise I'd probably flatten that pug nose of yours. I'm sick of people making a fool of me."
Her face lost its passivity. Her lips parted in astonishment. "I don't understand."
"Every Goddamn word you've told me is a lie, and you know it."
"No-it's true."
"I don't know any Shirley Maro, and never did."
"Of course not. She's an aspiring model. She tried to get some work out of you, and appeared for an interview. You never called her back, and she was heartbroken."
"So you know my background, but I can't accept your yarn. When I was in the advertising rat race, you were still dreaming about your first bra. No, baby, you're a good liar, but that isn't much of a qualification."
"I have-other qualifications," she said. As she spoke, she switched her legs. In crossing them this time, she made sure that even more could be seen. "After all, I'm not trying to sell you a lifetime subscription. I'm not selling a thing in the world. It's all free, dear-absolutely free."
Matt could identify a lie, but he could also identify a sure piece of tail, and this particular tail was most inviting. With the recurrent picture of Carey and Rollo plaguing his mind, this could be exactly what he needed. "You would bed down with me-just like that?" he asked. "No strings-no conditions?"
She managed a nervous giggle. "I'll remove every string of clothing on my back-and my condition is ready. And if we do it at all, let's do it now. I don't want my senses dulled by alcohol."
Matt rose and extended his hand. Penny took it, and without further comment, Matt led her out of the living room and along the hall to his private bedroom. When they were inside, he bolted the door behind him. He didn't usually bother with such precautions, but all sorts of possibilities came to mind. Even the old badger game could result from this alliance. Either the girl had one hell of a hot fanny-or she was out to royally ream Matthew Pyne. He would play her game, but safety was a necessary factor.
She immediately wriggled out of her dress, pushing her pumps aside. Matt was careful to secure his gun beneath his sport coat draped over the top of the bureau, and faced her again as he got out of his shoes and trousers.
She made no ritual of undressing. Her femme fatale act wasn't necessary now. She simply stripped away her panty-hose, tossed them on the night stand, and then undid her bra. Without fanfare her marvelous breasts bobbled forth, and they were lovely. She was probably twice as big as Carey was there, but her size was no detriment. The twin globes were strong and uplifted. The nipples were as tiny as a twelve-year-old's, and had pink, dime-sized aureole.
Penny had a slim waist, with only the slightest protrusion of tummy. Her hips had a moderate flare and were joined with her torso gracefully. Her legs were extremely long and appeared to be products of ballet, without the advanced muscles of the professional ballerina. Her pubic fuzz was scant and the exact color of the hair on her head.
Matt did away with his final garment, and his readiness was obvious as he moved across the room toward her. Her face showed a subtle tinge of embarrassment now, and she had to straighten her shoulders to overcome it. Matt appreciated this. It showed she wasn't totally crude. Obviously her moment of truth carried with it at least a modicum of guilt. But then why shouldn't it? They hadn't known each other's names five minutes ago. At least he hadn't known hers. He met her, and permitted a minimal smile as he took her arms in his hands. "Sure you want to go through with this?" he asked gently.
She moistened her lips, and he pressed her closer and she seemed to retreat momentarily from the hard touch of his lower body. "Uh- of course. Did you expect me to change my mind?"
"I don't know what the hell I expect," said Matt, grinding his body against her soft warmth.
His mouth met her lips, and she relaxed. Her embarrassment melted from the devouring kiss. Her hands clasped him closer, her groin meeting his with growing demand. He introduced a subtle tongue tip, and she all but stole it from him. She sucked it, nipped at it, and sent her own flitting tongue deep into his mouth. She made a deep, growling noise as her passions lifted. Matt eased her down on the bed without disturbing their frantic embrace.
"Want me to use anything?" he whispered into her ear with a kiss.
She gave her head a violent negative shake and clutched his body boldly. She squeezed and stroked him and settled into readiness on her back. Again moans and gurgles emitted from her throat, and she thrashed her head from side to side. Matt hadn't believed her fantastic story, but he did know she was one hell of a sex package. In his mental file of past lovers very few came to life this strongly, this fast. Carey was ever-ready, but foreplay was often required to bring her to top speed. Even Rachel-but that was where he stopped. This was no time for reminiscing. His guts were aching, and things had to be done. His mind dismissed all thought, negative or positive, as he introduced himself to his fantastic new friend in the most intimate possible way.
When she felt him take her, she gnashed her teeth and pounded his back. Her body went into a seizure of movement and twice he was required to start again. During those brief absences her body tremored in electric spasms, as though she were going through extreme shock. But soon a cadence was established-fast, but even-and Matt assumed control.
Periodically the tempo was disturbed by her undisciplined body, but that only heightened the joys of the subsequent rhythm. When their peak was approaching she made the strongest animal sounds Matt had ever heard. Her legs were high around him, her knees almost drawn even with her shoulders. She wanted every millimeter of his offering, and demanded it. Then climax!
"Ah, ah, ah, ah!" she cried, her nails digging deeply into his buttock flesh. With each frenzied cry her body jutted against him, taking greedily every measure of his life. They held that way for extended moments, until she finally let herself relax and slump into exhaustion. "Ohhhh," she sighed. "Oh, my Lord."
They lay still-letting their pleasure steep. Matt couldn't believe the rapidity of her heartbeat. He felt it pounding through her breasts and into his chest. His heartbeat was just as rapid, but hers outdid his. Several days of sexual fasting had passed for Matt, but this more than made up for it.
When all the pleasure was wracked from their spent bodies, Matt fell aside. She shifted with him, holding the merger possessively intact. She kissed him warmly on the mouth.
"Oh, Lord," she sighed. "You are the ultimate-out of sight. Thank God I seduced you."
"That's right," said Matt happily. "You did seduce me, didn't you?"
"You consider me a tramp, I suppose."
"I consider you one hell of a woman. Let's let it go at that."
"If my school pals could only see me now," she said with a groaning sigh, trying to hold him even closer.
"School pals?" Matt murmured, kissing her cheek.
"Uh huh. They think it's hot ticket to get kissed by an Oxford freshman. If he gets his hand inside her panties, the dreary darling giggles about it for months. What surprises they have in store."
"You're talking like a virgin, but I know you're not."
"No-but it was nothing like this." She was animated again and lifted to an elbow. Her behavior was strictly ingenuous now, and Matt was becoming concerned. "I let this American soldier make out with me last Christmas vacation. He taught me American slang, gave me some good records, and showed me how to screw. But now I can see what a child he really was. I thought it was as daring as could be, and maybe it was, but the sex part of it was positively mediocre. Thank you, Matthew Pyne." She kissed his eyes one by one. "Thanks for making a woman out o'f me."
"Hold it, hold it." He lifted to look into her eyes on common level. "What's all this anyway? Just how old are you, dear?"
"Don't worry," she reassured. "I'm over eighteen-by two months now. Everything we did was nice and legal."
"I'd never have guessed," he said. "I'd have sworn you were at least twenty."
"I try to act older," she confessed. "Try to look older too."
Now, in the light from the bed lamp, she showed her age. Her hair was disheveled, her lips were devoid of rouge, and her cheeks were rosy from his whiskers. She looked like a lovely child. Matt didn't quite know how to react. Who the hell was he to suddenly turn moral.
"You look troubled," she said with obvious concern. "Wasn't I any good?"
Matt sighed and looked about for a cigarette. There was none in sight. "You were good all right-too damn good." He lay back down and took her arms to hold her image above him. Her hair fell over the sides of her face, casting her features in soft shadows. She was a glowing beauty-a real sex bunny. "I'm not sure the corruption session is over either."
"That's simply delightful," she said, plopping down and hugging him. "I have all night. As long as you want me. I've taken my pills with regularity, and I'm ready for anything."
"How about your parents?" he said, running a palm over her incredibly smooth backside. "Won't they wonder where you are?"
"No," she said, toying with his slowly rejuvenating manhood. "They think I'm at school. I attend a boarding school, you see."
"Out of the city?"
"Mm hmm. I should be in college, but I missed a year of school when we lived in Russia."
"You lived in Russia? How come?"
"Daddy was with the diplomatic office there. I was only ten at the time."
Matt's hand was hung up on the soft glories of Penny's buttocks, but he forced his attention to the conversation. "Tell me the truth, Penny," he said, removing her hand from his body. He wasn't quite ready for where she was leading. "Why have you been tailing me? No lies now-the truth."
She rested her head on his chest, and for another moment she remained there, very still. Then she lifted again to her elbow to face Matt. "I-can't tell you," she said sadly. "But I pose no threat in any way. I swear it."
"That stuff about Whoosis Maro-that was all rubbish, wasn't it?"
She laughed. "Shirley's my roommate at school. I drew her name out of the air. Yes, Matt, I lied about that. But I didn't lie about my attraction to you. If that was a lie, I wouldn't be here now. This was a very foolish thing for me to do, but I simply couldn't resist."
Matt was staving off his anger. He wanted more goddamn answers. "You say you can't tell me any more than that?"
"I wish I could, but it's-impossible. I only want to warn you that you are in extreme danger. If what I suspect is true, you. . . ." She said no more. She turned away biting her lip.
Matt liked her too well to slap her around, and that could be difficult to explain if anyone heard the commotion. If he was in danger, it would be damn nice to know what to watch out for, but it was obvious the kid wouldn't tell him. "Okay," he said, "if this danger erupts, and if I get blasted, I'll write you a nice letter. Now maybe we better cut this thing short. Let's get dressed."
"Oh, I've spoiled things, haven't I?" she said as Matt got out of bed on the other side. "I didn't want to do that. I wish I had kept my mouth shut."
"Get your things on, and blow," he said, starting to get into his clothes. "I've got things to do tonight."
She was seated on the edge of the bed as Matt dressed. She brushed the hair out of her eyes. "Can I see you-again?" she asked sadly.
"Just keep out of my way," he said angrily. "A ricocheting bullet might glance back and nail you. I'm doomed, baby-you practically told me so."
She started to speak, but sounds coming from the outside hall halted her. They both paused to listen. "Matt!" said a voice outside the door. A loud pounding accompanied the shout. "Matt, are you in there, old boy?"
Matt let out a gush of air and scratched his head. It was Guthrie. He glanced at Penny, and was held by her reaction to the intrusion. She seemed frightened to death. "Please," she whispered, gesturing. "Don't let him see me."
When Guthrie knocked a second time, Matt called out at the door. "What the hell do you want? Get yourself lost somewhere."
"Look, I've got to speak to you. It's important."
"I don't feel like it, Guthrie," Matt yelled back. "I still feel too much like breaking your goddamn neck."
"Let's not let this interfere with our plans," Guthrie pleaded from outside. "It was stupid of me, but some things are too important to be swayed by personal feelings. We have a big job to do."
"I'm not going to discuss it tonight," Matt said with finality. "And if you're wise, you'll get the hell out of here. I want to do some thinking tonight."
"Well all right, Matt-all right, he said after a pause. "By the way, old boy, the girl really loves you, you know. She begged me to tell her where you were."
"Well, don't!" Matt yelled.
Guthrie lingered outside a minute, and then could be heard walking away from the door along the uncarpeted hallway. The outside door opened, and closed. Matt was once more alone with Penny, who was now busy dressing.
"Why did you panic?" Matt asked her suspiciously.
"He's in Parliament, isn't he? I think he might know my family. It seemed terribly risky."
"What's your last name?" Matt insisted, buttoning his shirt. "Just who is your father anyway?"
Penny wriggled into her skirt, and paused to look at Matt. "I'm sorry," she said in abject apology. "Really I am. But I simply can't tell you."
"Okay," he said quietly. "Get that hot ass of yours the hell out of here then. And baby-don't come back."
Penny was sniffling as she finished dressing, and excused herself to go down the hall to the bathroom. She was out in no more than a minute, with her hair combed and lipstick applied. She joined Matt momentarily in the living room. "Please, don't hate me," she said forlornly. "One day you'll understand." With that she was gone.
Matt poured a quick drink with her departure and gulped it down. He unconsciously paced to the front window and looked outside. His eyes focused on the red sports car, and in a moment saw Penny get into it and slide behind the wheel. She pulled into the traffic, but just as she started out of the range of his vision, the car squealed to a stop. Matt craned around the corner in time to see a male figure jump into the car beside her. After a brief animated verbal exchange, Penny shifted gears and drove away. The passenger remained in the car. As hard as Matt tried, he couldn't include the man in his view. A lamp post impaired his direct vision. Something was damn well up, and he'd better move fast.
It was time for Fritz Heintz to make his nocturnal visit to the pub, but Matt wouldn't be joining him. He was going to the German's apartment to assume control. This was the night.
Matt drew his coat high around his neck and stood in a neutral doorway until he saw Fritz start down the street from his apartment. When all was clear, Matt let himself into the German's apartment. He went into the closet and started going over every paper in sight. He found a hidden book with names, then found the listing of addresses with encircled numbers in front of them. He guessed the numbers identified various cities. If Fritz were smart he would reveal all such details, but that would remain to be seen.
When Fritz finally returned, Matt was there to greet him, with his luger drawn and ready. Fritz's smile of recognition soon faded.
"I'm with British Intelligence," Matt lied. "This is an arrest."
Then things happened fast. Fritz reached into his pocket and flashed a tiny automatic. When it came out, Matt fired point blank. His aim was deadly, and the noise was piercing. The tall German fell forward in a heap, and Matt knew he was dead.
In anger at his own stupidity, Matt ran to the door to listen. He held his pose for several minutes, but the shot seemed to have passed without detection. At least that was a break. But what about the corpse that was bleeding all over the damned rug. He had really bungled things this time.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was a memorable night for Ada and Christine Lavie. Ada had never known a lover with whom she could feel so close. The brief encounter was totally successful; the warm rapport was incredible. Perhaps it was evidence for the claims made for the French. They were, indeed, the world's great lovers.
After their initial sex excursion, Ada introduced Christine to the leather, and later still- the dildo. Christine played the male with the device strapped to her hips, and performed the pleasurable task with incredible dexterity. Ada managed four explosive climaxes before her aching body demanded respite. But she wouldn't deny her lovely friend her own treasured joys. After more champagne and a midnight snack, Ada harnessed her own figure for action.
Christine had been sadly neglected by men in her past, so Ada was determined to make up for it. She started out gently, but finally built up to a furious crescendo. She bombed her female lover with every joy the leather and rubber could supply. Christine dug her fingers into Ada's back to receive everything offered and climaxed amid shrieks of delight. Then the apparatus was put away, and the lovers retreated to the spacious bathroom.
As Ada ran the water, a knock sounded at the outside door. Angrily she strode across the room nude and opened the door only a crack. It was Rosch. "How dare you interrupt me?" she demanded.
"It is important, my leader," he said, entering the room.
Christine was also naked and covered herself in response to the doctor's obvious interest. He whispered to Ada, "We must send the second message. Have you gained the formula yet?"
"In good time," she said. "I'll call you when I have it. And never interrupt me again. Is that understood?"
"Of course," he said with a courteous bow. "I beg my leader's forgiveness. But we are both subject to orders. Herr Bormann knows we have captured the Frenchwoman, and now he expects his signal to proceed with the second phase of the plan."
Ada sighed contemplatively and let herself into the outside hall. When they were alone she smiled. "The little dove is eating out of my hand, and we are assured of success. I believe you can send the message. Tell them to proceed at once. The plan can start on schedule."
"Good," said Rosch. "Herr Bormann will be proud of his new commandant." He clicked his heels and departed.
Ada returned happily to the bathroom, where the mammoth tub was filled with sudsy water. Christine was just turning off the taps. "Fine," said Ada. "Now for a wonderful, relaxing bath."
Christine got into the tub and let herself be seated. Ada followed. They laughed during the relaxing event, with each taking turns washing each other's body. They scrubbed with short wash cloths, leaving no bodily feature unexplored. "I can't recall having had so much fun," said Christine. "It's been a glorious night. I wish I could find a man with the attributes of that leather contraption."
"There are men," said Ada. "And you shall have many. We have more than forty healthy children living in the dormitories here on the grounds. Among them are at least ten excellent studs. I should know-I've tried them all."
"I shall look forward to it," said Christine scrubbing her cheeks to a glow.
"Then you will stay?" said Ada. "We can have marvelous times together; really we can. Once we have the project under way, we can travel the world as adventure seeking lovers. We can explore far off places together. And with every luxury known to man."
Christine sobered. "Project? What is this project?"
"It is of no consequence to you. I won't let you trouble yourself with such details. All you need do is provide me with your formula, and we will do the rest."
Christine shook her head, first slowly, and then with greater emphasis. "No, my dear Ada. I love you, but I could never turn the formula over to the Nazis. It is against my intrinsic nature."
Ada very nearly collapsed. It wasn't so much the message itself, but the conviction behind it that frightened her. "Wait-why do you say this? You are so emphatic."
"Of course I am. I would die first. You must understand that."
"But I don't."
"Well, any person with any moral values doesn't assist a political party that very nearly destroyed the world. A party that exterminated millions of innocent people."
"But you said you hold no allegiances. You were bartering with East and West. I don't understand this. Not at all."
"I didn't include the Nazi party in my plans. I hate America because I hate every American I ever met. I hate the Russians because of my second mate. Still other heads of state have approached me for my secret, and I hold no allegiances to any of them. But I didn't knowingly negotiate with Nazis, not ever. I neither sought them, nor was told I would be meeting with them in Oslo."
"You must have known who you were meeting."
"No. The arrangements had been forwarded to me by my Swiss representative. There have been so many countries seeking my chemical that I simply responded. I never dreamt my air trip to Oslo would result in this-kidnapping by the Nazis."
Ada's breath came in gasps; her heart seemed to be pounding with irregularity. What was this? Was she hearing correctly? "But you whispered your love to me. We had wonderful fulfilling sex together. I trusted you."
"And you can trust me. I regard you as an individual, Ada. I've never felt so overwhelmed by another person in my life. But that doesn't mean I would condone your political beliefs. No -never. I'm sorry if I misled you."
"You-you . . ." Ada knelt on the tub's surface and leaned over to pull Christine closer. She clutched Christine's arms as tight as her strong hands could hold her. "You will do as I tell you; do you understand? If you don't cooperate there are other means. We must have your formula, and have it at once. This is no game, Christine. You must believe me."
Christine offered no resistance. She only grimaced at the pain of Ada's hand. "I am prepared to die," she said. "But let us part friends, Ada-please."
"No!" Ada shook her head violently. "You can't do this to me. You can't! Do you know who I am-do you?"
Christine closed her eyes and refused to respond.
"I am the daughter of Eva Braum. I am Adolph Hitler's child. I am preordained to lead the world into the greatest age of history- the Fourth Reich!"
Christine accepted the mauling stoically, without reaction, but this information widened her eyes. "You-you're what?"
"It's true-soon the entire world will know it."
Hatred closed over Christine and possessed her. She pulled out of Ada's grasp with amazing strength and crawled out of the tub. Ada sloshed out of the water in chase, and caught Christine when she reached the bedroom carpeting. She pinned Christine on the floor and looked down into her face. "Please," she begged, out of breath. "Don't make me hurt you. I didn't want it this way. I do love you, Christine- truly. I do. But if you do this to me. I must achieve my goal in other ways-painful ways."
"I'm well aware of the Nazi methods," said Christine bitterly.
"It's propaganda. Our story has been magnified all out of proportion."
"Do you really believe that?"
Ada rose, allowing Christine momentary freedom. She paced a few steps and turned. "No ruling power has ever been as despicable as historians make them. Certainly not the Nazis. Our history has been viewed by alien eyes. Our side of the story is quite different."
Christine rose wearily, and sat on the dressing table bench. "It's all true," said Christine, "and I should know. You see, my father died at Buchenwald. My mother was shot in the streets. I-well, as I said-I was brought up in a convent. But I heard all about the Nazis' murders, and know it is true."
"But why?" Ada pleaded, coming nearer. As she moved forward, Christine reached behind her, where she knew there was a pair of scissors. "Why was your family punished?"
"A very good reason," said Christine coldly, "My father was a Jew."
"You-a JEW!"
"Half of me is Jewish-yes."
"And you let me-I'll kill you!"
Ada rushed Christine, but by the time she was upon her, Christine had the scissors poised. As Ada reached her hands about Christine's throat. Christine buried the blades in Ada's back. "I can't let you live," cried Christine. Ada slumped to her "knees-her eyes wide with pain and astonishment.
"I must rid the world of all Hitler's."
Christine fell to her knees to drive the scissors into Ada's breast, but arms clutched her body. A blow struck her cheek and she fell unconscious.
It was Rosch. Ada saw him enter. She lifted to her knees and stared at Christine's quiet form on the carpet. The doctor stood above her with the silver candlestick holder still in his hand.
"She stabbed me!" Ada cried. "I'm going to die!"
The doctor knelt to examine her shoulder, and shook his head. "It's a nasty cut, but far from fatal, my leader. I'll get my bag and patch you up."
"No," said Ada, her voice laced with hatred. "First, see that this Jew swine is locked in the dungeon. I have failed, Herr Doctor. You may now take over."
A wry smile appeared. "With pleasure, my leader. You will find my methods extremely effective."
"Did you send the message?" she asked, trying to rise to her feet.
"Yes, my leader-at your order."
"I was so sure-so very sure of her."
"You are young to the ways of politics," he said with obvious condescension. "You still require guidance, my leader. At least for a time. Do you not agree?"
She nodded in defeat. "Perhaps you are right. I will rely on you more heavily in the future. But Hans? Are you sure you can succeed with Christine?"
"Please trust me- you will see."
Rosch lifted Christine's unconscious body into his arms and carried her from the room. "Lie on your stomach to stop the bleeding," he said in leaving. "I shall return momentarily."
Ada lay on the bed, and somehow the pain no longer mattered. She had suffered far greater wounds in the past. What she was feeling now was defeat, and this was the most difficult pain of all for her to absorb. She had been so confident, so foolishly arrogant in her new power. And that Jew pig Christine! How could she let her do this to her? She gave the woman her love-her trust. Now she was being repaid for her kindness.
If the plan went awry, Ada would be held responsible, and that ambitious swine Rosch would hesitate not a moment to point his accusing finger into Ada's face. Now she was trapped in his web. First it was the baron, and now Rosch. What could be the answer? Where could it possibly lead?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Matt didn't have time to worry about disposing of Fritz. He had barely submitted the problem to contemplation when the radio signal came.
He nervously affixed the head set and answered the call, using the signals he had learned from the replayed tapes. Then the cryptic message followed: "All is secure here in the fog, and we invite you to join us soon for the biggest play of the decade. If you can come, meet Hagstrom at eight. Pass the message along to the other friends. Please reply negative or affirmative." That was the extent of the communication.
Matt breathed a sigh of relief as he gave the affirmative reply. He was thankful so little was demanded of him. Afterward he attempted to decipher the meaning of the communique. It proved to be a surprisingly easy chore.
The name Hagstrom was obviously Scandinavian, and Fritz's book showed different street addresses. He chose the one numbered eight since the street number was accented in the radio message, and since the street had a Scandinavian sounding name. He called the London Times to ask the librarian if Oslo had such a street. It did. So Matt would report there at once and take his chances.
The other problem was more complicated. He was asked to pass along the message. But to whom, and how? It was important too, because they would soon discover the broken communication chain. It would be much simpler if he knew Guthrie's radio had intercepted, but he didn't. That was one of many things Guthrie had chosen to keep from Matt.
After an hour of searching Fritz's belongings, Matt proceeded by his wits. It was obvious this radio wouldn't be used to call South America, so he would be expected to relay the message to a nearer point. Cairo was a good bet. In a dog-eared list that turned up between the pages of a radio manual, Matt found circled numbers with radio call signals beside them. If number eight stood for Oslo, then what number represented Cairo? This was simple once his mind would accept it. He had simply to call federal communications to determine the call signals of various cities of the world. He would use the process of elimination.
He asked for the cities of five call signals and marked them down. The sixth one was Cairo. Now the remainder of his plan was set as well. He could raise Cairo, feign radio difficulty after passing the message, and ask Cairo to carry the message to successive stations.
Only moments were needed to bring in the German voice from the Egyptian station, and Matt relayed the Fog Island report verbatim. Afterward he included the mention of his mechanical problem, and asked that Cairo carry the message forward. All of it was done conversationally, and he was sure his voice and accent had fooled them.
With this accomplished, Matt called for a reservation on the next plane to Oslo, and attended to a few last minute details before departing. First, he packed Fritz's suitcase with his belongings, then placed all records and files in a large brown envelope. He found sufficient postage stamps in the apartment and addressed everything to his lawyer's office. In an accompanying note he told his legal representative to open the envelope in the event of the CIA. Matt could trust his lawyer, and within two weeks of the affixed date. Inside the brown envelope were instructions to forward most of the material to the London office of the CIA. Matt could trust his lawyer, and didn't give a damn how this would set with Guthrie, especially if Matt were killed. Matt mailed everything on his way to the airport.
Matt was amazed at his own foresight, but before he left the Guthrie flat, he had put his still valid passport into his coat pocket. This, as it turned out, was a wise bit of doing. He was working alone from here on, and preferred to avoid contact with Guthrie. He wouldn't screw Guthrie out of his cut if the plot was successful, but he would still work alone.
By the time Matt found himself debarking from the airport limousine in the center of Oslo, there remained two or three hours of darkness. Matt's hand was quivering as he leafed through the telephone directory of the pay phone. He didn't expect to find his party listed there, but it was. The name, Gustov Hagstrom. The address matched the one in Fritz's book. Matt would call first, and play it safe.
A deep voice answered almost at once. "This is Heintz," he said, "from England."
"Who?" Hagstrom demanded in broken German. "I know of nobody by that name."
Matt's mind rushed, and he recalled a number that was missing in the list. It was the number three. "Perhaps," Matt said with a quiver in his voice, "you know me as number three."
"Ah," said the voice immediately. "Where are you now?"
Matt told him, and Hagstrom said he would pick him up within five minutes. Matt hung up and slammed his fist against his palm. He knew little more than before, and he was getting too damned old for this sort of nonsense. He was shaking like a leaf. He had lost his nerve.
For a moment, Matt considered fleeing. What he was doing was fantastically risky. Only a miracle could pull it off. Was he suicidal or something? The question calmed him. Perhaps this was true in a way. He doubted it at the moment, but what else would motivate such stupid behavior? He wasn't all that determined to settle a score with Martin Bormann. The flag-waving stuff was left far behind. He was bored, he was fed up with his wasted life, and he just didn't give a damn. That was the only answer he could find.
But this wasn't true. Now, in this moment of decision, he knew he did want to live, and by God, he would. But he had to see this crazy thing through. Hell-he might even get lucky.
Before the five minutes had passed, he saw a black Saab sedan slow on the deserted street, and swerve to a stop. Matt saw a hand flagging him forward. Hagstrom, a burly man in his fifties, sped away, sending intermittent glances in Matt's direction.
"Funny," said Hagstrom, "one gets pictures in the mind when only a voice is heard. I had pictured you as much older."
This was good news because Matt was certain he was half a dozen years older than Fritz. In reply he only smiled and nodded.
"Do you know the great one?" Hagstrom ventured. "I was told you had been in South America."
"I-uh-met him only once," said Matt. He hoped that was a good answer.
"Wish I could go with you for the rendezvous."
"You-aren't going?"
"No-but you know who is reporting-being field grade, you must know."
But he didn't know. Matt had no idea what the man was talking about, "My-uh-mind is muddled. Perhaps I'm nervous now that the long-awaited day is here."
"Ja," said Hagstrom in a friendly voice. "We all are."
Hagstrom explained they were heading for a remote airport where Matt, along with seven other top Nazis, would be picked up by a private aircraft. The plane would transport them to the island off the upper tip of Scotland. Matt listened and his palms were again damp with sweat. Seven Nazis-this could be it. It could mark the end before the beginning.
"I wasn't included in all the details," Matt ventured. "Will I know my flying companions?"
"Ja. Some of them have been in South America. Others in Cairo. You probably know a few of them, if not all. I only know the pilot myself. But then I am a minor member of the conspiracy."
Matt was sunk and he knew it. But then with the danger more tangible he began to relax instead of panic. It was always the unknown that posed the greatest mental anguish.
One break was clearly in Matt's favor. The field of Hagstrom's destination was cloaked in darkness. Only in the beam form the headlights could figures be detected. Then as Matt got out with his luggage, a plane was already circling overhead.
"Ah-Heintz?" said a man, running to meet them.
"Ja," said Matt. He shook the hand that felt for his own.
"You are just in time. That is our plane. Come-it is already landing." A row of flashlights suddenly marked the runway.
Within a few minutes all the men were aboard the plane, and in another minute they were airborne. That was when the interior lights came on. Matt blinked and exchanged glances with the strange faces. But soon he became aware that only a few of the passengers were acquainted. Nobody seemed worried about him, because each of them probably assumed he was known by another. Besides, the airplane was noisy. He began to wonder what would happen when Heintz's presence was missed, but he wasn't looking for conflict. Strangely, it didn't come. The plane was a vintage German bomber and the seats were along the fuselage facing each other. Nobody studied him for more than a passing moment. In the meanwhile he attempted to recognize a face or two from the group. But none belonged to Nazis he had known from photographs. One thing was certain, Martin Bormann was not aboard.
In bits of shouted conversation, Matt was greatly relieved to discover that just about everyone was as disoriented as he was. Obviously there was no general communication explaining more than individual orders. So in the confusion he seemed safe.
It was daylight by the time the trip ended, but the landing strip was socked in by fog. A waiting six-by-six truck transported the passengers to the castle. The ride took about three minutes. Matt and his chums trudged to the front doors of the massive Gothic castle, where they were greeted by a Nazi in full regalia, standing at stiff attention. He opened the door and they entered.
In the grand foyer they were greeted by a short, cruel-looking officer named Rosch. Next to him was a magnificent blonde, who was identified only as "our leader." Matt was mystified, but tried not to show it. This was made more difficult because the shapely amazon seemed to be zeroing in on him.
There was much hand shaking and hugging by the reunited officers, and the reunion grew in size as several other officers entered the foyer from the adjacent ballroom. Matt chatted cheerfully with anyone who turned his way, and was glad to find things so informal. He had Heintz's ID, but what good would that be if he encountered suspicion?
Music started to play in the ballroom, and Matt followed the sound inside. Awaiting their presence were twenty or thirty young men and women. They all looked scrubbed and healthy and seemed to be waiting for their part of the ceremonies. The small orchestra played at the end of the long room. Ada promised the gentlemen they could have their choice of partners later, but since they were tired and hungry, they could eat and bathe and sleep if they wanted. The official party would begin in the evening when everyone had "arrived. She said Doctor Rosch would assign their rooms as they registered.
Matt followed to the end of the buffet table and fell into line. After they each signed the book, Rosch gave them tags with room keys attached to them. Matt drew G17. He studied it quietly.
"Ah," said Ada, touching his hand, and looking deeply into his eyes. "The G stands for garden. That means you will occupy one of the outside cottages. It's just to the rear of the house."
"Danke," said Matt. He was hoping he wouldn't have to share it, but this seemed unlikely somehow. It seemed-there was an abundance of room in this mausoleum. But, of course, he had no idea how many were expected to arrive.
Matt filled a platter with ham and eggs and let a sweet young girl carry his plate to a long table. "Happy to serve you, sir," she said gaily. "If there is anything you wish, please ask."
"Fine," said Matt, looking her over. She wore a simple skirt cut just above the knees, and he wondered the obvious. Would she really be available for every purpose? He supposed so when he caught the twinkle in her eye, but this time he would pass. He sat down and tried to show some enthusiasm for the food.
The table was soon filled with animated breakfasters, and Matt became aware of a presence at his left. He glanced that way to see Ada staring at him with interest. "You are Herr Heintz?" she said.
Matt gulped at his fried ham, almost choking. "Ja, my leader."
"We have pictures of everyone in the gallery upstairs. I recognized you from the photographs."
"You-did?"
She nodded. "Most of the others are so old they creak. You are young and showed promise. Now I'm even more impressed. You are much handsomer than your picture."
"Uh-danke, danke," he said, still having trouble masticating the mouthful of ham. "You -ah-are far more beautiful than I expected. If you will forgive my boldness, you are a breath of pure springtime."
She nodded approvingly, and seemed deep in thought. "My rooms are in the far wing of the house, on the second floor. After you are finished, please come to me there-the last doors in the corridor. Will you come?"
"But of course, my leader," he said with a gulp.
She smiled, and her teeth were as magnificent as the rest of her. "We could talk in the downstairs office, but it is so austere. Our conversation should be far more intimate-I believe. Is that agreeable?"
"Oh yes, my leader. Your wish is my command." Then she was gone, and Matt felt faint.
The caper was taking turns that baffled him.
Who the hell was this doll they all called the leader? Matt had to find some answers. He commented on the breakfast to the middle-aged neighbor, and in the spirit of camaraderie, later mentioned the remarkable beauty of their leader.
The fat old Nazi nodded, but his derision showed by the curl of his lip. "That she is, but I still consider Herr Bormann as my leader. She is only a figurehead.
It is good psychology to have the party led by Der Fuehrer's daughter, especially at such a momentous time. It will give greater meaning to our world movement."
"Ja," Matt agreed vaguely. He pretended to go back to his eggs.
WHO is WHAT? What did this gink say? Unless Matt was totally mad, he could have sworn he had said she was Der Fuehrer's daughter-Hitler's daughter? Suddenly Matt wished he were back in his grimy studio with Carey trying to unzip his fly as he was trying to soup negatives. Or-in the path of a speeding truck in Picadilly Circus. This was much too complicated-too damned bizarre to believe.
Matt couldn't refuse the order from the blonde beauty, and he supposed he would be safer up there than in the ballroom anyway. Sooner or later someone would ask for the real Fritz Heintz to please stand up. With this in mind, he took to the corridors. After a climb and a hike he finally found the doors. He knocked.
A smiling nymphet opened the door and immediately ushered Matt into an inner sanctum. There were two separate doors leading from the inner hall. One to the left, one to the right. He was taken left and found himself in a very plush sitting room. Soft music of the Montovani variety was playing on the stereo. Matt was asked to be seated.
"May I mix you a drink?" asked the sweet fraulein in the trim white uniform.
"Nein, danke," said Matt. She left then with her smile still fixed.
Moments later Matt's leader made her entrance, and he was flabbergasted, totally disarmed.
Earlier, her hair had been drawn back in twin buns, but now it hung loose in soft, blonde splendor. Her suggestive military uniform was gone now. It had been replaced by a garb Matt could hardly believe. This tall, voluptuous queen of the Nazis was wearing an extra layer of pure white skin. It was leather, Matt supposed, but it was thin and absolutely form fitting. The giant breasts were bulging upward, with their bold nipples showing clearly. Her navel etched a bump in the skin, and her gathering of flesh at the crotch of her long, sinuous legs was outlined in perfect folds. Fantastic! If she came like this with strangers, what would she be like with a friend ? Matt was on his feet, standing at attention.
"Relax, please," she said with a flick of her wrist. He sat on the couch and she sat beside him. "I hope you don't object to my informality."
"Of course not, my leader. You are woman enough to make good use of such a costume. I am quite overwhelmed."
Matt didn't know how Nazis were supposed to behave under such circumstances, but he would have to play it by instinct. She wouldn't have dressed this way if she didn't want his admiration. He figured he had made the right move.
"When I met you downstairs, I was impressed," she said pleasantly. "You may be the answer to a very sticky problem. When I sensed your essence of masculinity, the plan started to form in my mind, but I must be sure. That is why I am behaving so boldly. I hope I can rely on your total cooperation and confidence."
"But of course, of course," he said as if she needn't have asked.
"Do you like what you see, Herr Heintz?"
"Very much. As I said-I'm overwhelmed, mesmerized."
"Could such a brief acquaintance instill enough interest for you to experiment in certain sex games with me?"
Matt had little doubt, and told her so, but then he recalled the long, long night that had preceded this early morning demand. There had been Penny, a murder, a trip to Oslo, and then another trip to Scotland. There had been about twelve hours of it in all, but what a twelve hours! He was no kid anymore, but he hoped he could behave like one for her. It might be the final screw of his tired old life, and it might well determine how long he would live.
This was the content of his thought, as his leader led him into the plush adjoining bedroom. She artfully undressed him where he stood, and when she got to the bare facts, Matt was relived. Old faithful was stiffened to obedient attention at the first touch of her hand. Into the silken sack they went.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Matt learned the facts of life at an early age. He had a nympho aunt who played erotic games with him when he was only eleven. Even as a kid he was never one to question a good thing. He liked sex and developed a keen appetite for it. He made his first personal conquests at fourteen when he showed his maleness to the school nurse during a routine examination. That was the real beginning, and if he were to start counting, he would never believe his own capabilities. For that reason he seldom looked back. Now, entering middle age, Matt still had a remarkable hunger to satisfy, and this rendezvous proved it.
Twice Ada used her mouth to taunt him to fulfillment. Once he reciprocated to her. But later came the real test. He introduced his eternal instrument to the moist warmth within the leather entranceway and brought Ada to a rousing, crying climax. Not once, not twice, but three full times. When they lay together in their exhaustion, he heard her repeated groans of gratitude and praise.
She said something about her plan being unimportant now, that she wanted him all to herself. But when Matt insisted, she finally withdrew from her reveries to explain. She said that Christine Lavie was in the dungeon and refused to disclose her secret. The scientist said it was memorized and nothing could pry it loose. Ada explained that Christine had already lost her fingernails, and every bone of her left hand had been crushed beyond repair. Still, the woman refused to yield.
"Christine has led a lonely life and has never been truly loved by a virile man," said Ada. "I think a real lover would win her over. Now I am certain you can do it."
"I don't follow you," Matt said. "Would she feel romantic after a night of torture?"
"I will allow her to rest for a few hours, and let her know she has only a short time to live. Then you will be thrown into her cell, as a prisoner. You can pretend that you are an intelligence agent who has been exposed. If she believes you, she may want to make the most of her final hours. I think it will work. I happen to know she would give anything for a single moment of happiness with a male lover."
"How does that get you the formula?"
"Talk to her. Reason with her. Tell her to mix the formula for the stalling of time. Say you have friends ready to move in at a certain hour."
Matt nodded. The more he heard of this the better it sounded. "Good idea," he said. "If she goes for it."
"For now, rest," said Ada. "I will call you at the proper time."
"Fine," said Matt, looking forward to the sleep.
"After the work is done, you and I will have much to do with each other, my handsome lover. I will not let you go unrewarded."
Ada kissed his lips and tucked him under the soft covers. Matt would have preferred his nap to take place in a distant room somewhere, but perhaps this was better. At least he would be safe from the detection of those downstairs. He cleared his mind and drifted off. It was early evening when the smiling servant girl awakened him.
She told him to go to Ada's living room when he was showered and dressed. The girl left and Matt's heart began to pound. His moment of truth was approaching.
He took a fast shower in the bathroom and used a convenient razor to shave. He dressed quickly into the clothing he had borrowed from Fritz, and entered the living room. He expected Ada to greet him, but found himself confronted by the sinister looking doctor he had met upon his arrival.
The doctor apologized for Ada's absence. He said she was occupied with the arrival of the Bormann entourage. "I must go down and pay my respects," Matt said quickly, said she was occupied with the arrival of the speak to you confidentially."
Matt waited. The doctor lit a cigarette and Matt sat on the Victorian sofa. The uniformed Nazi paced before him as he spoke. "Ada's idea is perhaps valid, or it may be just a bit fanciful. But there is something she doesn't know. I am a dedicated Nazi. I am zealous in my every act. I found it necessary to use every device available with our French scientist."
Matt didn't know what Rosch was leading up to, but it was obvious he was on the defensive. This, Matt liked. Rosch had goofed some- "Not yet," said Rosch. "Look, Heintz- I must Matt for cover. Matt soon learned the gory details.
Rosch explained that even pentothal had failed to open Christine's mind, so in desperation, he had heightened his torture techniques. He had given her the hot iron where it would hurt most. Consequently, Christine was in no condition for sex of any kind.
As he spoke, Rosch stretched his neck from his tight collar and fidgeted. He tried vainly to rationalize his behavior. "As you can see, the romantic approach is worthless." He was seated now, facing Matt. "I suggest you still play the role of spy, however. And since she is-well, dying, she may confide in you."
Matt nodded and tried to appear unaffected by the confession. His inclination was to choke the Nazi swine there and then, but no Nazi soldier would do that. Nor could he show concern for an enemy.
Before they made their way into the underground catacombs, Rosch tore and disheveled Matt's clothing. Then he was escorted to the cell by a pair of guards, and was pushed inside. As the plot unrolled, Matt began to wonder if this game was for keeps. But he had to risk it. Maybe they knew something for real.
The cell was dark and damp. Matt sat on the stone floor, waiting for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he saw two figures in the large tomb. One was a horrible caricature of a man. He was nude, and his eyelids had obviously been surgically removed. His eyeballs stared ahead in Orphan Annie grotesquerie. Matt had to turn away. When he did, he saw the limp, naked form of Christine Lavie lying in the far corner of the dungeon. He crawled to her side and touched her cheek. Her eyes opened slowly at his touch.
In his role, Matt didn't have to worry about bugs. What he would say was what the Nazis wanted to hear. He explained he was CIA and that he had been found out. At these words she livened and managed to sit up.
Despite the urgency, Matt had to ask who the other prisoner was. Christine had learned that he was Baron Von Kemp, the husband of Ada. But he had somehow fallen in disfavor. Each day, she told him, he had been tortured a step further. She said he had spoken to her when she was first held prisoner, but after that he had been removed for an operation that made him unable to speak. The eyelids had been removed before her arrival.
Matt was aware of the gravity of his situation from the start, but this brought things into better focus. The dim light didn't disguise Christine's damage either. One breast was raw and ugly from cigar burns. Her right hand was mangled and caked with dry blood. The left had each nail removed, and the fingers were swollen to three times the normal size. Her eyes were only slits, having been blackened by cruel blows. Her nose was broken and swollen; both lips were cut.
If she had ever been beautiful, no one could tell it now. Her internal injuries couldn't be seen, of course, but Matt knew this was the worst wound of all-it was the fatal one. She seemed to know, too. "We have little time," she whispered into his ear. "I will die. But-if by some miracle, you should escape, there is a chance you can incapacitate the others. Find my belongings. In my purse is a small cologne bottle. It is filled with my formula. One gram will . .
Matt waited patiently, but could hear only a sharp intake of breath. In a moment the slim figure slumped against him. She was unconscious-no-she was dead. He tried again and again to find a pulse, but none was there.
The paradox of his role came to him with her demise. Suppose he had really been a Nazi. They would now have the formula, which could easily be analyzed. But they didn't, and she chose to trust somebody in her final moments. So now what was he to do? After a few minutes he called to the guards, and they removed him. He was escorted up the back stairs to Rosch's private rooms.
"I think I convinced her," said Matt nervously. "She tried to tell me something . . ."
"What did she say, man?" Rosch insisted, grabbing Matt's lapels. "Speak up."
"Nothing," Matt said with a shrug. "She's dead."
Rosch slumped into a leather chair, his arms dangling over the sides, "You're sure?"
"Positive."
"Then please," said Rosch with sudden urgency, "you must help me. The death of the woman must not be known-not yet. We need time."
"Have you gone through her things?" Matt asked.
"Over there," said Rosch, nodding to a desk in front of the bay window. "I found nothing."
Matt casually stepped in that direction as Rosch rose to pace the room. "It was our leader's fault," Rosch said derisively. "She said she had the formula. But I will have to make the explanations. She did this, Heintz, and now I must pay."
Matt was trying to be nonchalant as he dumped the contents of Christine's purse on the desk blotter. He poked through the items and singled out the small bottle of cologne. "We could pretend we do have the formula," Matt volunteered. As he said it, Matt palmed the small bottle and faced Rosch. "You could mix something up that would have a narcotic effect of some kind and pretend it is more potent than it is. It would provide time. How could they know?"
Rosch was smiling. He actually grinned as he came to Matt. By this time Matt had the bottle in his pocket and was returning the other strewn items back into the purse.
"Brilliant!" Rosch exclaimed, his hands on Matt's shoulders. "Then you will cooperate?"
"I have little money, Herr Doctor," said Matt. "You understand."
It was that simple for Matt to become Rosch's closest confidant. With this development, Matt was greatly encouraged. It might just work after all. Rosch told Matt to advise Ada that the formula was theirs and that a batch was being prepared now by Rosch. When Rosch ran off to his lab, Matt lost no time. It was the dinner hour and he must get to work.
The first stop was the kitchen. Matt was able to capitalize on the confusion to sprinkle drops of the chemical into the giant coffee urn. When he found a tray of silver water pitchers, he added drops to each of them.
All of this required nearly an hour, because conversation with the servants was required to pull it off. He said he was ordered to await his leader in the kitchen. Then Matt came upon a stroke of luck. In a small pantry a hefty assistant chef was in the process of putting together a huge bowl of champagne and brandy punch. The moment the chef left the room, Matt was able to dump several drops of his chemical into the crystal bowl. This punch would pack a wallop the Nazis would never forget.
He had everything covered, and now was a good time to pass a message to Ada. He scribbled her a note and asked a waiter to deliver it. In a few moments Ada joined him in the pantry. She was lovely in her silver gown. Her hair was drawn high on her head and was topped by a diamond tiara.
"Where have you been?" she said.
"Rosch has the formula," Matt said. "He is mixing it now."
"Excellent!" she said, kissing Matt's lips. "You are a genius. I must return to the others. Meet me in my rooms later."
Before she left, she asked Matt if he noticed who was seated at her right at the dinner table. He said he hadn't yet, but he would. Later, from the garden beyond the French doors, he saw the man. There was no mistaken the face, although age had taken its toll. The artificial right hand eliminated all doubt. Bormann had lost his hand to a Russian shell when he was fleeing Berlin.
Matt was winning, and only had to wait. With such powerful doses, the drug would surely take effect overnight. He left the castle to search for his room. He might still have need for the luger he had stuffed in the suitcase after the flight from Oslo. When he entered the cottage, an uninvited visitor was seated there awaiting him. Matt's own luger was being trained on him. It was in the hands of Roland Guthrie.
Matt was usually adept at covering his emotions, but this was too much of a shock. His mouth fell open as he halted. "How in God's name did you get here?" Matt demanded.
Guthrie laughed. " It wasn't easy, old boy. Not easy at all."
"Who else infiltrated?" Matt asked more calmly. He sat in the chair across from Guthrie.
"I admit we have a man on the inside," Guthrie said. "He was a fellow passenger on your trip from Oslo. In fact, he sat next to you this morning at breakfast. He sent me an innocent sounding message later-that told me you were here. He even radioed your cottage number." Guthrie sobered. "All right, Matthew, where is it?"
"Where is what-old bean? Bormann? He's inside."
"He's not my prime interest, and you know it. The stakes I'm playing for are much higher."
"I don't follow you, Guthrie."
"I want that formula, Matt. If I know you, you're sure to have it by now."
Matt rose and went to the tray of liquor on the table near the door. "They didn't get it, sport. Too bad for you, eh?"
"I'm not fooling, Pyne," said Guthrie, more menacingly. "I'll kill you for it, you know."
Matt poured a long drink of Scotch and turned to Guthrie, sipping it. "So shoot away. It won't do you any good."
"You fool," said Guthrie, rising. "Give it to me, and it will mean at least a million pounds for us to share."
"You really had me snowed, Rollo. All that stuff about snatching Bormann. Well, he's here right now. At least that much was true."
Guthrie managed a smile. "I knew that obsession would still hold you. I had you pegged fairly well. You're a vindictive monster, Pyne. You really are."
"Maybe. But I'm no goddamned traitor. Who are you working for, Rollo? The Russians?"
Then it came to Matt. Guthrie didn't deny it, but Matt realized how stupid he had been. "Oh-I meant to tell you," Matt went on in afterthought. "Your daughter-she's a pretty fancy lay, you know that?"
Matt was ready. As he spoke he threw his drink and then dived. Guthrie fired, but the slug zinged over Matt's head. Matt tackled Guthrie at the knees, and with his fall the gun went flying. Matt pinned the small Englishman to the floor.
"You swine-you wretch!" Guthrie said almost in tears. "You did rape her, didn't you? Just to get even."
"You're wrong, sweetheart," Matt said. "I didn't even know who she was, and it wasn't exactly rape. But you didn't hesitate to move in on Carey. That was deliberate."
"But Pammy's only a child. How could you do it?"
Matt recalled that Pamela had called herself Penny, but he still should have known. "I have a hunch your kid doesn't think too much of her old man," Matt said. "She was probably trying to pay you back for past favors. Was she onto your plot with the Russians?"
Guthrie was fresh out of fight. He sighed in defeat. "It was my son. The meddler picked something up. Not enough to prove anything. You see, I was using a former intelligence operative to monitor Heintz's radio. I thought I could trust him, but he hinted things to my son. That was how Pammy got involved. Brother enlisted sister to reason with Daddy before it was too late. You know-that sort of thing."
"So she was tailing you instead of me?"
"I refused to speak with her. I told her to wash her hands of me, and that she would understand when the money was sent to her mother. What's the use, Matt? People simply don't understand."
"How long have you been answering to the Kremlin, Rollo?"
"Long enough to do as I'm told. But . . ."
Matt hadn't thought this far ahead, but he should have. If Rollo had a confederate inside, why wouldn't he be checking here from time to time? Now was the time. The fake Nazi from the breakfast table had entered the room and was now ordering Matt to release Guthrie.
Matt did it, but not in the accepted form. He leaped aside and grabbed the lonely luger. A slug spun Matt around, but not before his luger took its toll. The fat intruder fell forward with a thump.
When Matt faced Guthrie, another gun was aimed for firing. Matt fired again, and the bullet caught Guthrie between his eyes.
Without delay Matt rushed from the cottage and kept running until he was deep in the rocky vegetation beyond the castle grounds.
He had no idea if anyone was close enough to hear the shots, but he couldn't afford to hang around to find out. As he sat on the ground gasping for breath, he examined the torn flesh of his left upper arm. The forty-five caliber automatic aimed by Guthrie's chum had bitten out a chunk of flesh the size of an orange. Matt styled a tourniquet with his belt, and hoped it would keep some blood inside his body. Then he prepared to wait.
When Matt returned to life he felt horrible. He was nauseous and so weak he could hardly lift his head. Everything was antiseptically white, and the smell of disinfectant was overpowering. When his eyes cleared, a face came into focus. The face was young and pretty. It was Guthrie's daughter. But how could it be? "Uh-where am I?" he murmured.
"Safe and sound," said the smiling face, her dimple in full display. "You're in a London hospital, Mr. Pyne."
"Carey?" he moaned. "Is she-I mean-never mind. . . ."
"She's great," Pamela said. "We've become well acquainted over the past two days."
None of it made sense, but Matt began to listen when Carey's friendly face came into the perimeter of view. She explained that he had nearly bled to death, but was discovered just in time. He drew her face against his chest. "Baby," he whispered, "can we try again?"
"I dreamed you would ask me," she wept.
It was settled that they would make it legal this time, but there was more for Matt to consider. He was told' that Christine's formula worked effectively. By the time Pam Guthrie directed the authorities to the island castle, practically every inhabitant was laid out in a deep trance. Others managed to escape. One of the escapees was the one Matt had wanted the most-Martin Bormann.
"Don't worry," said the intelligence officer. He's practically ours. We have him under surveillance in Norway. And Mr. Pyne, I think you could be of great assistance to us in rounding up what's left of these fanatics. If you're interested, we'd like to put you on the payroll as an advisor."
"We'll talk about it," Matt said with a weak smile. "But others-Rosch, Ada? How many did you get?"
"Rosch beat us to it, I'm afraid. He swallowed a cyanide pill. We have the Hitler offspring safely salted. She wants to cooperate, she says. She will do whatever we say if we will keep her true identity secret."
Will you go for the deal?" Matt asked.
The middle-aged official pursed his lips in contemplation. "Perhaps. Let's put it this way-if you read a splash of headline heralding the discovery of Hitler's daughter who has been living on a fog-bound island of the northern coast of Scotland-you will know we declined."
Matt and Carey were married in two weeks after his hospital discharge, and Matt accepted the intelligence job. But this time he would confine his duties to planning instead of acting.
There was a man named Bormann still at large, and Matt was designated as the man to plan his capture. He didn't mind doing the shot calling, because he was very much interested in living these days. He was even interested in starting to think about potential fatherhood.
As for Ada Hitler-the projected headlines never made the papers. Her prison sentence is being served under the name of Von Kemp.
