The fated destiny of the politically powerful Kelland family involves itself more with race and sex than government. Sexual violation between blacks and whites triggers brutalities, perverse tortures, and ultimately murder. Aristocratic government politicians reveal their sexual pleasures; sex practices among Southern bigots and black civil rights leaders are likewise exposed ... lesbianic royalty exploit innocent schoolgirls and corrupt them for life. The First Lady's nymphomania is intertwined with political power plays, and, climactically, sexual revenge!
ANGEL ONE
The 22nd June, 1975, was a bright sunny day. The blue sky was cloudless, and Washington was enveloped in a heat haze. For those office workers without air conditioning life was difficult. Ted Havers stood at the open window of his particular office on the fourth floor and mopped his brow. One hour to go before he was due for a break. He reckoned he'd just about make it without dropping dead from heat exhaustion. There was the sound of screaming jets high in the sky. He watched as a huge red, blue and silver jet dropped out of the blue sky, the sunlight flashing on its swept-back wings. It looked very beautiful as it sank out of sight, its jet engines cut back to a sighing whisper. Ted didn't know it, but the hundred tons of gleaming machinery which had just passed over his office carried the President of the United States.
The Presidential aircraft, code named Angel One, hovered like an enormous bird of prey over the great rotunda of the Capitol. In the radio control room messages flashed backwards and forwards as the operators, earphones clamped firmly on their heads, checked and re-checked that Andrews airfield was prepared to receive Angel One with its valuable cargo. During its entire flight the great jet had been monitored on radar screens manned by Secret Service agents. All other flights, whether military or civilian, deferred to Angel One. It was assigned air-lane priority, and airfields were closed to traffic when it landed or took off. On the tarmac of Andrews airfield number one strip, a group of VIPs stood in the heat, nervously standing on one foot and then the other.
President John Harold Kelland sat in the stateroom of the specially converted jet liner moodily looking over his glasses through the porthole. For a brief second he saw the group of people standing on the tarmac, and a tight little smile crossed his features. He was seated at a desk in the luxurious air-conditioned stateroom. Behind him lay the state bedrooms and bathroom. On the walls, the pillowcases, and the telephones on his desk were reproductions of the gold Presidential seal. Seated in a deep armchair not far from him was his wife, Victoria, the First Lady of America. Dressed in a lilac-green two-piece suit, a strand of small and very rare pearls around her throat, she looked cool and self-assured. Long black hair touched her shoulders in a shining mass, and dark sunglasses hid her deep blue eyes. The President, glancing across at his wife, noticed that she had started to play with the ring on her fingers. It was made from black onyx and inset with pearls. He sighed to himself, aware that Vicki, as she was called by himself and her friends, was not so self-assured as she looked. Whenever she started to fiddle with the rings on her fingers it was always a sure sign that she was, in fact, feeling nervous. He wondered what it was this time. It was impossible to see the expression on her face, hidden as she was behind the large sunglasses.
The light blue wings of the jet airliner skimmed over the tarmac, the wheels touched, rose, and then settled firmly on the ground. Angel One was home, bringing back the Head of State and his wife from an exhausting tour of a far flung American State. Aides, secretaries, press relations personnel, and several Secret Service agents lined the corridor that led from the staterooms, waiting for their chief and his wife to walk out of the aircraft. They would then follow closely on their heels. This particular homecoming was private, but they never knew when they would be needed. At last the President and his wife appeared through the double doors of the staterooms, and walked out onto the ramp in the blazing midday sun. Vicki put her hand on the rail as she descended the ramp, then quickly removed it again. Already it was hot.
The airport commandant, watching through binoculars from the control room, noticed the gesture and cursed. He should have thought of that one. The handshakes and welcome greetings over, the President and his wife were escorted to a waiting helicopter drawn up not far from Angel One. The blades sliced through the hot air, and the helicopter rose into the blue sky and soon disappeared to a black speck. The VIPs stopped waving and returned to their waiting air-conditioned cars with relief. Three more helicopters lifted into the sky, loaded with some of the President's immediate entourage. They landed in the grounds of the White House, not far from Heli-Pad No. 1. The Presidential helicopter had already landed, and they were just in time to see a small motorcade bounce eff the grass and hit the south drive that led to the White House itself. The head of the most powerful nation in the world, a man who had at his command the mightiest military machine ever invented by man, had arrived home.
Vicki made straight for her private suite in the north wing, accompanied by Carol Hailey, her personal maid. She went into her bedroom, while Carol supervised the arrival of her luggage which had already landed by another helicopter from Angel One. Sitting down in front of a twelve foot long dresser, she carefully removed the sunglasses from her face.
"Thank God that's over," she murmured. A remark that wouldn't have pleased some of her recent hosts, although understandable enough. She had been constantly in the public eye for nearly two weeks, and her face literally ached from the constant smile expected of her. Standing up she climbed out of her lilac suit and petticoat. Kicking off her shoes she sat on the edge of a huge, deeply comfortable bed, and commenced to peel the sheer silk stockings off her legs. Dressed only in pale blue panties, and a bra to match, the First Lady of America revealed a slim, petite figure. Finally she removed these last two garments, and any observer would have forgotten that she was Queen of the most powerful country on earth. Standing in front of her mirror, this 20th century Cleopatra stretched, her hands going up to her shining hair, holding it back off her shoulders. Her full breasts rose as she stretched; blood red nipples set in the milky whiteness of her flawless skin. A telephone set in the wall by the bed purred softly. Walking over she pushed down two black switches, and the small viewing screen glowed into life. Peter Van Bilt's handsome face smiled out at her, and his deep voice, made slightly tinny by the telephone, filled the room. Quickly she turned down the volume.
"Hello Vicki, welcome home."
"Thanks Peter. How are you?"
"Not so good. I've missed you. Turn your scanner switch. I want to see you."
Vicki's hand hovered on the switch marked personal scanner, but she didn't push it down. She would have liked to have seen Peter's face when she appeared on his screen naked. But it was dangerous. She didn't know in what part of the White House he was at the moment. He might be interrupted, and if anyone else got a look at the telly viewer the fat would really be in the fire. She stretched out full length on the bed, lying on her stomach, talking at the instrument just by her head.
"No Peter, that's not a good idea."
She watched his face break into another smile, and she knew his grey eyes were twinkling.
"You're probably right. When am I going to see you?"
"Ten o'clock tonight. I shall be alone in my apartments. Be at the entrance to the north wing.
Once Carol has given you the all clear walk straight in. The double doors will be open. If you don't get the all clear don't hang around. It's not wise."
Vicki flicked up the switches, and the screen faded to a blank. It was even unwise to talk too long on the internal communications system, although she had made sure that this particular telephone was scrambled. She lay on the bed for a moment, thinking of Peter. Although she hadn't told him, he almost drove her crazy. This last two weeks had been hell not seeing him. She wanted him to kiss her with that hard ruthless determination which characterized the man. She wanted his strong muscled body to crush the breath out of her. With a quick movement Vicki pushed her hand underneath her sprawled body and down between her legs. She was already moist. She buried her head into the soft pillows, while two of her fingers slipped up into her wet vagina. With a shuddering sigh she ejaculated, soaking the silk bed cover with her sudden climax. Two weeks of frustration stained the bed cover when eventually she rolled over and stood up. Vicki emptied a bottle of perfume over the spot. She would tell Carol she had accidentally spilled the perfume.
Walking into her bathroom she turned on the twin showers, ignoring the swimming-pool sized sunken bath. When the temperature was just tepid she stepped underneath the spraying water, luxuriating in the sensuous coolness. Tilting back her head she allowed the cool shower to splash onto her upturned face. Running her hands up her slim lithe body she caught hold of her jutting titties, holding them out under the cascading water like a sacrificial offering. So perhaps did Cleopatra behave all those centuries ago while she waited for the arrival of her Mark Antony. Who knows? The historians must leave such things to our imagination. One thing is sure. The long dead queen of the Nile would have envied this 20th century Queen her surroundings. She would have felt at home in the huge bathroom, created entirely from black and white marble. She would have enjoyed the mirrored walls, the glass wall-cases filled with oils and perfumes, the hand sprays, and the shining taps. Vicki herself enjoyed them. She had an affinity with that ex-Siren of the Nile.
At 9.30 precisely that evening Vicki stood up from the dinner table. The President and his two guests, General Gordon Marlborough, head of The Secret Service, and Brigadier John Swanson, of the FBI, scrambled to their feet. She shook hands with the two men, then kissed her husband lightly on the cheek.
"If you gentlemen will excuse me," she said. "I will retire. These last two weeks have been exhausting."
John Kelland patted his wife's hand absently, and when she had left the room continued his discussion with General Marlborough on the intricate workings of the Secret Service. Brigadier Swanson, a comparatively young man for one in his high position, watched Vicki's back as she left the room. Dressed in a low cut evening gown made from white satin, her mobile hips swayed under the clinging dress. His reveries were interrupted by the general.
"Are you listening to what the President has just told us?" he barked.
Brigadier Swanson hastily began to concentrate, aware that he had allowed his eyes to dwell too long on the departing President's wife. Not that the President himself seemed to have noticed. But General Marlborough had.
Meanwhile Vicki glided along the corridors of the White House to her own private suite in the North Wing. She knew that her husband would talk far into the night, and then he would retire to his own suite of rooms. Carol, her maid, was waiting for her. Carol had been with her for a number of years now, even before her husband was elected President and she became First Lady of America. A greying woman of fifty, Carol was completely trustworthy. She knew more about Vicki than any other person alive, and was completely devoted to her mistress. Highly paid for a servant, Carol had, in her long years of service with Vicki, amassed a small fortune. But she had no other interests except Vicki. Unmarried, she would doubtless leave all her savings to her mistress when she died. She was that type of woman. Vicki had always relied on her, and never more so than now. The position of President's wife was not easy for someone with her temperament. Carol revelled in the increased reliance placed on her. The other servants in the White House had grown to dread the sound of her firm footsteps. It always meant trouble. If Vicki had any complaints, Carol was invariably used as her ambassador to the servants' quarters. Carol enjoyed making things hum for the other members of the staff. No one dared argue with her. She was the spokesman for the President's wife personally. She gave the orders and they obeyed.
"Everything clear?" Vicki now asked.
Carol nodded. Dressed in her usual black with a white collar, her plump figure looked solid and reassuring. It reassured Vicki. Going into her bedroom she disrobed, finally slipping a pale green silk kimono around her nakedness. Lighting a cigarette she sat on the edge of the bed smoking nervously. It was ten minutes to ten, and Vickie never remembered the clock hands moving so slowly. But finally the minutes had ticked away, and on the stroke of ten Peter Van Bilt walked through the bedroom door. Carefully he closed it behind him. She stood up and he caught her in his arms, his hands going underneath her kimono. Their lips met, her naked body pressing urgently against the hardening bulge inside his trousers. Without speaking he pushed her back onto the bed, and started to get undressed. She watched until he had stripped down to a brief pair of boxer underpants. Leaning over the side of the bed her hands reached for his leg, caressing the hard firm muscles. She slipped one of her hands underneath the white boxer pants, gently squeezing the hanging balls before progressing to Peter's hard vertical prick.
"Peter, I've been missing that," she breathed.
Peter pulled Vicki's hand from underneath his pants so that he could take them off. Naked, his long cock throbbing against his belly, he climbed onto the bed in between Vicki's wide open legs. He could see her pink cunt lips moist and open waiting for him. Getting hold of his cock he bent the stiff rod downwards, rubbing the juice soaked knob along Vicki's cunt slit, wiping his prick juices on the soft down of her pubic hair. While he was doing this his tool throbbed alarmingly in his hand. He held it still for a moment, waiting for the rising spunk to retreat until he was ready to ejaculate.
Vicki felt Peter's knob titillating her cunt, and suddenly she was shaking her hips uncontrollably.
"Peter, now! Peter, don't wait! Now!" she moaned, half delirious with the burning need between her wide open legs.
The threat of a premature orgasm over, Peter positioned his swollen knob onto Vicki's now wide open cunt lips and sank into her in one long, beautiful ride. His hands reached for the milky spheres of her titties, manipulating the ruby-red nipples, making them erect under his squeezing fingers. He started to fuck Vicki hard, enjoying the smooth ride of her wet fanny. Sinking his teeth into one of her bubbies he screwed into her, faster and harder at every stroke.
Vicki's arms went up to encircle Peter's broad shoulders, and her legs clamped tightly around his thighs, making him shorten his strokes. At each screwing thrust she was pushing her hips upwards with as much force as she could muster.
"Peter, Oh Peter, I'm coming," she moaned. "Oh Peter, I'm coming. Oooh! Peter ... My darling. My darling."
Peter felt his whole body go rigid as his spunk rose for the second time. He didn't try to stop it. Gluing his mouth onto Vicki's he let go, shooting two long weeks of pent-up prick juice into her ejaculating vagina. It seemed a long time before their shuddering bodies stilled, and they lay panting in each other's arms, momentarily satisfied. But it was only momentarily. It wasn't long before their insatiable lust for each other rose again. Dragging his still rampant prick out of Vicki's sopping wet cunt, he pulled the silk kimono off her shoulders where it had got entwined, and forced her over onto her hands and knees, with her legs apart. Getting between her open legs on his knees, Peter jammed his cock up between her legs, entering her fucked fuck-passage with ease. Vicki put her head well down, pushing her arse into the air, groaning as Peter's strong fingers kneaded her yielding buttocks. She felt him jerk forward, screwing into her from the rear, stretching her ravaged pussy with his thick cock. He let go of her arse cheeks, and she almost lost balance as he came down on her back, his hands going round her body to feel for her hanging titties.
Once Peter had got hold of Vicki's tits he went wild, hips moving like piston engines as he thrust his way up inside her. He found the feel of her hanging bubbies wildly exciting, and at each forward lunge her lovely arse would rise in the air, taking him with it. His body was covered with perspiration, and his sperm was rising once more. He could feel it being dragged up from his innards. His thrusts became wilder, faster, and his fingers dug cruelly into Vicki's pliable breasts. But she didn't care. She was being urged towards a second climax herself, fired by the vigour of Peter's love-making. From what seemed a long distance Peter could hear her voice muffled by the pillow into which her head was buried. With a cry he gave one last lunge of his prick up between Vicki's legs, shooting a second stream of spunk into her cunt hole. For at that trembling second Vicki herself balanced on the edge of another climax, her hands twisting the bed clothes. Then with a shuddering sigh she released her second load, mingling her own spunk juices with Peter's. She could feel Peter's whole weight on her back as he relaxed, panting for breath. Her legs began to give way, and as Peter dragged his spent tool out of her dripping fanny, she straightened herself. Lying flat on her stomach she fought to regain her breath. Peter still lay on top of her, his cock now resting between her arse cheeks. Eventually he rolled off her onto his back, eyes closed.
Vicki, seeing that Peter had fallen asleep, rested her head on his chest. It was time to sleep. They could talk later. It was still only midnight. There were many hours left before dawn rose in the sky. Hours when they could talk, and make more love. She knew that when Peter had rested, the now limply lying phallus between his legs would come alive again. Her hand went down, catching hold of the relaxed penis. Peter moved in his sleep, and the cock in her hand stiffened slightly. With a sigh she too fell asleep, the burning desire between her legs satisfied for the time being.
Carol, sitting in the outer small reception room, nodded on her upright seat. Cleopatra's handmaiden guarding her mistress's privacy with her life. No one would pass through the large double doors of the north wing of the White House without her knowledge. Sleepy she may be, but the slightest noise would galvanize her into action. But all was quiet in this particular part of the beehive which housed the President of the United States and his wife. The President himself retired at about 1 am, wearily climbing into his bed. Five minutes later he was snoring gently. In the extensive grounds outside men patrolled the acres of parkland. Many held trained Alsatian dogs on leashes.
The White House switchboard was comparatively quiet, the flickering lights only occasionally coming to life. Every inmate of the White House possessed a code name, and callers were required to give this code before they were connected to their party. Soft canned music drifted through the switchboard room-it was a privilege of the night shift. The day shift was too busy to listen to music. Lines of girls sat behind the banks of apparatus, and one of them yawned and glanced at the clock. Mavis, the girl who had yawned, leaned over to her nearest colleague.
"Looks like we're going to have a quiet night," she commented.
The other girl, who was chewing gum and filing her nails, grinned across at Mavis. "Yeah, sure. Just so long as nobody tries to kill the President we should be all right."
Mavis giggled. "You shouldn't say such awful things," she said. "Were you here that first time?"
The other girl's well plucked eyebrows arched. "Just how old do you think I am?" she drawled.
Mavis blushed. "Oh I'm sorry," she answered. "I wasn't thinking. But it doesn't seem all that long ago. I remember my father telling us kids. He was awful upset."
Mavis's colleague carefully replaced her nail file into her handbag and snapped it shut. "Yes, I remember my pa telling me," she said pointedly.
It was with relief that Mavis saw a green and red light flicker on her board. It was obvious that Joan was a bit touchy about her age.
"Put me through to Captain Peter Van Bilt," a testy voice snapped in her ear. "This is Brigadier Rawlinson."
"Code name please sir?" Mavis asked firmly.
"Code name? Oh God yes. These confounded code names, never can remember them. Oh yes, I've got it. Bonnie. Yes, that's it, Bonnie."
"Hold the line please sir," Mavis answered, and plugged in to Captain Van Bilt's private quarters. There was no reply.
"I'm sorry sir, but there's no reply."
"Damn," came back the answer. "Where the hell is the man at this time of the morning?"
Mavis didn't answer but waited patiently. It was a big part of her job to be patient.
"Get hold of him first thing in the morning and tell him to contact me straight away at this number."
Mavis wrote down the number which the Brigadier dictated, then pulled out the plugs. She lit a cigarette and leaned back in her padded seat. A dreamy expression spread over her face. She was thinking of her new boy friend Jimmy. It was her day off tomorrow, and they were going out on his motorbike. All his friends had motorbikes, and they and their girl friends usually went around in packs. Last time had been different though. They had taken a wrong turning and lost the gang. Thinking about it Mavis wasn't sure if it was an accident on Jimmy's part or not. It had been late at night and they had been heading back to Washington. She had only known Jimmy a week then, and as she clung onto the back of the powerful machine she had wondered what he was thinking about. They were both wearing black leather trousers, leather jackets, and crash helmets. It was standard gear for the gang. Jimmy was a husky, well built boy, but so far he hadn't made any direct pass at her. Just kissed her goodnight when they got home. Therefore what he did that night came as a surprise to Mavis. A pleasant surprise, for Mavis was no cross-legged virgin.
They had zoomed round a sharp bend, and Mavis's arms had tightened around Jimmy's waist. She remembered thinking that he was belting it some, and Jimmy must have thought the same thing because he slowed down. Suddenly she felt his hand on hers, and he was pushing it under his leather jacket and down the front of his trousers. Before she knew what had happened her hand was inside his underpants, his fully erect cock throbbing against her palm. Mavis kept it there, stroking and squeezing the exciting prick. She could feel a dampness between her legs, and pressed herself close up against Jimmy's back. They came to a wood, or a park, she never knew which, by the side of the road, and he stopped the motorbike. It was dark under the trees, and he propped her up against a tree trunk. He had then taken her with all the greediness of impatient youth.
Undoing the belt on her leather trousers he had pushed them down to her ankles, quickly followed by her panties. His hands undid her jacket. She had been wearing a pullover underneath, and Jimmy had pushed it up around her neck, fumbling with her bra straps. She had helped him with those. He had caught hold of her titties with strong urgent hands, and come at her, the cold leather of his trousers rubbing against her pubic hairs, causing her to tremble with aroused desire. While he was playing with her breasts, she had undone the belt of his trousers and pushed them down, the same as he had done to her. She remembered thinking that for a teenager Jimmy packed a truly man-sized cock between his legs. She caught hold of it with one hand, while with the other she played with his scrotum. Opening her legs wide, bracing her bare arse against the rough bark of the tree trunk, she guided him inside her. She gave a sob of pleasure as his large knob opened up her wet quim lips and the large tool screwed its way inside her. He started to fuck her with long groaning thrusts. His hands had left her bubbies and gone round to her arse cheeks, pulling on the white orbs and splaying them apart. She could feel the rough wood rubbing on the rim of her arsehole, and hoped there were no splinters! But as they both neared a climax she didn't worry about splinters any more. Teeth biting into Jimmy's lips her hands went around the small of his back, pulling him into her as far as he could get. Shuddering, biting, gasping, she had felt the phallus rotating inside her vagina swell, then they had both burst the banks. Jimmy's orgasm had gone on longer than hers, spraying great spurts of spunk up into her swimming cunt hole with all the abundance of his youth.
That had been two weeks ago, and they had gone out together on her nights off ever since. She hadn't seen him for the last three days as she had been on night shift. But tomorrow was different. Without thinking Mavis had put her hand down to her silk-stockinged legs, idly stroking the inside of her thigh.
"Mavis, wake up, your board's alight."
It was Joan. With a start Mavis came back to her surroundings. Resolutely she put Jimmy into the back of her mind. Until she had finished her shift anyhow.
The hours ticked by, and a rosy dawn came up over the city of Washington. As it streaked the sky the double doors leading to the north wing of the White House slid open and Captain Van Bilt emerged into the deserted corridor. Carol closed the doors quietly behind him and went to her mistress to see if she needed anything. But Vicki we r already asleep. She lay with her beautiful hair swept out on the pillow breathing gently. Carol put out a burning cigarette in an ash tray, turned out the bedside light, and tiptoed from the room. All was well with the First Lady.
To get back to his own quarters Peter Van Bilt had to take a devious route. He daren't risk the quickest way of getting to his rooms. There was always the chance that he may bump into someone. The night-workers on the President's staff had sharp eyes, and wagging tongues. He entered a long dimly lit room. On the other side there were offices, only used in the daytime. Beyond the offices it would be easy to him to traverse a narrow corridor which brought him practically outside his own door.
The room he was now in was called the Hall of Presidents. The walls were lined with full length oil painting of America's past leaders. Peter Van Bilt stopped in front of pictures of the last two American presidents. They were both Kellands, brothers of the present President. And they had both been assassinated. Robert T. Kelland had been the first of the three brothers to be nominated to the high office. His brother Edward D. Kelland had been vice-president. When Robert had been assassinated Edward automatically became President. The third brother, John Harold Kelland, had been nominated vice-president. When Edward had been assassinated John had taken up the torch. He was the last of the Kelland brothers. Armed men guarded him night and day. When he appeared in public armies of armed Secret Service agents mingled with the crowd. No one was allowed near the President who hadn't been checked and double checked. America, the democracy to end all democracies, had become a land of fear. If they couldn't protect their own President, who could they protect?
But Peter Van Bilt wasn't thinking of the sweep of history as he stood in front of the portraits of the last two American Presidents. He was thinking that the Kelland brothers were remarkably similar in appearance. The same firm chin, and intelligent eyes. All well built men, their faces as portrayed looked thoughtful. As well they might. Both Robert and Edward Kelland had met sudden and violent deaths. Peter Van Bilt remembered he had heard some gossip about "the curse of the Kelland family." It was just gossip of course, but it did seem that the family were fated. No Caesar of Imperial Rome had been as carefully guarded as were the Presidents of America. And yet like the Roman Caesars they were assassinated in front of the eyes of hundreds of people.
Peter Van Bilt continued to his own quarters. No one saw him. The reputation of the First Lady of America remained unimpaired.
THE FIRST PRESIDENT KELLAND
Robert T. Kelland, President of the United States for exactly one year, was beginning to make his presence felt. Standing before a battery of microphones in front of a huge audience in New York City, his deep voice vibrated with the conviction of what he was saying.
"It is my belief," he intoned, "that I would be failing in my job as President if I didn't warn the peoples of my country of the dangers that are inherent in a segregated society. It is against all the principles of democracy that there should exist, in this great country of ours, first and second class citizens. There is only one class of citizen. And he is an American, regardless of race, colour or creed."
There was a wild burst of cheering and handclapping that continued for a long time. Bill Mavery heaved his bulk out of his seat, and pushing his way along the crowded row of cheering people, left the building. Climbing into his Pontiac he stamped angrily onto the accelerator and roared off into the night, narrowly missing a pedestrian as he left the parking lot. Arriving at his expensive house in a snobby and very select residential area of New York, he parked the car in the garage and stumped his way indoors. His wife, Marjorie, sat by the fireside sewing. There was no need for her to sew, as Bill had provided her with a more than an adequate number of servants to go with the house, but she had to do something. They had three sons. Roderick was sixteen, Jerry just seventeen, and Tim, their eldest, had just passed his eighteenth birthday. With three growing sons, and a large house to look after, she should have her hands full. But Bill had insisted that they have maids, a cook, gardener, chauffeur, the lot. All she had to do was issue a few orders first thing in the morning, and then sit back and watch it all happen. Most of the day she felt entirely superfluous.
She never said so, but she had been far happier before they came to New York and took up residence in this high class neighbouhood. She had been much more contented in San Antonio, Texas. There she had her family, her friends. It had only been Bill's driving ambition which had brought them to New York. That had been five years ago. Bill was now one of the top executives in American Marine Insurance Ltd., and was still on his way up. They had been in this house for three years, and if she was honest with herself Marjorie would have admitted that she hated it. She felt sure her superior neighbours, with their finishing school accents, laughed behind her back at her Texan drawl. Once she had voiced her fears to Bill, but he had become very angry.
"We're white and we've got as much money, if not more, than they have. What are you beefing about, woman?" he had snapped.
She had never mentioned the subject again. Being white, she felt sure, wasn't enough in this sort of neighbouhood. Money counted for a lot of course, but there was no doubting the fact that neither she nor Bill had the right kind of accent. They were out of place here, but he wouldn't admit 2-1 it, not even to himself. All his life Bill had despised the niggers, and considered them only fit to serve the white folk. He couldn't bear to think that he himself was being despised by his superior neighbours. He considered the colour of his skin to be enough. That plus his money.
Marjorie worried about her husband, although she never voiced her thoughts, not to anyone. Not even when she wrote home to San Antonio. In Texas the blacks, by and large, knew their place. Bill, a firm believer of a segregated society, had treated them with the lazy contempt he had always treated negroes. But here in New York it was different. And there weren't only the blacks to contend with. There were large communities of Latin Americans. Bill referred to them all as niggers, refusing to see the difference between the races. And he had taught Tim, and their other two boys, to hate the blacks. Once Tim had come home after he and some of his friends had clashed with a gang of black boys in the street. Tim, as young as he was, talked about the niggers just like his father. She herself had no particular feeling towards black people. In Texas they had always been there, as servants. All her servants here in New York were blacks. And although they weren't so servile as she remembered them in San Antonio, and they were paid a lot more, they were efficient and polite enough. She didn't see why Bill should have to go on about them so.
And then there was this mysterious society that Bill belonged to. He would never tell her anything definite about it, except that it was dedicated to keep the blacks in their place. That made Marjorie more uneasy than anything else. She had heard of these societies in Texas, and there had been some ugly stories attached to their activities. Whatever they called themselves, and they went under many names, they really belonged to one body-the Ku Klux Klan. Once again she didn't inquire too closely when Bill was out in the evenings attending their meetings. She didn't want to know, and only hoped that he would stay out of trouble. He had certainly never belonged to any sort of society in Texas. It was only here in New York that he had shown any interest. Now she watched him as he stamped angrily into the living room. She knew he had gone into New York to listen to a speech by the President. She didn't know why he hadn't stayed at home and listened to it on the radio, as she had done herself. She knew that the speech would put him in a bad mood.
"A nigger lover, that's what he is," Bill snorted, throwing himself into a chair opposite her own.
"You mean the President?" Marjorie asked in a mild voice.
"You know that's who I mean. You heard his speech?"
Marjorie nodded, continuing to sew. She knew Bill wanted to argue, but she wasn't going to be drawn.
"It's about time he was stopped," Bill continued. "There will be civil war if he goes on this way. What he said tonight has alienated him from a large portion of the white population of this country."
Marjorie bent her head over her sewing, wishing that Bill would change the subject. She didn't know that she herself would soon be vitally affected by the clash of black and white power.
Two days after the President's speech black populations in several American cities marched in the streets to proclaim their rights as American citizens. Trouble broke out and the black marchers, accompanied by white sympathisers, clashed with those who were opposed to racial integration. Police moved in to restore order, and were soon hitting out at trouble makers and peaceful citizens alike. In no time at all full scale riots were under way. More and more police were sent to the trouble spots, armed with water cannons, tear gas, batons, and if those failed guns. In downtown New York shops were looted, white and black fought in the streets, while the police vainly fought a rearguard action. In the middle of all this was Tim Mavery, Bill's eldest boy. With a group of college friends, all indoctrinated by their parents to hate the blacks, he was having the time of his life. He and his friends would waylay one or perhaps two negroes, corner them, then close in. When their ranks parted the negro or negroes would be lying on the pavement unconscious from the beating up they had received. Whether their victims were demonstrators or not didn't matter to Tim and his gang. They were out to get the niggers, and in the riot torn streets they could get away with murder.
But something went wrong. Tim and his gang had just closed in on a grey haired negro who had been standing on a street corner looking as if he was lost. They had surrounded the frightened man, taunting him, and poking him in the ribs. They were just starting to get really rough, pushing their victim from one to the other, when without warning a group of young negroes appeared at
the end of the street. They broke into a run, intending to help their unfortunate black comrade. Tim and his friends weren't aware of their presence until it was too late. Turning from the now terrified elderly negro, they found themselves surrounded and outnumbered. Life stopped being "great" for Tim Mavery and his friends. Dusk was falling on the narrow dilapidated back street, and as they faced the new arrivals fear struck into their hearts. For the first time in their young lives they felt what it was like to be a minority surrounded by a hostile majority. They could see more negroes lounging in shop doorways, and knew that this was an organized attack by a gang much stronger than their own. A police car siren wailed in the distance, and then faded away. Backs to the wall they defended themselves as best they could, but fear had sapped their spirit.
Hard fists smashed into the bodies, as vainly they tried to dodge the hail of blows that were rained down on them. A flying fist caught Tim on the side of the head, knocking him to his knees dazed. He could hear somebody screaming. It was John his seventeen year old friend. One negro had twisted his arms behind his back, forcing him to bend forwards in agony. The negro continued to twist his arms with brutal strength until John was screaming with pain. Finally the negro gave John's arms a vicious twist upwards and there was a crack as a shoulder bone broke. With a final gurgling scream John fell to the floor on his face unconscious. Tim had a quick glimpse of other members of their gang stretched out on the floor, their faces bleeding. He saw a negro kicking at the ribs of one of his fallen friends with the pointed toe of his shoe. That was all he remembered after another blow caught him on the back of his head and he sank to the floor unconscious.
When he came to he found himself being half carried half dragged down a flight of steps. Finally he was thrown onto a stone floor of what appeared to be a deserted warehouse. He could see broken crates stacked against the walls, and the floor was covered with broken glass and bits of straw. An oil lamp burned on an upturned box, and about half a dozen negroes sat around drinking beer from bottles. The two who had brought him down the steps grabbed themselves a bottle from a pile on the floor and drank thirstily.
"This is the bastard who's been leading that bunch of white kids around looking for trouble," one of them said.
One of the seated negroes stood up and walked over to where Tim lay on the floor. He was young and flashily dressed in a dark suit and shiny black patent leather shoes. Handsome in a thin-lipped mean sort of way, his eyes glowed like a cat's in the flickering shadows from the oil lamp.
"Feel like some white ass Roz?" a voice called.
Roz, who was the leader of a vicious gang of thugs in a part of New York not noted for its gentility, grinned.
"Ah sure wouldn't say no," he replied. "Hold him down."
Tim struggled as four of the gang obeyed. He wanted to tell them to let him go; that his father would kill the lot of them; that they couldn't do this to him, a white boy. But the words stuck in his throat. They spread-eagled him on the floor face downwards, and ripped his jeans down to his ankles exposing his backside. His slim body quivered like a frightened animal as the negro called Roz straddled his arse. There was a pause and he could hear the others laughing. He drew his breath in sharply as something thick and hard was pushed between his arse cheeks. It was only then that he fully realized what they intended to do to him. He started to struggle, vainly trying to squirm away from the hands that held his wrists and ankles. But he was powerless. He began to sob with frustration and pain as the negro's prick slowly but surely screwed its way inside his tight arsehole. The pain was becoming too much, and Tim knew he couldn't stand much more. With a cry of anguished shame he blacked out once again.
Roz continued to fuck the unconscious Tim, breathing hard as he neared an orgasm. At last with a final grunt he pushed hard down onto Tim's arse, shooting a load of spunk up into his shit hole. Finally he dragged his prick out of Tim's ravaged anus, and standing up walked over to the light. Getting out a handkerchief he carefully wiped his cock clean.
"Sure got a tight ass that white kid," he commented, opening another bottle of beer. "But man, I still dig a bit of hot cunt."
"What are we going to do with him?" one of the negroes asked, pointing to the sprawled half naked body of Tim on the floor.
Roz lowered the bottle from his lips. "String him up," he rasped. "It'll teach these white kids to stay at home with their mothers."
"What about his friends?" a thin faced badly dressed negro called Lally asked, his voice worried. "When they're in a fit state they'll give the police our descriptions."
"You joking?" Roz snapped. "Those kids didn't have time to study our pretty faces. No, it's about time the whites around here realized we mean business. We'll send a letter to that fat slob of a policeman who runs this division telling him where to find the kid. That'll give him something to think about." He took another gulp of his beer. "Well what are you waiting for? Let's get it over with."
They found a rope and slung it over one of the beams that ran across the warehouse ceiling. Fashioning a rough noose they picked up Tim's inert body, and holding him high put it round his neck. Then they let go. The knot tightened, and Tim's body began to jerk convulsively. He was still half unconscious and mercifully wasn't aware what was happening to him. As the rope got tighter around his neck, cutting off his air supply, he began to shit himself. It ran down the insides of his legs, mixing with the spunk from his raped arse. He was dead by the time Roz and his gang checked out of the warehouse. It was one hideout they wouldn't be using again.
Bill Mavery stood by his son's grave for a long time until Marjorie, his wife, touched him on the shoulder. Members of both their families from San Antonio had left the graveside and were climbing into the waiting cars. But still Bill didn't move. Finally Marjorie gave instructions for the other cars to proceed, then she stood alone by Bill's Pontiac in which he had insisted on driving himself to the cemetery. It was a cloudy afternoon, but occasionally the sun would break through. A light wind rustled through the trees, bending the flowers of the many graves. Bill remained standing, head bowed, as still as a statue. Marjorie dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes and continued to wait.
Finally Bill's bowed head straightened, and Marjorie saw his lips move although she was too far away to hear what he was saying. Turning he came towards the car and got behind the steering wheel. They drove back to the house in silence. In one hysterical outburst, which was very unlike her, Marjorie had blamed Bill for Tim's death. She had told him that if hadn't indoctrinated their son to hate negroes he wouldn't have been out on the streets that night in the middle of one of New York's trouble spots. For a moment she had thought Bill was going to hit her, but without a word he had walked from the room. They had hardly spoken since, and now he seemed further away from her than ever.
When they arrived home Bill went straight to his study and locked the door, leaving Marjorie to cope with their relations. He had left for the graveside ceremony a bewildered broken-hearted man. Tim had been his pride and joy. He had returned resolute and filled with a fanatical hate. Those responsible for his son's death would pay with their own lives. Something in Bill Mavery's mind had cracked when he had been told the details of his son's death. He was no longer sane, although outwardly he appeared little different from usual. A little more taciturn perhaps, but nothing more.
He hadn't told Marjorie all the information he had insisted on hearing from the police. She didn't know that apart from being lynched their son had been sexually assaulted. She didn't know that some nigger had ... Bill couldn't repeat even to himself what he had been told by the police. He had visited all Tim's friends in hospital and urged them to try and remember what their attackers had looked like. But very little had emerged. One nigger looks very much like another. Only one thing had come to light from his constant questioning. One of the negroes had been well dressed, with regular features. One of Tim's friends said he had got the impression that this particular negro had been the leader of the gang which attacked them. None of the boys had been able to attend Tim's funeral. They were still in hospital.
That night Bill drove off in his car to attend the local meeting of ULAC of which he was branch secretary. ULAC stood for United League Against Coloureds, and was one of the many organizations banned by the new Kelland administration. ULAC continued to prosper, however, in spite of being driven underground. Mostly middle-class, its members were devoted to the task of keeping negroes out of white areas, white schools, and positions of influence. In ULAC, as in other such organizations, there were always to be found fully affiliated members of that other organization the Ku Klux Klan. Bill, as Marjorie had half suspected, was a member of the secretive, long-dreaded, and still powerful Ku Klux Klan.
After the meeting of ULAC, held in the house of a wealthy businessman by the name of Jess Konrad, which was well attended, Bill stayed behind when the others had left. Of all the other members of this particular branch of ULAC, only he and Jess were members of the Ku Klux Klan. Jess was a widower and had no children. About fifty years old he was ruddy-complexioned, with greying hair and steely blue eyes. He had two passions in his life-his implacable hatred of negroes, and his love of women. Since his wife died of a sudden heart attack ten years ago Jess had developed an insatiable need for young girls around twenty years of age. With this end in view he kept himself physically fit, and invariably started his day by swimming energetically in his garden swimming pool. Consequently his body was hard and muscled. This asset, combined with the fact that he was wealthy and a man of the world, enabled him to ensnare many a girl looking for just such a husband. But Jess liked variety, and few lasted more than a month or so.
In spite of the fact that his latest find was due to arrive at the house quite soon, Jess sat Bill Ma very down on one of his most comfortable chairs and produced a decanter of whisky and glasses. He knew that today Bill had buried his son, and that he must be feeling rough. They had met on several occasions since Tim's death, and ULAC members throughout New York had been given a description of the flashily dressed negro described by one of Tim's friends. But they had little hope in that direction. The town was full of such characters. Bill, however, didn't want to talk about Tim. He had something else on his mind. And it was something that made Jess Konrad sit up straight, his blue eyes looking incredulous.
"You can't be serious!" he exclaimed.
"I've never been more serious in my life," Bill replied in a steady voice. "Someone has got to stop President Robert T. Kelland. If you won't help, then by God I will do it myself."
Jess refilled their glasses. He agreed with Bill Mavery. Someone had got to stop the President before it was too late, and the country was being run by a pack of niggers. But until Bill had just brought up the subject, assassination hadn't occurred to him. It just wasn't feasible. Or was it? He raised his glass to his lips, listening to what Bill had to say. Two hours later they were still drinking and talking. Roanna Lindsberg, twenty year old night club singer, had been admitted to the house and was impatiently waiting for her host in his bedroom. She had taken a taxi from the club where she did her act, and was feeling a bit put out when Jess had met her at the door saying that he had an important business colleague in the sitting room, and would she mind waiting until he was through. She lit a cigarette and paced the luxurious bedroom nervously. This was her second visit to this house, and she saw no reason why in the near future she shouldn't be living here as the second Mrs. Jess Konrad. She heard a car door slam in the driveway outside, and pulling aside a curtain she was just in time to see a large Pontiac move away. She caught a glimpse of the man behind the wheel silhouetted in the dashboard lights. It wasn't long afterwards before Jess came into the bedroom. Roanna, an intelligent girl, noticed immediately that he was preoccupied, although he tried his best to hide it.
"I'm sorry baby," he murmured, taking her into his arms. "I couldn't get out of that one."
Roanna pulled him down onto the bed, and the preoccupied look began to leave Jess's face, to be replaced by a different expression altogether. Roanna was wearing a short, tightly fitting black skirt which emphasized the curves of her slim, girlish figure. He pushed her back onto the piled cushions, ruffling her short brown hair with one hand, while the other went on a tour underneath the provocative skirt. Jess had a large cock, and as his hand slipped underneath the silk of Roanna's panties, he felt the erecting excitement between his legs. He bent his head, sucking at Roanna's generous lips. She was one of the most desirable girls to swim into his net for a long time. He had got his hand right up into her crotch. It was warm and damp, and she started making small gurgling noises as his hand closed over her lush cunt.
Roanna, her pussy quickly aroused by Jess's bold investigation, put out her own hand, closing it onto the hard throbbing protuberance held back by his trousers. She started to fumble with his fly buttons, intending to get her hand around the naked waiting member, but Jess stopped her. Standing up he pulled her to her feet.
"Come on baby," he said thickly. "Let's go and have a bath."
At first Roanna thought he was joking, but as she was led into the bathroom with its large sunken bath she realized that Jess was serious. Not that she minded. It was the first time she'd tried it in a bath, but Roanna was willing to try anything once. While Jess turned on the taps she slowly undressed, carefully peeling off her clothes and stacking them neatly onto a chair. She saw that Jess was pouring a whole bottle of bath oil into the water, and the sweet fragrance filled the air. When he turned she was naked, her young breasts sticking up pertly, the downy bush of brown hair between her legs etched sharply against the milky whiteness of her skin. Keeping his eyes fixed on her Jess started to strip. He had a very good physique for a man of his age, and his skin was brown from long sessions with his sun lamp. His thick, eight inch phallus waved in the air and brushed against Roanna's thigh as she stepped into the warm fragrantly oily water.
"It's like having a bath in oil," she laughed, sinking down until the water was around her neck.
"All the better for you know what," Jess replied, getting into the bath by her side. Climbing on top of her he started to play with her tits, squeezing the beautiful rounded balls of soft flesh in his hands. His body half floated in the water on top of her, his stiff cock occasionally rubbing against her belly. With a sigh Roanna reached down and grasped it with both hands, sliding her palm over the pulsating knob. Jess began to grunt as Roanna rubbed his cock knob in the oily water, making his whole prick jerk and twitch as she did so.
Pulling his dick out of her clever hands he moved over onto his side, breathing hard in the steam coming off the bath water. Slipping his hand underneath Roanna's back he turned her onto her side, so that her back was facing him. Propelling himself forward in the water he pushed his rampant penis between her arse cheeks, where it slipped in snugly. His left hand playing with her bubbies, his right went round to her fanny. Roanna's head nearly went under the water as he pushed two oily fingers up into her cunt hole, causing her to push her arse backwards onto the hard stick between her bum cheeks. It wasn't long before she was squirming and moaning as Jess mercilessly frigged her clitty, forcing her to release some of her girl come onto his hand. It floated to the top of the water like a bubble of foam.
"Jess! Please Jess, you'll make me come too quickly." she said breathlessly. "Jess! Ooh! Jess!"
Jess took his fingers out of Roanna's oily wet cunt just as she started to thrash her legs in the water in helpless abandon. Sliding along the bottom of the bath he lay on his back. Roanna could see his large snaking penis in the water, and knew what he wanted her to do. Getting on her knees on either side of Jess's outstretched body, she gripped the sides of the bath with both hands. Jess meanwhile got hold of his near ejaculating cock in his hands and positioned it between Roanna's wide open legs, the knob placed square on her sex orifice. Carefully she began to lower herself onto the pulsating trunk inch by inch. Jess put his hands underneath his behind and pushed himself upwards, making Roanna gasp as the remaining few inches of his prick shot home into her fanny. Carefully she straightened her legs on either side of Jess's body, so that she was virtually sitting on his dick. Using the sides of the bath as a lever she moved herself up and down, causing swelling waves on the oily water. Jess kept his hands underneath his backside, pushing himself upwards every time Joanna came down.
Jess's senses began to blur, and his face contorted as spunk rose in his rigidly thick fuck stick.
"Faster, faster," he gasped. "Now, now, Roanna!"
Roanna, on the point of orgasm herself, pushed hard down on the cock speared into her vagina. Letting go of the sides of the bath she fell backwards into the water, writhing and squirming as she released her spunk. She felt Jess's penis swell inside her spunking cunt as she fought to keep her head above the water.
Jess stretched his body in a straight line. As Roanna went backwards he started to spurt his prick juice into her fuck hole in a long satisfying stream. Slowly his body began to relax, and Roanna struggled back into a sitting position, her curly hair dripping with water.
"That was good baby, real good," he murmured. "Come on, he on top of me, let me have a feel of those lovely bubbies of yours."
Roanna dutifully raised herself, and without taking Jess's ejaculated weapon out of her pussy managed to get her legs stretched out behind her. Then she wriggled herself on top of his hairy chest while his hands came up to her floating titties. He pushed one of her nipples into his mouth and bit hard.
"Jess, you beast," she protested. "Aren't you ever satisfied?"
Jess continued to nibble the hard little tit, while with one hand he began to explore Roanna's soft arse cheeks. He felt very happy and relaxed in the warm oily water, and he heard Roanna giggle as he pushed his hand down the ravine of her bum cheeks, pressing a finger against the tight rim of her anus. She squeezed her legs together, causing his cock still up her fanny to vibrate and start to stiffen again. Gently he inserted a finger up her arse, causing her to quiver and squirm.
"Jess, you are naughty," Roanna said, although in actual fact she was enjoying the probing her backside was receiving. She started to push her arse up and down on the frigging finger, and each time she did so she could feel Jess's cock stiffen. She rotated her arse sexily, and was soon rewarded by the jabbing hardness of the fuck stick snaking to a full erection inside her.
Jess pushed another finger up into Roanna's arse as it opened up underneath the frigging it was receiving. He continued to bite on her cherry as she thrashed the water. Her hands were clawing his shoulders. This is what he liked about these young girls. Once they decided to let themselves go there was no stopping them. He started to breathe hard as Roanna pumped herself up and down on his cock. It was all he could do to keep his fingers inside her arse as she worked them both up to another climax. Water came up over his mouth, causing him to splutter and let go of her titty. His other hand went down to Roanna's arse, pulling at the soft oily flesh, dragging her down onto his freshly excited rod.
"That's right, keep on doing that. That's fine," he gasped, as Roanna's stomach met his, and she started to wriggle with little sexy movements. He was coming for the second time, he could feel it. His body was going stiff again. He took his fingers out of Roanna's well frigged arsehole, and catching hold of her buttocks dug them into the yielding flesh.
"O.K. let's go baby," he groaned. "Let's go, let's go...."
Roanna's arms went around Jess's hard bulky body, her nails digging into his skin. With a snuffling whimper she started to ejaculate again, her whole body suffused with a helpless but beautiful feeling of complete release. The walls of her vagina closed like a vice on Jess's penis, sucking the spunk out of his inflamed arrowhead. For a brief second Jess trembled violently, then his muscles tautened beneath the spunking girl, and with a sigh he released another spurt of semen into Roanna's well fucked cunt. His head slipped on the edge of the bath and he went straight under the water. When he came up, spluttering, Roanna was laughing and reaching up he tweaked one of her cherries. It was the one he had been biting, and the girl winced.
"What are you? Some sort of sadist?" she said rubbing her inflamed tit.
"It's still early yet, stick around and find out," Jess replied lazily.
"This is one girl who's going to bed," Roanna replied firmly.
Carefully she levered herself off his still stiff cock.
"For someone of your age you don't do so badly," she murmured, and skipped quickly out of the bath as Jess made another grab for her udders. He stayed in the bath watching her as she showered, dried herself and put on one of his dressing gowns. She lit two cigarettes and brought one over to him. Jess thought she even looked sexy in a dressing gown that was far too large for her slim figure.
"How did the show go tonight?" he asked.
Roanna shrugged. "That bastard who conducts the band fluffed two of my numbers, but apart from that...."
"Stick it out baby. I'm sort of friends with the owner of the Gargoyle. At the right time I'll put in a word for you."
Roanna's brown eyes lit up. "I'd like that Jess, I really would. That club has real class. More than you can say for the Intime. I'm frankly fed up with the place. As for that jerk who runs it! He gives me the creeps. Stands on the sidelines every time I go out on stage and drools. And he always manages to be in my dressing room when I'm about to change. Every time I have to ask him to leave. There's hardly enough room for one in that place, never mind two."
Jess laughed. "Oh Mick's all right. He's just got a crush on you that's all. He won't try anything. Probably run a mile if you gave him the come-on."
"I'm not likely to risk trying it," Roanna answered. "When are you going to get out of that bath? A girl has got to have some sleep-beauty sleep you know!"
"Women are always the same," Jess grumbled, getting out of the bath. He went over to the shower and started humming to himself. Although Roanna hadn't known him very long, she had known him long enough to detect that when he hummed it was usually a sign that he was preoccupied.
"What sort of business were you discussing with your caller this evening?" she called out.
Turning off the shower and grabbing a towel Jess looked across at Roanna who was still perched on the side of the bath.
"Little girls shouldn't be too curious. But then she was a big girl now. She was twenty years old and knew her way around a boudoir better than some twice her age. But the trick was not to appear too smart. Men didn't like it. She pouted, a little girl pout.
"I only asked," she said, and was rewarded when Jess walked over and put his arms around her shoulders.
"Come on, let's go to bed baby. I've got something to show you."
Roanna giggled. "Not until I've had some shuteye," she said. "Otherwise I won't be able to hit a right note tomorrow night."
"Don't worry baby, I won't damage your voice," Jess told her.
Once in bed with the light out Roanna fell asleep almost immediately. Jess could hear her breathing quietly. He lay awake some time. He was thinking about Bill Mavery. Could they really do it? Could two men change the history of the world? Jess felt the blood pulsating through his veins in sudden excitement. Why not? Someone had got to stop what was happening in America. The soft-livered policy of equal rights for blacks was wrong. Any man who propagated such a policy must be wrong in the head. That a President of the United States should stand up and defend the blacks was an insult to every white American citizen.
But he had warned Bill Mavery of the dangers that they both risked. He had also pointed out that once Robert T. Kelland had been removed his brother, Edward D. Kelland, who was at the moment Vice-President, would automatically take over.
"It doesn't matter," Bill Mavery had argued. "The second Kelland will be so nervous about what happened to his brother that he won't dare to pursue this insane racial integration policy. What has happened to my son could happen to any white citizen in this country. And at the moment things have only just started. None of us will be safe if the niggers are encouraged to militant action."
And Jess had agreed. He was a man who all his life had been strongly opposed to the negroes having any part in the running of the United States. Americans they might be on paper, but their black hearts were no more American than the savages who swung from the trees in the African jungles. There were hundreds of people up and down the country who thought the same. All his business associates argued that the Kelland line was wrong. Only cranky intellectuals and so called Liberals voted the Kelland ticket. Roanna slept on, unaware of the thoughts going through the mind of the man she slept with. Unaware that she was sleeping with a would-be partner in assassination.
THE PRESIDENT IS DEAD, LONG LIVE THE PRESIDENT
Robert T. Kelland, President, and his wife Mabel, arrived at the Kelland family home in style. Sitting in the back of a pale blue Cadillac they were preceded and followed by Secret Service cars, their sirens screaming. On either side of them motorcycle escorts completed their entourage. Mrs. Jenny Kelland, standing at one of the windows of the large house, sighed as the Presidential entourage entered her drive. She could see more cars arriving at the rear of the procession, and men jumping out of the vehicles and taking up positions in the grounds. She hoped they wouldn't trample on her flower beds. She wondered if she would ever get accustomed to one of her sons being President. She doubted it. All the fuss and bother confused her. She liked a quiet life, but since Robert had been voted President more and more of her privacy had been invaded. She wished her husband was still alive. He would have been proud of Robert, and would have known how to cope with the publicity that spilled over onto her doorstep.
As she watched she saw another large chauffeur driven car arrive at the gates of the short driveway. She recognized it as belonging to Edward, the Vice-President no less. She was faintly amused to observe that the car was stopped by members of Robert's entourage. As Vice-President, and the President's brother, she was surprised at the delay. Not that Edward, in his office of Vice-President, had much to do. The manner in which the American administration was planned left the Vice-President out in the cold. But Robert tried to make things easier for his brother by giving him jobs to carry out. At last the Vice-Presidential car was allowed through the cordon, and Mrs. Jenny Kelland went downstairs to receive the two brothers. She glanced at her watch. The third of her three sons should be here at any minute-Senator John Kelland. She sighed again, wondering how on earth her three sons had become so passionately involved in politics. A very wealthy family, all three could, if they had so wished, live a life of idle leisure. She supposed that they all had something of their father in them. A driving ambition that had enabled Mr. Kelland, senior, to amass a huge fortune through industrial enterprise. For ambitious wealthy young men, who had no need to compete in the labour market, politics had been the obvious answer.
She greeted Robert and his wife Mabel, and then proceeded to Edward and his wife Mary. Greetings over they all turned to go into the spacious and quietly elegant sitting-room, when there was the sound of another car arriving. It was John with his young wife Vicki. Mrs. Jenny Kelland never knew how to take her youngest son's wife. She came from a good American family, but had been educated in Europe. She was always scrupulously polite, and her manners were perfect, but there was something about the girl that made Mrs. Kelland nervous. She didn't know if it was her accent, which had no trace of American, the way she dressed, or perhaps the undoubted beauty of the girl which made her feel ill at ease. Whatever it was Vicki was not "homely" like the other two girls.
Vicki shook hands with Mrs. Kelland and slipped out of her Balanciaga stiffly white duster coat to reveal a daringly cut Balanciaga dress made from almost transparent eggshell blue sealskin. There was nothing ostentatious about the dress, but it clung to her shapely figure like a second skin. She wore black fishnet stockings, and very high heeled black shoes with large silver buckles. The dress had no straps, and was moulded to her superb breasts, plunging down at the back to reveal flawless white skin. Her raven black hair hung on her shoulders, and a Cleopatra fringe came down on her forehead, emphasizing the deep Mediterranean blue of her eyes. A thick band of gold encircled her slim neck, and a wide solid gold slave bangle encircled one of her wrists. She moved like a queen, and made the other two wives, including Mabel, the First Lady of America, look like frumps.
This evening was a purely family dinner, and Mrs. Kelland had requested her sons to dress informally. Mabel and Mary were both wearing silk flowered dresses, in keeping with the warm weather. Vicki herself was, of course, dressed informally. She was not wearing an evening dress, and the short Balanciaga sealskin creation was meant for just such an occasion. But Balanciaga, plus Vicki's "presence" made the other two women feel that they ought to have made more effort. Mabel in particular was furious at Vicki's sensational entrance into the Kelland living room. Not that it showed on her face. After one year as the President's wife Mabel had at least learned to mask her thoughts. She watched her husband, Robert, bow over Vicki's outstretched hand like a European gigolo, and it made her sick. When Robert had been made President, she had thought herself in a safe harbour. For a long time she had suspected Robert and Vicki of having an "affair" behind her back and behind the back of Vicki's husband John. But she had no proof, and she never dared say anything. It would have looked too much like personal jealousy of Vicki's undeniable beauty. But being the First Lady of America hadn't made an iota of difference as far as her relationship with Vicki was concerned. The girl remained her usual calm arrogant self, and invariably outshone every other woman present at whatever gathering she happened to be invited.
Not that Mabel could pinpoint Vicki's arrogance. Always when they met Vicki was meticulously polite, and since Mabel's husband had become President Vicki never failed to stand aside to let her pass. No, it wasn't anything she actually did. She was too clever for that. It was something about the way she held her head, and the hint of mockery in those deeply blue eyes. Now as she watched Vicki greet everyone she wondered why she hadn't worn a dress a little more original than the one she was wearing. She might have known that Vicki would appear in something startling, whether the occasion was informal or not. What Mabel hadn't realized was that it wasn't the dress which made the woman, but the woman who made the dress. But then what woman with a plain face and limitless money would admit a thing like that? Certainly not Mabel.
They all sat down to dinner at a round table beautifully arranged with crystal glass and flowers. Vicki's blue eyes gazed serenely across at Mabel, and for a brief, very brief second, there was no doubting the mockery they held. Mabel felt herself go hot, but remained calm. But Vicki had noticed the very slight flush on Mabel's face. It was enough! She had made her point that she didn't give a damn if Mabel was First Lady of America or a reincarnation of the Virgin Mary. She turned her attention to Mabel's husband, Robert, who was seated on her left.
"And what news do you have this evening Mr. President?" she asked in a teasing voice. "Is the world still a safe place to live in?"
"You should ask your husband, the Senator," Robert quipped back. "I'm only the President."
"Doesn't anyone want my opinion?" Edward chipped in.
"I'm waiting Mr. Vice-President," Vicki smiled. Edward cleared his throat. "I pronounce the world safe so long as we poor males can rely on the protection of our wives," he said in a mock-pompous tone.
"I would hardly call that a political statement Mr. Vice-President," Vicki remarked.
"Politics are not to be discussed this evening," Mrs. Jenny Kelland interrupted. "I absolutely forbid it."
Vicki began to enjoy herself. She was glad politics were to be banned, even for a short time. Once the three brothers got together on the subject dearest to their hearts-politics-there was no stopping them. Mabel now launched into a long story about how she ripped her dress at a reception and was forced to keep her handbag over the tear. Vicki wasn't really listening, but was studying the faces of the three Kelland brothers. They all had the Kelland chin-firm and decisive. But the likeness ended there. Her husband, John, had brown hair and mild brown eyes. He was always calm, and he never did anything without considering all the possibilities first. He was well built, like all the Kelland brothers, but he wasn't a dynamic personality.
Robert was dynamic, and had, in Vicki's opinion, considerable sexual magnetism. He had fair hair, and keen grey eyes. He could be impulsive and fun to be with. Vicki had often wondered why he had chosen someone like Mabel to be his wife. She had never asked him how they met. He was already married when she came onto the scene, and there sprang up between them an instant mutual attraction. Mabel had been suspicious from the word go, and with good reason. Vicki remembered that first time with Robert, before he became President. She and John had been on Malibu beach with Robert and Mabel. It had been a blazing hot day and all four of them had been stretched out in front of a private chalet which they had rented, luxuriating in the hot sun and golden sand. Vicki remembered she had been wearing a very brief white bikini, and as she had appeared from the chalet with Mabel both her husband and Robert had watched her walk across the sand. Mabel, in those early days, was suspicious all right, but not half so suspicious as she became later.
Robert had stood up, saying he was going for a walk along the seashore and would anyone join him. No one moved, and finally Vicki had said that she wouldn't mind a stroll. They had wandered off together-something that Mabel would never allow to happen now. But she had been too late. They were no sooner out of sight of John and Mabel lying on the beach than Robert had turned to her, a half smile on his handsome face.
"Are you by any chance thinking what I'm thinking Vicki?" he asked.
"John is your brother," she had countered.
"I know," he had replied. "But I can't help it. I've dreamt about you every night since John first introduced you. I want you more than any other woman I've wanted in my life."
She had stood still, the warm water lapping her feet, the sun hot on her shoulders. She looked at Robert's lean athletic body, sun tanned and vitally alive. Underneath his brief blue swimming shorts she could see that he was already excited. Her legs went weak, and she knew that she wanted him too. And she wanted him now.
Robert sensed that she felt the same way as he did. He had always known of course, but this was the first time they had been alone together.
"Over there," he said, pointing to a headland jutting out to sea. "I know this beach well. I used to come here when I was a kid. Come on."
Catching hold of her hand they had run along the beach together, dodging the incoming waves. As they neared the headland it became rocky, and there were few people around, preferring the softness of the sand to the hard rocks. Without hesitation Robert had led her up a steep incline cut into the rock face. The last few yards she was forced to hang onto his hand to prevent herself from slipping backwards, but finally they made it. She found they were on a small platform out into the rock face outside the entrance to a cave.
"I used to play here for hours," Robert had told her.
The floor of the cave was sandy, and it was beautifully cool after the glare of the sun. They lay down side by side and Robert's hands had reached out for her. Firm, strong hands, that made her tremble with lust that consumed every fibre of her body.
"You're so beautiful, you're so beautiful," he kept on saying as his deft hands eased her bikini over her hips. Just as deftly he had released the straps which held her full breasts. Lying naked on the cool sand in the darkened cave Vicki had given full rein to her passionate nature. She had helped Robert get out of his bathing shorts, her eyes feasting on his long thick prick. Getting astride her face he had licked his way down her body, making her cry out with acute pleasure as his lips went between her legs, licking and kissing her cunt slit, teasing her quivering vagina entrance with his tongue. She had dug her naked feet into the sand, pushing her cunt hard up into his face, willing him to put his tongue inside her waiting orifice. He did so, and with a moan she had reached up, playing with his heavily hanging balls before bending his rigid cock to her mouth. Pushing the foreskin back she greedily licked the large throbbing crown, swallowing the escaping prick juice that ran into her throat. Robert's tongue had now gone straight into her cunt hole, brushing against her wet clitty, making her body shake with the fever of a rising climax.
She maneuvered Robert's redly pulsating knob into the back of her throat and kept it there, almost choking on the bitter tasting juices which ran off the throbbing phallus. He had got his hands under her arse now, frigging her clitty with his tongue with hard vigorous up and down movements of his head. Her legs went up in the air, waving and kicking as if they had a life of their own. She couldn't help it. He was bringing her to a boiling climax. Catching hold of the base of his swollen jerking cock with one hand, she gently squeezed his scrotum with the other. At the same time she was sucking long and hard on the rampantly potent fuck stick which was filling her mouth to capacity. They both started to moan together, their sucking and licking changing up to top gear. Faster, and yet faster. She was in the beautiful never-never land of an imminent climax, and still he was flicking her clitty from side to side with his tongue. It was coming, she couldn't hold it back any more. Her legs came together, clamping on either side of Robert's head, filling his mouth with the plentiful come which ran out of her wide open quim lips. Again she pushed her hips upwards, urging him to suck her cunt dry of her long drawn-out quivering orgasm.
Robert felt Vicki's legs close over his head, and the orifice under his lips open like a flower, filling his mouth with honey. Then, and only then, did he release the raging torrent of spunk which he had been holding back with difficulty. He pushed his ejaculating cock hard down into Vicki's throat, spunking with all the virility at his command. She began to choke, gasping for breath, and still the spurting cream continued. Robert never remembered having such a long orgasm, or such an enjoyable one. He had known from the first moment he had met Vicki that it would be like this. He would want her again. Want her in a different way. He would like to spend a week with her. A week in' bed, so that they could try all the things he wanted to do to her.
Such had been Vicki's first physical encounter with the eldest of the Kelland brothers. When they had returned to the beach chalet John and Mabel had still been lying the sun. Mabel had been polite but cold. John had been his usual self. Vicki sometimes wondered if John knew or cared about her infidelities. When they had first married he had seemed interested enough in her sexually, and she had been more than a willing partner. But after the first few months he seemed to lose his enthusiasm. It was something that Vicki couldn't really understand. She never lost her enthusiasm for sex. She had been born that way. Her sensuous body had been designed for love, and she liked to give her appetites full rein. She didn't really mind that John seemed to be more immersed in his work than their marital bed. There were so many others willing to take his place. And so long as he didn't know, or didn't care....
Mabel had come to the end of her story, and Vicki took the dreamy reminiscent smile off her face. Looking at Robert now she realized he had changed since that first day on the beach at Malibu. Being President had aged him. It was difficult for her to realize his important position. The scenes outside the Kelland home this evening for instance. The Secret Police, the guards, the dogs, the flashing press cameras. All because one man has dinner with his family. He was no longer just Robert T. Kelland. He was The President. He was the most important man in America. But to Vicki he was still just Robert, the man she liked, and to whom she was still physically attracted. And Mabel was still the same old Mabel, in spite of the airs and graces she assumed in her role as the President's wife.
After dinner they sat around just talking for a while, then they all took their leave of Mrs. Jenny Kelland. Tomorrow was a hard day for all of them. The President was due to appear in Los Angeles to make a speech on the two subjects guaranteed to send up the temperature of any American. One was racial integration at home, and the other was American aid towards friendly countries, particularly European countries. They were Robert's two pet topics, and he was determined to pass legislation throughout the United States giving negroes equal rights. Just as he was determined to continue massive American support to friendly countries overseas. An American isolation policy was anathema to all three Kelland brothers, and both John and Edward would be with Robert in Los Angeles tomorrow. So, of course, would be their wives. The Kelland family was due to demonstrate its solidarity.
The Presidential motorcade formed and left the precincts of Los Angeles airport, on its way to the down town Ambassador Hotel. There the President was to make a speech which would go out on the radio networks and also be televised. In the rear of the motorcade Vicki sat with her husband John. In front of them was the car holding Edward, the Vice-President, and his wife Mary. In front of the Vice-Presidential car was the President's open topped blue convertible Cadillac. As the motorcade snaked left at a junction Vicki saw Mabel giving queenly waves from the back seat of the Cadillac. She grinned to herself, knowing how much Mabel would be enjoying the ride. There was a big turnout, and lots of children waving flags. Vicki also saw some people who carried placards condemning the Kelland line on racial segregation. John leaned over in his seat towards her.
"Stop smiling to yourself Vicki and smile at the crowds," he said.
Vicki looked at her husband in surprise. His voice, usually so calm and controlled, held a hint of tension. She was about to say that the waiting crowds weren't interested in them, when she changed her mind and did as she had been told. After a while she stopped. It made her face ache, and no one returned her smiles anyway. Just stared.
Outside the Ambassador Hotel police fought to keep back the growing crowds. Amongst the crowd itself short sharp scuffles broke out as Secret Service agents slammed into placard carriers criticizing the President. They didn't waste much time in argument. Closing in on the placard carriers they swung their rubber truncheons, slamming the unfortunate man half unconscious to the ground. He was then dragged out of the crowd and pushed into waiting police vans. The police themselves, tough, quick to violence, were mild in their approach compared with agents of the Secret Service. Inside the hotel Clifton Douglas, head of the Secret Service, sat in a room converted into his private office dishing out a constant stream of orders. A bull necked, iron grey haired man, with small, suspicious eyes, he stood for no nonsense from anyone. He was in constant touch by radio with the advancing motorcade, and his agents sent in terse cryptic reports on their exact position and the speed the motorcade was travelling. Apart from the police holding back the crowds, the Presidential car was surrounded by Secret Service agents running alongside on foot. Special S. S. men also formed the motorcycle escort. Clifton Douglas, who had only recently reached his high position as head of the Secret Service, was determined that nothing go wrong. He had personally given orders that all anti-Kelland demonstrators were to be treated "rough." In Secret Service jargon this meant anything from a thorough beating up to plain murder.
The head of the motorcade finally reached the hotel gates, and people were bursting through the struggling ranks of civil police, pushed forwards by those behind. Secret Service agents on motorcycles deliberately ran into those who were getting too close to the Presidential car. Agents on foot charged at them head first and there were cries of pain as bones were broken, which were drowned by the cheering mass. Eventually the Presidential car slid through the gates, and Clifton Douglas, watching from his "office" window, gave an enormous sigh of relief. Protecting a Presidential motorcade was no picnic, and he had been worried. There were too many anti-Kelland demonstrators He knew that the President's Los Angeles speech wasn't going to be too popular with a certain section of the population, and he had been prepared for trouble. But the worst part was over. The President and his entourage were inside the hotel, and he gave instructions for the whole building and grounds to be sealed. No one could enter or leave without a special pass.
At this point in the proceedings Vicki began to get bored. She and John were surrounded by Los Angeles bigwigs, mostly businessmen and their wives. There wasn't a coloured face in sight, which she thought amusing when she thought of Robert's forthcoming speech. John was arguing local politics heatedly, and she tried to talk to some of the women who only seemed interested in the personal details of the President's life. She continued to smile and answer the more personal questions as evasively as she could. She wondered what these middle-aged smartly dressed women would say if she asked them if they would like to hear about the President's sex life. They were all congregated in what was called the Embassy Room of the hotel. It was huge, filled with flowers and people. Robert and Mabel were standing on a stage at one end of the room surrounded by local dignitaries and flashing press cameras. A battery of huge television cameras was being wheeled into position. The President was due to make his broadcast in half an hour's time.
Eventually Clifton Douglas ordered his agents to clear the press out of the room. They didn't argue with the tough determined men who grabbed them by the arm and led them towards the door. Press photographers learn to respect representatives of the Secret Service. Jon Loose, aged thirty, dark haired, tall, thin and gangling, ordered his team of four to wheel number one television camera into place. The crowded room became silent, watching as the President took his stand at the lectern. Mabel sat on a chair by his side. It had been decided at the last minute that she stay in front of the television cameras while her husband made his speech. Vicki fought her way to John's side. She knew the television speech was going to be fairly short, which was just as well as they were apparently all expected to remain standing. The President cleared his throat and glanced down at his notes. Two of the television cameras were switched on, throwing a white light over the President and his wife. A count-down was started. The President kept his eyes on camera number one, the biggest of the lot. Jon Loose, sitting on the camera pad, held his hand in the air. When he pressed a switch and dropped his hand the President would be brought into the homes of millions of Americans all over the country and he could begin his speech. Sweat poured off Jon Loose's face, and one of his camera crew grinned, thinking that the effort of televising a President was too much for him.
Jon dropped his hand and pushed down the switch. The President opened his mouth to speak. As he did so number one camera went mad. There was a flash of fusing electricity, the sound of shattering glass, and then, incredibly to the watching audience, the rattle of a machine gun. Jon Loose leapt from the camera pad white and shaking, and suddenly women were screaming and men fighting to get out of the way of the spreading machine gun bullets which seemed to be coming direct from the camera lens. The President and his wife fell to the floor, riddled with bullets, blood pouring from their multiple wounds. They were both dead before they hit the ground. Television viewers saw them fall before the screens suddenly went black. Pandemonium reigned in the Embassy room of the Ambassador Hotel. Besides the President and his wife several more bodies lay bleeding on the ground. The spraying bullets had hit some people standing on left of the platform from which the President had been intending to make his speech. Vicki found herself separated from John, and started desperately to make her way to the exit without getting trampled to death. She lost her handbag, her hat, and was at one point practically trodden underfoot. But at last she made it, breathless and horrified at what she had just witnessed.
Clifton Douglas, who had been standing just inside the doors of the Embassy room, was first of all shocked numb. He just couldn't believe, for a moment, that what he was now witnessing was true. Then he snapped into action.
"Clear the room," he bellowed. "Clear the room. Hold all television crews. That one, over there." His finger was pointing to Jon Loose, who stood leaning weakly against the shattered television camera It leaned crookedly to one side, smoke pouring out of the broken lens. Secret Service agents, thankful for a direct order in the middle of all the chaos, fought their way over to the demoralized television crews. Jon Loose didn't protest when manacles were snapped onto his wrists and he was dragged from the screaming struggling mass of people out of the Embassy room. All over America people sat in front of their blacked out television screens dumbfounded.
The television crews were herded into a small bunch and ringed by agents holding guns. But the guns were pointing outwards. The Ambassador Hotel seemed to have become full of homicidal maniacs. Men and women, strong supporters of President Kelland, were raging through the corridors looking for a scapegoat. When they saw that the television crews had been rounded up they were thought to be guilty of the crime that had been committed in the Embassy room. But for the protecting ring of armed men they would all have been killed. Clifton Douglas, sensing that the situation was likely to get out of hand, ordered the television crews to be taken to the Los Angeles police headquarters. They were bundled into elevators and taken down to the ground floor. Outside the hotel things were no better than inside. News of the assassination had spread like wildfire-the fact that the President was actually seen to fall on the television screens was enough. The entrance to the Ambassador Hotel was a seething mass of newspaper reporters, struggling police, Secret Service agents, and hundreds of ordinary citizens who had rushed to the hotel to find out what had happened. The police and the Secret Service were determined to keep everyone out of the hotel. Newspaper reporters and scores of other people seemed determined to get in.
Somehow a gangway was cleared for the small party of television crewmen surrounded by agents holding guns. They made their way slowly but surely towards a waiting police van. Suddenly Jon Loose stopped dead in his tracks, forcing the agent to whom he was manacled to stop as well. His mouth opened but he made no sound. Instead an intense look of surprise spread across his face. He stood swaying for a brief moment and then fell. The Secret Service man bent over him in an effort to drag him to his feet. When he took his hand away it was covered with blood.
"Christ, he's been shot," he shouted. He waved his gun wildly at the crowds of people. "It's someone out there. Whoever it is must be using a silencer. This guy has got it in the side of his head."
Clifton Johnson, who had been standing on the hotel steps, leapt to the side of the agent and bent over the man who had been in charge of number one television crew. He was dead all right. The bullet had smashed into the back of his head, causing a gaping hole. The grey mass of the man's brains were oozing out of the hole, plus blood. The blood was coming out faster and faster, spreading in a pool on the ground. One of the other television crewmen began to go to pieces.
"Get us out of here," he yelled. "For God's sake get us out of here. We'll be killed. They'll tear us to pieces."
He turned, trying to force his way out of the ringed Secret Service guards. Clifton stepped forward and slammed the butt of his gun on the back of the man's head. He collapsed to the ground without a sound.
"Now," he rasped. "Get these men into that van. And jump to it."
He turned to the agent who was still manacled to the shot man. "Get him into one of the ambulances as quickly as possible," he snapped. "Although it won't do that jerk any good."
Not more than a block away a car roared into life and shot off into the busy traffic. At the wheel sat Bill Mavery, perspiration trickling down his beefy-red face. But there was a gleam of triumph in his eyes. It had been necessary to silence forever Jon Loose. He had been a member of ULAC and Jess Konrad had known about him from the days when Jess lived in Los Angeles. However, it had taken a great deal of money and a lot of persuasion to bring Jon Loose round to the plan which Bill had devised himself. Half the money was paid to him on the spot, once he had agreed to the plan, and the other half was to be paid afterwards. Bill and Jess had pooled together to produce the first half of the bribery money, and that was the only weak link as far as Bill could see. Loose had agreed that it would be necessary for him to salt away the money secretly, as his background was bound to be checked after the event. As he was in charge of television camera number one, he would be the chief suspect. He was to deny any knowledge of the camera being tampered with. Externally there was no sign of the cunningly hidden light machine gun fixed inside the wide lens hood. All he had to do was focus the sights on the President and press the switch in the normal way. But Bill couldn't risk Loose sticking to his complete innocence story. He knew, more than Jon Loose realized, how tough and mean an FBI and Secret Service interrogation could be. He had foreseen that the television crews would be taken out of the hotel for questioning. It had all happened exactly as he had planned. Only the money paid to Loose remained a worry, but not a very big one. If they did manage to trace it, they would draw the obvious conclusion. The dead man had been bribed by someone, and they would do everything in their power to find out the identity of that someone. But Bill was confident they would never trace it to him. He had been very careful in his meetings with Loose, only talking with him in the privacy of his car at night in virtually deserted car parks. No one knew of his connection with the man he had just murdered.
As he hit one of the Los Angeles exit highways he pressed down on the accelerator, and then immediately slowed down again to the required speed. This was no time to be stopped by the cops. He switched on the car radio. An excited announcer was babbling the recent events which had taken place at the Ambassador Hotel. He ended up by announcing that Edward D. Kelland, as Vice President, had automatically become the new President of the United States. "The President is dead, long live the President," Bill muttered to himself before snapping off the radio.
A thoughtful expression crossed his fleshy face.
For the time being he was satisfied. He felt he had avenged the death of his son at the hands of militant negroes roused to violence by the words of a President who had gone soft in the head. As had been expected another Kelland had taken over the Presidential Office. He hoped that the new President would be more rational.
Bill Mavery was no longer a fairly ordinary businessman who happened to have strong anti-negro feelings. Bending over the grave of his dead son he had become a fanatical killer. He was dangerous. Just how dangerous had already been demonstrated an incredulous nation.
THE SECOND PRESIDENT KELLAND
Edward D. Kelland and his wife Mary, had occupied the White House for two years. Edward had taken up the cudgels which his murdered brother had been forced to drop. Robert's assassin had never been proved, although popular belief held that the murdered television technician had been responsible, and that he had been shot down by an unknown irate member of the public. At the beginning there was a lot of controversy on this point, and dark rumours had circulated about who might be responsible for the first President Kelland's assassination. But as time wore on the controversy was pushed into the background of people's minds. The new head of the Secret Service, however, never managed to push the events of two years ago into his subconscious. He was only too aware that what had happened once could happen again. General Gordon Marlborough, therefore, was a very worried man every time the President appeared in public, which was often. A President of a democracy cannot hide behind bullet-proof barriers all the time.
John Harold Kelland, the third and youngest of the Kelland brothers, had been nominated Vice President. It seemed that the country was determined to keep a Kelland at the helm. Victoria, or Vicki, his wife, found that she had to do a lot more entertaining as the wife of the Vice-President. They had taken a large house on the outskirts of Washington, not far from the Kelland family home. Vicki quite enjoyed her role as hostess. She found, to her satisfaction, that she was meeting some interesting people. And in Vicki's book, that didn't just mean interesting to talk to.
Bill Mavery in New York had become one of the directors of American Marine Insurance Ltd. As a director he did less work and got more money. His wife Marjorie had taken up with several women's organizations, and was hardly ever in the house. Bill didn't seem to mind. Most of his spare time was taken up with his own pet organization-ULAC. Their son Jerry, now approaching twenty, had finished his education at his own request. He could have continued if he had so wished, but he didn't want to remain a student any longer. He had left home and was living in a small apartment in the centre of New York. Through the recommendations of a friend he had joined the Secret Service, an organization which seemed to suit his devious and obvious and often sadistic mind. He visited home sometimes, but was reluctant to talk about his work, and Bill didn't press him. No one at the house mentioned Tim's name any more, although none of them were likely to forget the horrible way he had died. Rod, the youngest of Bill's sons, particularly missed his elder brother. They had gone around a lot together, and he felt guilty because he wasn't with Tim on the night he and his gang were attacked. Both Jerry and Rod shared their father's views about negroes. They hated them, and what had happened to Tim made their hate implacable. Racism is often found in emotionally unbalanced individuals, but Colonel Victor Knowles, head of Jerry's Secret Service department, found his new recruit likeable enough and adaptable to the type of work that would be required of him once his training was completed.
The branch of the Secret Service in which Jerry was employed was known as Internal Security. It was mainly devoted to detecting, tracking down, and if necessary eliminating those who represented a threat to the personal safety of the President.
The Secret Service required its agents to be persevering, tough, and when it came to the crunch, ruthless. Jerry Mavery gave the impression of possessing all these qualifications, and Colonel Knowles was duly satisfied with his progress. He sent Jerry on a further intensive training course. A large part of this was concerned in teaching the art of attack and self-defense-as the curriculum would have it. In more down to earth jargon it meant how to kill before getting killed. Particularly how to kill. The Secret Service, over years, had learned a lot from its European counterparts. It appreciated the subtlety with which European Intelligence agents arranged "accidents," and was at pains to point out to recruits that an accidental overdose of sleeping tablets, a slip from a high window, or an automobile crash, was much more appreciated than hail of bullets or a knife in the back. Colonel Knowles would have taken an overdose of sleeping tablets himself if he had known that one of his new bright boys was the son of the man who had engineered the assassination of President Robert T. Kelland. But he didn't know and neither did Jerry. Only one other man alive possessed that knowledge, and he was Jess Konrad.
During this intensive training period Jerry was required to five in the large rambling and gloomy barrack-like dwelling outside New York in which the Secret Service trained some of its agents. He kept his small apartment in central New York, GO however, and once his course was finished resumed living there. Colonel Knowles reckoned that a further few months of polishing and Jerry would be ready for his first assignment.
Once back in his apartment Jerry dialed what few acquaintances he had, and drawing a blank each time went out onto the streets. He was a well built youth with short-cropped dark hair and black eyes that could stare people down much older and more experienced than himself. At school he had excelled in gymnastics, and his present job encouraged him to keep in shape. He was also highly sexed, and on this particular night he roamed the streets of New York like a hunting animal. He had only had one regular girl friend, but she had finally given him up when she discovered that he was only interested in one thing-and that wasn't marriage. Jerry hadn't been heartbroken. He had enjoyed her while it lasted.
After calling into several bars and seeing nothing that interested him, Jerry decided to go into the Gargoyle Club. He had never been there before, and they stung him for an entrance fee. He didn't mind. Apart from the salary he was now receiving from the Secret Service, his father made him an allowance. The interior of the Gargoyle was classy, but not so classy as to be oppressive. Jerry propped himself up at a long bar and ordered bourbon. They stung him for that as well, but it was something one learned to accept in these sort of joints. All around the large room diners were eating in alcoves, and at the far end a band kept everyone happy by playing not too obtrusively. The music stopped and Roanna Lindberg sauntered out onto the empty floor holding a microphone. Dressed in a clinging black sheath dress that came down to her ankles, brown curly hair casually brushed back, she presented an interesting combination of sophistication and the girl next door. Her movements were sexy without being too obvious, and her husky voice broke in just the right places. She started with an old number "Falling In Love Again," and Jerry knew he had found what he was looking for. All that remained was getting it. He slipped a few dollar bills over the counter for which he was told that the girl's name was Roanna Lindsberg, and although she usually kept clear of the customers something might be arranged. He slipped some more money over the counter and told the ageing weary faced barman to see to it.
Roanna, walking slowly past the diners in their alcoves as she sang, nevertheless noticed the dark haired young man at the counter. She also noticed the money being passed to the barman and understood. She finished her song close to the bar, her brown eyes meeting Jerry's dark ones. Amidst applause she started on another. She didn't look at Jerry again. Roanna never had managed to become Mrs. Jess Konrad, and she had given up the idea. She still saw him, although only occasionally. He had got her this job in the Gargoyle, and had been generous in other ways too. She wasn't complaining. She came to realize that Jess would probably never get married again. He was too interested in variety, and too wily to get himself tied down. In the meantime she was doing well at the Gargoyle, and didn't lack in admirers. Usually she kept clear of the Gargoyle customers-particularly the regulars. They could become a nuisance. But she hadn't seen the young man at the bar before, and she was interested. She wasn't surprised when she received a note in her dressing room requesting her to join him for a drink. She looked at the signature. Jerry Mavery. She'd never heard of him.
Jerry watched with appreciation as she came over to the bar. The fluidity of her hips sent a jolt of energy through his body, starting between his legs. She ordered Vodka on ice, and he pulled his stool close. Introductions over he turned on the charm. Jerry could be charming when he wished, although it wasn't a common occurrence.
"How many times have you been told you're beautiful?"
"At least once a day for as long as I remember. But I still dig that kind of talk," Roanna laughed.
"What time do you get through at this place?"
"I have another spot at midnight, then I'm through. Why? You got ideas?"
"Lots of them I've got a small apartment not far away. Nothing jazzy, but it's private.
Roanna debated. She liked to live in comfort. At the same time she knew very little about this young man, except that he attracted her. She made up her mind.
"O.K. Your place it is Mr. Mavery. Now can I have another drink?"
He took Roanna's hand in his. "You can have anything you want."
"Brave words for a young man. We'll see!"
Roanna tossed off her drink, and sliding off the bar stool went over to talk to Chic, the band leader. It was eleven thirty. At midnight she was due to make her last appearance. Chic drank too much, and she always had to make sure he knew the numbers she was going to sing.
"Got yourself another beau?" he inquired heavily as she approached.
Roanna leaned against the piano. "Since when have my affairs been so closely observed?"
"Oh come off it Roanna. I didn't mean anything," Chic apologized.
Roanna grinned. "Neigher did I Chic. Now, have you got my songs straight?"
Jerry watched Roanna bending over the sheets of music, then turned and ordered himself another drink. It had all been much easier than he had expected. Normally these night club dames wouldn't open their legs unless they were sure there was a dollar sign winking in the sky. This one was dif ferent. She wanted what he'd got hidden in his pants. He was sure of that by the way she had looked at him. She wouldn't be disappointed. Nine inches had been too much for some dollies he'd tried for size. He had a feeling Roanna wasn't that kind of dolly. He was right. At the age of twenty-tw,o Roanna hadn't nearly had enough to satisfy her curiosity. She was the sort of girl who would never have enough. And if she didn't see any dollar signs in the sky when she was lying on her back with her legs open, then what the hell. She was still young and she could look after herself. Time enough for dollar signs, although she admitted she had been thinking along those lines with Jess. Not that he hadn't been fun as well. He had.
They took a taxi from the Gargoyle. Jerry had a car but didn't use it when he was hunting. He liked to keep his eyes open everywhere, and not just on the road. Roanna had changed into a short green flared skirt and black lace blouse. She had slung a white raincoat round her shoulders. Sitting very close in the taxi they kissed. Roanna enjoyed the hard firmness of Jerry's lips. He enjoyed the clinging softness of hers. He was wearing quite a lot of lipstick by the time they arrived at his apartment. They rode up to the third floor on the shaky elevator holding hands. Neither of them noticed a salmon pink Cadillac which had followed their taxi from the Gargoyle stop outside the apartment block. Its lights extinguished the two negroes who occupied the Cadillac didn't attempt to get out of their vehicle, but sat waiting patiently. If Roanna had seen it she wouldn't have enjoyed herself so much as she did.
Jerry produced a bottle of Vodka and collected ice from a refrigerator box. His apartment was purely functional, with two rooms and a small kitchen. But it was enough. There was a big bed in one of the rooms, and they retired to this with their drinks. Jerry switched on the radio and doused most of the lights.
"I think you intend to seduce me," Roanna smiled.
"How old are you?" Jerry asked. "Twenty-two. Why?"
"You're two years older than I am. You can seduce me," Jerry stated. He had drunk quite a lot at the Gargoyle, but he hadn't drunk too much. He didn't want to miss what Roanna had to offer. Now he lay back on the bed. He had taken off his jacket keeping on his white shirt and black trousers. Opening his legs wide he let Roanna see that he'd got an erection. His nine inch cock looked enormous bulging under his trousers. It was enormous, and Roanna's eyes glued to it in excitement.
"Christ, what's that?" she asked, her voice husky with zealous ardour.
"Find out beautiful, find out," Jerry challenged her. Getting hold of Roanna's hand he placed it firmly on his unfurling phallus. "Roanna began to stroke him. "Come here, come closer, let me feel what you've got down your knickers."
Roanna moved closer and drew in a sharp breath as Jerry's hand went under her skirt, underneath the leg of her panties, and straight onto her cunt. Getting up off the bed Jerry pushed her onto her back, his dark eyes blazing with lust. Reaching under her dress he ripped her knickers down to her ankles, feasting his eyes on her dewy wet pussy surrounded by a thick growth of tantalizing soft brown hairs. Snatching her torn panties off her ankles he pushed her legs high into the air and wide apart. Now he had got a clear view of her vagina entrance. He could see the pink outer lips of her cunt. They were wet and glistening in the subdued light. He forced her legs further apart, making Roanna groan, and watched as the soft pink lips opened slightly. They nearly drove him mad. Falling onto the floor on his knees he buried his face between her legs. She wedged her feet on his shoulders, moaning and squirming, as his teeth bit into her fanny. He was hurting her, but exciting her as well. She leaned forward and entwined her fingers into his short black hair, pulling as hard as she could.
His sharp teeth were everywhere, biting her arse cheeks, her stomach, nipping the ultra-sensitive area of her slit, and then he was sucking hard on her sex hole. She stopped pulling his hair and heaved her hips upwards, ramming herself hard onto his mouth.
"Jerry! Oh that's lovely," she gurgled.
He continued to suck harder. He could smell her now. A bitch getting worked up. It was unmistakable. It was like no perfume in the world. It was cloying, sickly, exciting, all at the same time. She began to shudder as he sucked. He drew in a gasping lungful of air, his mouth completely covering her now wide open cunt hole. She was going to release some of her sap, he could tell by the way her body was vibrating like a cocktail shaker. Yes, there it was. He began to feel the first trickle on his tongue. It was slightly bitter. Suddenly his mouth was full, and Roanna was lying back on the bed her fists thumping the mattress. Her feet were still ledged on his shoulders, and shooting out her legs straight she sent him sprawling onto the floor.
"Jerry, you bastard. You bloody bastard," she moaned.
He got to his feet licking his lips and swallowing the mouthful of premature come. He knew she had liked what he had just done to her. He was right. Roanna hadn't enjoyed herself so much for a long time, and they hadn't started yet. He stripped himself naked while she watched. His long thick member, released from his underpants, protruded from between his legs like a tree trunk. The fore skin had peeled back exposing the dark red crown, wet and sticky with prick fluid. He got onto the bed, helping her out of her blouse and bra, and lastly her skirt. She was wearing a strip of black elastic around her waist from which ran further strips of elastic holding up her fine mesh silk stockings. She was about to squirm out of this sexy girdle when he stopped her.
"Leave it Roanna, I like it that way."
She fell back onto the bed, legs wide open, a little trickle of moisture oozing out of her open cunt hole. Her arms were stretched out on either side of her body, large luscious breasts waiting for him. He clambered astride her prostrate body, pulling and twisting at the lush orbs, squeezing the dark red nipples between his fingers, forcing a moan of pain and pleasure from her lips. He let them go, and getting hold of his throbbing member wiped the perspiring knob over her lips, smearing them with knob juice. She stuck out her tongue, licking at the dripping cock like a greedy cat. Jerry moved his dick from side to side over Roanna's waiting tongue faster and faster. Abruptly he froze, his eyes rolling upwards, spunk pumping out of his fuck weapon, going into Roanna's hair, her eyes, splashing in heavy globules on her red lips. She reached up and grabbed the ejaculating stick, thrusting it deep into her mouth. Jerry's hips went forward, jettisoning more semen into Roanna's throat.
"Oh! Oh! Ooh!" Jerry repeated, as Roanna avidly sucked his first orgasm clean from his overloaded tool. Eventually Roanna took the fat cock out of her aching jaws.
"Pass me a handkerchief Jerry," she demanded. "My eye lashes are gummed up."
Jerry got from astride her body and laughed. Reaching for a box of Kleenex he threw them on the bed, and watched while she wiped her face clean of his spunk. He poured out two more drinks.
"Get this down you baby, give you strength to continue."
Roanna turned over onto her belly and accepted the proffered drink. She took a good swallow, washing away the sticky semen which clogged her throat.
"Do you always let go with so much?" she demanded, wiping her sore lips on the back of her hand.
"I've told you, I'm only twenty," Jerry boasted. "I'm dripping with the stuff from every pore. Give me a few minutes and I'll give you a stuffing of a lifetime."
Roanna choked on her drink. "You're one of the most modest people I've met in some time," she said with a laugh. "You should go far."
Jerry stood up, and she watched his muscular athletic body as he poured himself another drink. His enormous cock still stuck up rigidly from a black mass of hair. It wasn't all words. He really was incredibly virile. She took another long drink. She felt as though she needed it when she thought of that elephant's trunk squeezing its way up her pussy. She closed her legs hard together, rubbing her naked belly on the bed. The thought excited her. Jerry noticed the movement.
"Ready for it?" he asked.
She nodded her head. "I'm ready for it Tarzan!"
He didn't laugh. Going over to a cupboard he produced a long, thick black rubber dildo, Roanna's eyes widened in surprise.
"You're going to get it both ways, it's your birthday you bitch."
He fell onto her exposed backside, and Roanna started to struggle.
"No, I don't want that," she wailed. "Jerry stop that. Ooh! No!"
Jerry kept her pinned down on her stomach. Pushing the dildo between her fleshy arse cheeks he quickly located the entrance to her rear pas sage. He pushed down hard, and Roanna stopped struggling, but lay supine and moaning. Her tight shit hole was already rejecting the artificial cock, and Jerry pushed down again, easing it well into her arse. Pushing a hand between her open legs he gave her fanny a good squeeze, and followed this up by stuffing a couple of fingers into her sex hole. Roanna stirred, her ravaged backside easing slightly after the first shock. She could feel Jerry's busy fingers rubbing her clitoris, making it stand up, forcing her juices to flow again. Together with this he was pushing the dildo up and down her arsehole, and at each push more and more was going inside her. For a brief moment Roanna considered the possibility of making a sudden twist, and getting out of this young sadist's clutches. But she didn't. She had to admit he was clever. In spite of the monstrosity stuck into her backside he was sexing her up again. She felt helpless to move. She just lay there on her face, allowing herself to be masturbated back and front. She began to enjoy it. Gingerly she moved her arse up a fraction, allowing Jerry's fingers to sink deeper into her moistening vagina. Soon she was wriggling under his insistent frigging. The black rubber dildo went further into her arse under the steady pressure of Jerry's other hand. Now he'd got her where he wanted her.
Keeping hold of the dildo he rolled her over on her side and lay down facing her. Her eyes were closed, and small almost inaudible cries were coming out of her mouth.
"Right, put it in. NOW," he commanded.
Roanna opened her eyes. She could see Jerry's smooth skinned muscled chest in front of her. With a sigh she reached down between his legs with both her hands. God but he'd got a whopper for his age. She wondered how many women he'd made happy with it. Quite a few in spite of his youth she wouldn't wonder. She bent the concrete stiff weapon so that the wide arrowhead was pressing on her frigged and waiting quim. They both began to edge towards one another, both drawing in great breaths of air, breathing hard. Four inches, five inches, six inches ... Still she wriggled forward, and all the time he was keeping the dildo firmly up her arse. She wondered how much more of that there was left before she had got the lot inside her. Their bellies met and pressed together. She'd got the whole of Jerry's horse sized cock firmly inside her cunt. She felt as though her vagina lips and her anus were about to split apart. His other arm was now going under her waist. He was holding her close to him, and then he started to roll over on his back, dragging her on top.
"Now, fuck me you cow," he hissed. "Go on, take a ride on my prick. I'll shoot so much spunk up you it will come out of your ears."
Both his hands had now gone round to her arse, holding the dildo firmly in position. Leaning forward on her elbows, her titties brushing against Jerry's chest, she began to do as she was told. Slowly at first her arse moved up and down, testing the two rods screwing into her cunt and arsehole. It didn't take long before her juices lubricated Jerry's enormous dick, and her movements became more violent. Up and down, up and down she fucked, her eyes on Jerry's face as he grimaced with the pleasure of an oncoming climax. He was pushing the dildo hard into her arse now, but she didn't care. She was enjoying it. She was getting out of control. She was nearing an orgasm. She started to shake herself like a dog, up and down, from side to side. The torrent of her impending release bubbled inside her. Her hands were clawing hysterically at Jerry's torso, and she began to babble something although her words didn't make sense. Abruptly she was spunking. She slid down onto the tool spearing her saturated cunt, her legs squeezed together, her arse gripping the almost totally submerged six inch long dildo.
Jerry let go of the dildo which he had pushed right up Roanna's arse. Burying his fingers into the soft flesh of her buttocks, his whole body stretched out as rigid as a board. Grunting, sweating, he spurted a load of cream up into Roanna's tightly clenched, spunking quim. His second orgasm was even more enjoyable than the first. It seemed to start from his toes and race through his entire frame until it shot out of his prick hole.
"When can I see you again?"
Roanna, fully dressed, apart from her torn knickers which she had thrown into a waste paper basket, snapped open her compact and made an effort at repairing her face.
"I'm at the club most nights," she said. "But you'd better take it easy. I've got a boy friend whose mighty jealous. He's out of town a lot, thank God. I like him all right, but he pushes his weight around too much. He's too jealous, although I've given him no reason to think that he owns me. He's just made that way."
"Does he want to marry you?" Jerry asked. He was in bed, naked, the sheets around his waist. Roanna had said she didn't want to stay the night, and that suited him. He was beginning to feel dog tired. It would be light in another couple of hours, and he'd got go to be on duty by ten.
"He's certainly never asked me," Roanna replied, snapping her compact shut. "Anyway I wouldn't even if he did ask. He doesn't strike me as the type a girl wants for a husband."
"Does he give you a good time?"
Roanna walked over to the bed and looked down at Jerry. "You're asking a lot of questions. Let me ask a few. What do you do for a living?"
"Insurance," Jerry replied briefly.
"Somehow," Roanna said slowly. "I can't imagine you in an insurance office. However, that's your business. Now I must go. Don't forget, take it easy if you call in at the Gargoyle. I'll let you know if the coast is clear or not. If it isn't beat it. O.K.?"
"O.K. Just as you say," Jerry told her.
She bent down and touched his hair with her lips. "Good night lover boy."
As soon as she had gone out of the door Jerry snapped off the bedside light, turned over on his side with a grunt, and fell asleep. He dimly remembered hearing the shaky old lift start up, and that was all.
Roanna stepped into the dark deserted street, and turned up the collar of her white raincoat. Some girls wouldn't care to walk around the streets of New York alone at that time of the morning, but often she walked home in the early hours from the Gargoyle for a breath of fresh air. Anyway, once she got out of this back street onto the main highway, there would be plenty of taxis. Digging her hands into her pockets she was just about to walk away when she heard a car door open. Startled she turned as a shadowy figure loomed up out of the darkness and caught hold of her wrist. She recognized him immediately, although a felt brim hat shielded his black face. It was Dago, a negro friend of Karl, the boy friend she'd just been telling Jerry about.
"What the hell do you think you're doing Dago?" she asked, struggling to free her hand.
"Karl wants to see you. Come on."
He started dragging her towards the parked car and her heart sank. As they neared the Cadillac she was suddenly filled with panic. Karl was a negro jazz pianist, and he did one-night stands all over the place. He should have been out of town tonight. He must have returned unexpectedly and followed her from the Gargoyle. Sometimes he waited for her outside. That was one of the reasons why she never usually got too friendly with anyone inside the club. She never knew what Karl's reaction would be if she left with someone and he was waiting for her. Sometimes she thought of dropping him altogether, but short of moving out of New York she wasn't sure how. He frightened her sometimes, although up to now he hadn't laid a finger on her-in anger that is.
He was angry now all right. She could smell liquor on his breath, and reckoned that he and Dago had been sitting in the car drinking together. She could see the dark dilated pupils of his eyes as she was pushed into the back of the car beside him. She opened her mouth to speak but his brown skinned hand whipped back, slapping her hard across the face, knocking her back onto the car seat. Dago sat in front watching.
"You're a lousy no good fucking bitch," he hissed. "So this is what you do when I'm out of town. Get yourself fucked rotten by the first bit of white trash that shows you his prick."
Roanna tried to recover her composure. Holding a hand to her smarting face she retaliated. "What the hell has it got to do with you? I'm not your wife. You're just a mixed-up crazy jealous nigger. Let me out of this car immediately or I'll scream the neighbouhood down and have you put inside for rape-rape of a white woman. You know how the cops will enjoy that."
She made a grab for the door handle, but Dago reached forward slapping her hands out of the way. Then she saw the glint of steel in Karl's hand. He'd got hold of a knife. Then she really did start to scream as he came at her. Dago pressed a switch and electric motors rolled up the two car windows that were half open. Roanna caught hold of Karl's wrist, trying desperately to stop the knife that was coming towards her. But it was useless, she was like a child against his strength. Her scream was suddenly cut off. She couldn't feel any pain. She just felt very weak. Slumping into the corner of the car she started to breath heavily. Her hands crawled up to the knife which had gone into her breast up to the hilt. Her fingers closed around the handle, then fell away. There was a rattle in her throat, and then nothing.
"You crazy man? You've killed her. Oh God, you've killed her. You bloody fool. You said you were just going to give her a fright."
"Shut up!" Karl snapped. He was shaken himself, but he wouldn't admit it. He hadn't intended killing Roanna. It was the way she had come at him. Somehow she seemed to have fallen onto the knife. He could see a large black stain spreading over her white raincoat, encircling the knife in her breast.
He opened the car door and pushed Roanna's body onto the sidewalk. She rolled over onto her back, sightless eyes gazing upwards.
"Get going Dago," Karl snapped. "So far nobody has seen us. Tomorrow we get rid of this car."
Dago threw in the gears, and they shot away from the curbside. It was an hour later when a drunk, stumbling along on his way home, fell over Roanna's body. When he got the full picture he sobered up and ran to the nearest telephone booth. Towards dawn Jerry moved uneasily in his sleep. Somewhere he could hear police sirens. Not that that was anything unusual. New York was full of wailing police cars all night every night. It was that sort of city. He fell asleep again.
So did the Mavery family continue under the reign of the second President Kelland.
BLACK POWER
President Edward D. Kelland was taking things easy on the political domestic front. Every month for the whole two years he had been in office he had carefully studied reports marked "Top Secret.
For Presidential Reading Only." They were long, confidential summaries from every part of America. They had been compiled by the Secret Service, and the sum total of all these documents spelled out one thing. He would have to move very carefully on the negro issue. There seemed to be no doubt in the minds of his Secret Service chiefs that his brother had been assassinated by an organization who were determined to keep the negroes under their white thumbs. His speech writers had been clever. So far his speeches had only hinted that he intended, at some future date, to continue where his murdered brother had left off on this particulr problem. The necessary legislation which would give all negroes, in no matter what state they resided, equal rights, had still not been legalised. But Edward knew that one day, and it would have to be quite soon, he would be forced to drag the thorny subject out into the open. His supporters were becoming uneasy that he may intend to let the whole thing slide. Edward himself would have spoken forcefully on the negro question before now, but he had been advised against it. He and his two brothers had always agreed that something had to be done.
During the last six months he had received further and more alarming reports on the activities of American negroes. An organization known simply as Black Power had materialized, headed by a vitriolic negro known to those who followed him as Luther X. His real name was Randolf Luther Wayne, and according to Intelligence reports his history was colorful. He had first come into prominence in the South, where he was thrown into prison several times on charges of violence and obstruction. He never gave up. As soon as he was cut of prison again he would be on the streets with a band of negro followers. They entered restaurants where a black face was never seen unless he was waiting at the tables. They went into hotels, swimming pools, and parts of that public transport traditionally reserved for "whites only." Things eventually became too hot for him in the South. He became aware that if the police got hold of him just once more he would be lynched, or worse. The only reason he had been released from prison so often was the fact that he was well known. He had started a clandestine press, and he signed all his articles Luther X. The name stuck. If he hadn't been such a popular figure amongst the negro population the Southern police would have soon settled his hash. They had their own way of dealing with difficult negroes. Police files were filled with cryptic comments, the most popular being "shot while escaping." No one ever believed these official reports. But nothing was ever done. The negroes weren't organized. The whites were. But Luther X was different. He was organized, and for a long time the police didn't dare to eliminate him in case they found themselves with a full-scale riot on their hands. But there came a time when they decided he had to go, riots or not. That was when Luther X slipped quietly away.
Nothing was heard of him for some time until his name cropped up in New York. Again he was operating a clandestine press, which made popular reading in Harlem and other similar districts. Its sales were further increased by the fact that Liberals and sympathizers of the negro cause also bought the single news-sheet. That's when they could get a copy. The negroes who sold the newssheet on the streets of New York had to keep a sharp lookout. They would sell a few copies and then disappear, only to reappear again somewhere else. Not that they could have led the police to where the news-sheet was produced. Black Power was much too clever for that. Two months ago Senator Ludovic Johnson had been attacked. In bold black print Black Power News, as it was called, related an interesting story. It was connected with a large sum of money intended for the use of re-housing slum dwellers. Needless to say most of these slums were filled with negroes, and according to the article signed by Luther X personally, a large part of the money had gone into Senator Johnson's pocket. No action had been taken of course. Black Power News didn't exist officially. But it was enough to set the ball rolling, and Senator Johnson had a rough ride. He didn't dare resign from the Senate. It would have admitted guilt. Neither did Senator Johnson dare challenge Luther X publicly. The trouble was that the article had been right! Fortunately for the senator the article had been premature. If it had appeared a few weeks later he would have had no answer to the discreet inquiries that arrived at his office. As it was he managed, with a little bribery and corruption, to re-divert funds on the way to his bank back to their original destination. He sweated for two weeks but he made it.
Senator Johnson was a careerist politician. He was also a spendthrift and a homosexual. He had a wife-no one can be a successful careerist politician in America without a wife-and she was expensive. Mrs. Johnson didn't know her husband was homosexual. She was the sort of woman who would pretend she didn't know what the word meant. However, to make up for the aridity of the marital bed she demanded, and got, most of the things that money can buy. The senator didn't argue when she changed her car every six months, or had a new, and entirely unnecessary, wing built onto their already too large house. He knew, and she knew, that it was a form of blackmail. She thought when he was away at nights he was busy with some other woman. He didn't care what she thought so long as she kept her mouth shut, and presented a united front in public. During the period of the Black Power scandal the senator was home every night. But once he had got the situation under control things reverted to normal. There was a certain barman from a certain club who was only too happy to live in a rent-free apartment, buy clothes on account from a good tailor, and have his friends admire a solid gold watch which adorned his wrist. All he had to do was entertain the senator occasionally. Not that he knew he was entertaining a senator. Neither did he know his generous friend's real name. Ludovic wasn't a complete fool. Far from it; he was in fact as wily as a fox. But wily or not he needed money for all his extra-mural activities. The affair exposed by Black Power News was only one of his little enterprises.
Having come out of the Black Power exposure blameless-at least no one could possibly prove otherwise-Ludovic contacted an acquaintance of his. The acquaintance was a VIP of high ranking importance. General Gordon Marlborough, head of the Secret Service no less. No matter what the president thought of Gordon Marlborough, Senator Johnson knew beyond a shadow of doubt that the general was not pro-negro. They had originally met when they had both been in the army in the last world war. Years later they had met again in New York. Neither of them had changed their views on the question of negroes, although in the positions they now held they had to be diplomatic. Under the Kelland administration they had to be very diplomatic. Clifton Douglas, head of the Secret Service when the first Kelland had been assassinated, resigned soon afterwards. Marlborough had been chosen as the new head by the second Kelland and his advisers for several reasons. But one of them had been the fact that he was an authority on Negro affairs. He had studied the situation closely in his years of service with the Secret Service. His reports had more than once contained warnings of impending trouble. He kept himself informed of all negro organizations, and used to have a graph in his office noting their rise and fall in popularity. He also knew all about white organizations that were dedicated to "keeping America white." As it was feared that Robert T. Kelland and his wife had been shot down by a representative of one of these white organizations, who better to guard the second President Kelland than Gordon Marlborough? The then Brigadier Marlborough had been duly promoted, and at the age of fifty found himself in the powerful position of head of the Secret Service. He intended to stay there; he also intended that President Edward D. Kelland should not meet the same fate as his brother.
Ludovic approached the general cautiously. The general was just as cautious. They had known one another for a long time, and they trusted one another-up to a point. Careerist politicians and heads of important departments like the Secret Service had to be careful, even with their friends. They got around to the subject of Luther X and Black Power News.
"The man is a born trouble maker. We shall have the same sort of trouble in New York that we experienced some years ago," Senator Johnson told his friend.
General Marlborough looked quizzical. "This wouldn't be a personal vendetta, you're working up against Luther X?"
Ludovic's voice lowered as he bent his head closer to the general's. "Yes it's personal all right. But it's occurred to me that I wouldn't be the only person to benefit by the downfall of Luther X. If he's allowed to carry on the way he is he'll tear this city apart. There'll be rioting on the streets again before long believe me. If my guess is right the President is soon going to have to make a stand on the negro question. That's when Luther X and his crew will move. Once that happens white organizations will retaliate. Then anything could happen. It's precisely the same situation as when the last president was assassinated."
"What are you suggesting?" the general queried, knowing quite well what the senator was aiming at.
"Now come off it Gordon," Ludovic exclaimed falling back into his chair. "You know perfectly well what I'm suggesting."
General Marlborough got up and paced the room. He knew as well as the senator just how much trouble a man like Luther X could cause. He stopped in front of Ludovic.
"It would be an expensive business," he said flatly.
"That's why I'm here."
The general sat down again and drew his chair close to the senator. They talked for some time, and when Ludovic finally took his leave he was feeling happier than when he arrived.
If Randolf Luther Wayne lived anywhere it was in his car. His shabby Buick had seen better days, but that didn't worry him. It could still shift some when the occasion demanded. Two suitcases in the boot contained all his personal possessions. Not having a pad of his own didn't worry Luther X. It was safer that way. And he wasn't short of a bed when he wanted one. Any one of his hundreds of supporters and followers would willingly play host at a moment's notice. Luther also had a string of girls dotted about New York, and any one of them were also pleased when he turned up. On these occasions he would arrive with a presents--nothing expensive, it wasn't necessary. Most of these girls knew him by different names. They didn't play hostess for political reasons, and Luther saw no point in telling them his real name. He had a feeling he was going to go far in New York, and one day he was sure his name would be a household word in every home in America. Black Power was going places, and he intended to be at the helm. All over America black people, his people, were beginning to stir themselves. All they needed was a push to jolt them out of their apathy.
Luther considered the time had gone for those coloured leaders who preached non-violence as a means to an end. Black Power intended to meet force with force. It was the only thing those pokerfaced white bastards sitting on their arses in highly paid government jobs would understand.
On this particular night he swung his car out of Second Avenue and leaving it in a car park proceeded on foot to Molly Rivo's apartment. He'd known Molly ever since he'd arrived in New York. She was the one girl who knew his real name and who shared his ambition-to get a better deal for the American Negroes. A half-caste herself, she had nevertheless come in for all the insults piled onto black heads by white racists. As he left the car park a steel grey Ford Estate car nosed its way inside, after the driver had stopped to get a ticket from the automatic machine. By the time it had parked next to his car Luther was already out of sight. The two men in the Ford didn't attempt to get out of their vehicle, but remained inside smoking. One of them was Jerry Mavery in the company of an older man. Jerry was on his first assignment, and as fate would have it his first job as a Secret Service agent concerned a negro.
Roanna Lindsberg's murder had hardly affected Jerry at all. Certainly it didn't affect him emotionally. She was just a girl he had picked up. He was sorry she had gone the way she had, she was a good looker. The police had traced him from the club where Roanna worked via the taxi driver which brought him and Roanna to his apartment even before he knew about her death. He had contacted his department who had cleared him with the police and his name had been kept out of it. He gathered they were now looking for a negro jazz pianist by the name of Karl Marty, whose Cadillac had been seen outside the club on the night she was murdered. He hoped they caught the bastard.
Unaware that he had been followed Luther rang Molly Rivo's bell. He had telephoned earlier in the day and she was expecting him. She answered the door all freshed up and as pretty as a picture. Molly was twenty-five years old and had the dusky skin of a real beauty. She had dark liquid eyes, long raven black hair, and a figure which made most men think of one thing-sex. Like Luther she had been brought up in the South, and also like him had lost most of her deep South accent. She was in love with Luther, and she had not attempted to hide the fact from him. He accepted her love and returned it to a certain extent. But although Molly may be a one-man girl, he didn't try to hide the fact that he wasn't a one-girl man. She hoped that one day he would ask her to marry him. He never thought about it.
She moved into his arms and kissed him. "Hello lover, I've been missing you," she murmured.
Luther's arms went around Molly's slim waist, and he felt the old familiar thrill when he kissed her. She was the only girl he'd ever met who had retained his interest for so long. Each time was like the first time with Molly, and their relationship never seemed to go stale. Of course he didn't see her all that much, but even so she had something that had been missing in most girls he'd met. She had a driving sexuality that swept over her at times like a tidal wave. Then she would become possessed, biting, scratching and fighting her way to an orgiastic release that Luther always found exciting. He could tell she was that way now as she pressed her body close to his. She was shivering slightly, and her mouth clung as if she had been waiting for his kiss a lifetime. She was pressing hard into his crotch like a bitch in heat. She was always that way when the mood was on her. When she wanted it she had to have it.
Luther was tall, with a broad powerful body. He had full negroid lips and tightly curled negroid hair. His skin was jet black, with a shine to it that reminded Molly of ebony. She adored Luther's body, and sometimes at night she would have nightmares about what could happen to her lover. She was fully aware of the risks he ran defying white racists. They were vicious and cruel. She had tried to persuade Luther that he should have a bodyguard. She knew that the Black Power organization would willingly pay for someone to guard Luther. But he wouldn't hear of it. Just laughed, saying that he wasn't well known enough yet to need a bodyguard. She had pointed out that the people he exposed in Black Power News would be out to get him. He had told her they would have to move fast. She had been forced to be content with that answer. Now, as she curled herself around his body, feeling the sleeping tiger between his legs stir into life, she could also feel the gun holster strapped under his arm. It reassured her. He was right. It wouldn't be easy to catch him off guard.
Molly's almost pathological fear of losing her lover went back to the days of her childhood. Her mother, a half-caste like herself, had died when she was ten. Her father, one hundred percent negro, continued to bring her up himself. He was a farm worker on one of the Southern plantations, and they lived in a shack on the acres of land which belonged to one man. He, his wife and two eighteen year old sons, lived in a large white mansion built in the real Southern style. They lived a very simple life, and Molly's education had been rudimentary. But she loved her father very much, and her love was returned. As she got older she took the place of her mother and looked after her father's needs. She didn't know how long they would have continued living there, but one night something happened which brought it all to a sudden end.
Molly was just fifteen at the time, but she had developed early. She had pert breasts, a graceful figure, and already her father had noticed other plantation workers eyeing his daughter. He hoped uneasily that Molly would be able to take care of herself, even without a mother to guide her footsteps. One night he had tried to talk to her, but she had patted him on the head and told him not to worry. She said she was quite capable of looking after herself. And he believed her. Molly seemed a very sensible girl-like her mother. But as things turned out Molly never stood a chance.
To help out with expenses Molly did washing at the big house twice a week, and she had just delivered a basketful of freshly laundered linen and was on her way back to the wooden shack where she lived with her father. It was quite a long walk, but it was a beautiful evening. The darkening sky was a violet blue, and everything seemed fresh after the heat of the day. She put the empty basket on the ground and sat on a sawed off tree trunk, enjoying the cool air. Suddenly she heard the jangle of harness and the loud voices of two men arguing. It was the land owner's two sons, riding side by side on horseback, and she could tell by the tone of their voices that they had been drinking again. She picked up her basket, intending to continue on her way. She didn't like the two boys who could never give an order without shouting, and when they were drunk she knew they could be brutal and dangerous. More than once she had seen them strike at a coloured farm labourer, and in her innocence she had wondered why the man hadn't struck back. She wasn't fully aware at that point that the men, like herself, had very few rights due to the colour of their skin.
To her horror she heard one of the boys shout, and in a quick panic she had dropped her basket and started to run. There was the thud of hoofs and one of the riders swept past and began to circle in front of her. Glancing over her shoulder she saw that the other boy was circling his horse behind her, and that slowly they were both advancing. Terrified by now she turned sharply right and started to run as fast as she could through the long grass. But in the gathering darkness she stumbled and sprawled on her face. Again she heard the thud of hooves and drunken laughter. Before she could scramble to her feet rough hands had grabbed her shoulders and rolled her over onto her back. She had looked up at the brutal leering faces of the two boys in speechless fright. One of them bent down and with a laugh pushed his hand under her skirt. She hadn't been wearing knickers and his probing hand had gone straight onto her virginity and stayed there.
Abruptly she began to struggle, but the older one pinned her down by her arms. She bit his hand and he slapped her hard on the face. She fell back into the grass, stars in front of her eyes. Somehow her voice seemed to have gone. She wanted to scream but no sound would come out of her threat. She just lay there breathing hard. Then she felt her legs being forced apart, and with a terrible suddenness the boy kneeling between her legs had come down on top of her, had his prick in his hand. Grunting with lust he had pushed the hard stick firmly onto her untried sex hole and rammed it inside, splitting her maidenhead in a gush of broken skin and blood. At last her voice returned, and in her agony she had started to scream. The boy pinioning her arms now clamped a hand over her mouth and nose, almost suffocating her. Fighting for breath, she had felt the other boy's cock ride into her burning aching ravaged cunt. Almost at once he began to groan and slobber, pressing himself hard down onto her belly. He was emptying his spunk into her as fast as he could. As soon as he had finished he dragged his dick out from between her legs and they changed positions. She didn't struggle any more. She didn't try to scream. She just sobbed quietly, trying to bear the intolerable pain between her legs as yet another sex stick was shoved up her. The second one was mercifully as quick as the first. Like an animal he started to spunk almost as soon as he had got his tool into her bleeding orifice.
When they had finished they got onto their waiting horses, while she continued to he in the grass sobbing. She heard them have a muttered conversation and then the chink of money. The threw it onto the grass by her side and rode off. For a long time she lay there hardly daring to move, but finally she staggered to her feet. Leaving the money where it was she walked slowly towards her home, her skirt soaked with blood and spunk. Her father was sitting on the veranda as she painfully climbed the broken down steps. He got to his feet when he saw her, holding his pipe in his hand. He didn't have to ask her what had happened. The blood was running down the insides of her legs down to her ankles.
"Who was it?" he asked quietly.
"The two boys," she said weakly, pointing in the direction of the big house.
"Go and wash yourself, then go to bed," he said in the same calm voice. "I'll be back before long."
Striding inside the hut he came out carrying a horse whip, and before Molly could stop him strode off into the dark. She never saw him alive again. He had marched up the white steps of the mansion and had been stopped in the doorway by the boys' mother. He had demanded to see her two sons and she had refused, saying they had gone to bed. He told the grim faced determined looking woman that they had raped his daughter.
"That sure is nonsense," she had replied. "Molly has been deliberately provocating my two boys. She asked for what she got."
Mrs. Jane de Wynter knew this was a he, and that her sons had behaved badly. They had told her as much, knowing that there would be trouble. But she wasn't going to tell this upstart plantation worker that. It was just too bad if his daughter happened to have been a virgin. Usually coloured girls lost their virginity before they were Molly's age. She didn't know why the man was making so much fuss, and she didn't like the way he carried the horse whip in his hand. But Mrs. Jane de Wynter had never been afraid of a coloured person all her life. She was too accustomed to giving them orders and having them obeyed instantly. She was surprised when old Rivo didn't budge but just stood there.
"I'm going inside and I'm going to give your two sons the hiding of their lives," he said.
She could hardly believe her ears. It was preposterous. A coloured man daring to threaten a white man. She took a step forward, intending to push Rivo backwards down the steps, but he held his ground and pushed back hard. She tripped and fell backwards onto the floor with a crash. At that moment her husband had just come down the broad stairway, and seeing his wife sprawled on the ground with a negro standing over her swinging a horse whip galvanized him into action. Striding across to a desk he opened a drawer, took out a gun, and fired. Molly's father spun round and then toppled down the white stone steps backwards. He had been shot through the heart.
The matter was hushed up of course. Old Rivo had gone berserk and threatened to kill Mrs. de Wynter. Her husband had shot him in self defense. No one asked why old Rivo should suddenly go berserk. There were rumors, but the white folks thereabouts hoped it would all soon die down. It did of course. After her father's funeral Molly decided to run away to an aunt she vaguely knew about in New York. It was a sister of her dead mother. She had made it and her mother's sister had been very kind. She was a dressmaker and had taken Molly into her apartment and taught her the trade. Now Molly was standing on her own two feet, and making enough money to live comfortably.
But the shock of losing her father had been a psychological shock, even more than the rape to which she had been subjected. She was always very possessive about her friends, afraid that one day she might lose them. And she was very possessive about Luther, although she knew that the kind of life he lived made her possessiveness a waste of time. But she couldn't help it. What she had she wanted to keep, and she wanted to keep Luther more than anything else in the world.
She curled her arms about Luther's neck. "Luther honey, have you any plans for tonight?"
Luther's hands went down to her buttocks, closing on the firm flesh beneath her skirt. "Yes I've got plans baby. Let's go to bed then I'll take you out to dinner."
"I was hoping you'd say that. I've been wanting you honey. All day I've been wanting you."
Luther helped Molly get undressed. Finally she stood in front of him in a pair of silk scants. Gently he eased the silk over her hips, revealing the black hair between her legs. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed, his long thick chopper jerking inside his trousers. Putting his hands round her he sank his fingers into her pliable arse cheeks. Pulling her towards him he buried his face into her bush, his darting tongue brushing against her twat lips. They opened and he put his tongue inside, licking the moist hole.
"Oh baby!" Molly sighed, her hands digging into Luther's tightly curled hair. "Ooh baby!"
Some of her juices escaped onto his tongue, and she took her cunt away from his wet lips. Pushing him back onto the bed she got onto her knees on the floor, her hands undoing his fly buttons. Feeling inside she pulled out his thick handsome cock and balls. Undoing his trousers completely she pulled them down while he helped her by levering himself upwards. Taking off his shoes and socks she got his trousers and underpants down to his ankles and pulled them off. Running her hands along his black skinned muscular legs her mouth opened to receive Luther's rigidly potent prick knob. While she did this he got out of his shirt and then lay back, his dark skin smooth and velvety. He had a fine physique and Luther was proud of the fact. He stretched his arms out flexing his muscles as he did so. Molly got onto the bed, keeping his knob between her teeth, and positioned herself in the sixty-nine position. He reached up between her legs with both hands and started to play with her delectable pussy. Keeping his eyes on what he was doing he pulled Molly's cunt lips wide open fully exposing her wet sex hole. She was sucking his knob fervently by now, making a real meal of it. She was also playing with his scrotum, and as he raised his knees and opened his legs her sexy hands slipped between his buttocks. He grunted slightly as one of her fingers found his arse-hole and wriggled its way inside. All the while she continued to gobble his prick, exciting him to the point where a slight perspiration broke out on his body.
Letting go of Molly's fanny he put his hands around her buttocks and pulled his face up between her wide open legs. Once again he fastened his mouth onto her palpitating honey pot, sucking and licking the whole area. He could feel her body trembling as she slid his dick deep into her throat. She had got two fingers up his arse-hole now, frigging him insistently as she sucked. His hips started to move upwards as he became more excited, his cock fucking Molly's mouth. She was trembling violently now, and juice was beginning to seep out of her sex hole onto his tongue in larger quantities. He stopped gobbling her twat and reaching forward grabbed her hanging titties, using them to pull her devouring mouth from his wildly jerking penis. As soon as he let go she moved back again, only this time her face went right into his crotch, and he experienced the pleasurable sensation of Molly's tongue tickling his anus which had just been frigged with her ringers. Her legs went straight out behind her and she lowered her brush, wriggling and pressing her damp pussy all over his face, almost cutting off his air supply. Again his hands went forward and he caught hold of her smooth milky orbs, twisting them in his hands, pulling her head away from between his bum cheeks. She came up breathing heavily and he pushed her onto her back in the middle of the bed. She had worked him up enough. He was ready for a real good screw, and he wanted it now. He couldn't wait any longer to get his meat inside her.
He pushed Molly's legs into the air and rested them against his chest while he crouched in front of her on his knees. Molly reached for his cock, bending the stiff throbbing spunk shooter onto the tremblingly wet lips of her sex orifice. The large hard knob plopped inside, causing her to gasp with growing excitement. She started to babble, unable to contain herself any longer.
"Luther baby, now Luther baby, let me have it. Ooh baby, fill me up with spunk. Oooh!"
This last exclamation came as Luther straightened his legs out behind him and commenced to push down onto the backs of Molly's legs. Down, down he pushed until her feet were practically touching the bed on either side of her head. His rod split its way inside her vagina, and he could feel the soft sheath-like quality of her vagina walls closing onto his cock, urging the juices out of his opening spunk hole. He carried on pushing until at last he had entered into her as far as he could go, his balls hanging heavily between her upturned arse cheeks. Putting his hands underneath her back he got a grip on her shoulders. His mouth came down onto her waiting lips, and he felt her sharp teeth bite into his tongue. He snatched his mouth away.
"Bitch, bitch, bitch," he whispered.
He raised his arse in the air, withdrawing is prick a good five inches then rammed it back into Molly's cunt, causing her to give a gasping shudder.
"I'll screw your fucking cunt off you gorgeous sexed up bitch."
Their mouths met again, tongue against tongue, saliva mixing with saliva. Luther's arse was now rising and falling rhythmically, fucking Molly with long easy strokes. Molly's hands had gone up to his smooth hairless chest and she had caught hold of his nipples between fingers and thumbs. She was squeezing them hard, driving him wild with the exciting pain. She was also biting his lips, and they were both drawing in great shuddering breaths. He was stuffing her silly now, his backside riding up and down faster every second. Abruptly they were both on the exhilarating edge of a climax. Luther could hear Molly moaning and he dug his tongue deep into the back of her mouth. His prick was about to explode. His arse came right up, withdrawing his thick wildly pulsating member until only the knob-end remained inside Molly's wide open hole. Then down he came, the seeds of his manhood spraying deep into the receptive pouch of her sex channel. He stayed that way, grinding his hips in a circular motion, releasing another jetting sperm spray.
Molly felt the hot sex juices ejaculating out of Luther's swollen dick. With a gurgling groan she squeezed tighter on Luther's tormented nipples, her whole body shaking with a series of violent shudders. Her groaning became louder and louder, until with almost a shout she started to release her creaming eruption of come to mingle with Luther's abundant orgasm. She felt herself going weak with sheer pleasure; almost as if her life-blood was draining away leaving her on a higher plain of existence. Luther gave one last grinding twist of his hips, releasing his last drop of spunk, just as Molly started to let go, swamping his already spunked prick with the violence of her climax. They then lay gasping, waiting for their shuddering bodies to quieten down, and their hearts to stop racing. Eventually Luther raised himself, easing his tool out of Molly's sopping wet cunt. With a sigh she dropped her legs. He reached for cigarettes and lighting two put one between her lips. They lay without speaking, just smoking and feeling contented.
Later, when they had both showered and dressed, they left the apartment arm-in-arm. Molly was looking radiant in a white tightly fitting dress and dark olive green wrap. When she looked up at Luther her dark eyes sparkled with love of life and love of her tall handsome negro lover.
"Where are we going honey?"
Luther looked down at Molly and bending forward chewed at her ear causing her to giggle. "A surprise baby. I've found a place where the food is superb and the prices aren't back-breaking."
"I don't believe it. Not in New York."
"Wait and see baby. Just wait and see," Luther replied light-heartedly.
They entered the car park. There was a full sign outside. Wending their way in and out of the packed ranks of cars they found Luther's Buick and got inside. He pushed the key into the ignition, but didn't switch on immediately. Reaching into his inside jacket pocket he produced a pack of cigarettes. Lighting two he handed one to Molly.
"You know Molly," Luther said, in one of his rare reminiscent moods. "I've had some of the best times with you. We kind of go together."
Molly moved up close, putting an arm around his shoulders. "You know my views on that Luther honey. I've always thought that way."
He reached for the ignition key and switched on the motor. There was an instant explosion and a sheet of flame enveloped the car. Almost immediately there was another explosion as the petrol tank blew up, followed by two further explosions from the two cars parked on either side of the Buick. In seconds the three cars were a raging inferno. It took five minutes before fire fighting appliances arrived. There was nothing left of the Buick, and identification of the charred remains of two bodies was impossible. Police went to work on a routine investigation. Experts wrote their reports. The car had been wired with a petrol bomb. Nothing new in that. Probably gang warfare. Criminals played for keeps in New York!
VICKI AND THE BARONESS
Vicki sat on the back veranda of their Washington house, a stiff Martini on the table in front of her. It was 6 pm, and in one hour's time her sister Daren was due to arrive with her new husband. Daren's sudden marriage in Paris had been a shock, and no one had been more surprised than Vicki. She had married a German princeling, and was now the Baroness von Munchhausen-Oberstein. Vicki rolled the name on her tongue, and suddenly laughed. A maid, who had just come out of the garden and was walking up the veranda steps, started in surprise and looked suspiciously at her mistress's drink. Vicki noticed the girl's surprise.
"It's all right Fiona, I'm not drunk."
The girl smiled and went into the house. A moment later, Carol, her personal maid and confidante, appeared by her side.
"I've just had confirmation from the airport. The Baron and Baroness will be arriving on time."
"Thanks Carol. Make sure the car goes to collect them. I'm staying here. Airports tire me."
Carol bobbed a sort of curtsy and retired. Vicki continued to think of her sister, who was two years youger than herself, and who was now a Baroness. They had both attended the same schools in Switzerland and then later in Paris. She had returned to America, and married into the Kelland family. Daren had opted to stay in Europe. She loved Europe and everything it stood for. It made sense, in one respect, that she should marry into the European aristocracy. But in another way it didn't make sense at all. What had happened to Freada Rosental, a wealthy German Jewess who had dominated Daren's life? Daren met Freada during the last year she and Vicki had spent at their finishing school in Paris. Vicki remembered her coming to collect Daren outside the gates of their school to take her on long weekend trips to the south coast. The woman who ran their school trusted Madame Rosental to look after Daren, but her trust was misplaced. She brought out something in Daren that must have been lying latent in her personality for some time. They had a wild passionate affair, and Daren told Vicki all about it. And then suddenly her letters no longer mentioned Freada. A telegram had arrived one morning saying she was married and was coming to Washington on a visit with her new husband. Vicki had offered to have them stay in her home. Their wedding in Paris had received a certain amount of publicity. After all Daren was through Vicki connected to the President of the United States. Vicki had studied newspaper photographs, but apart from the fact that the Baron seemed to be tall, blond, and rather solid looking, she knew nothing more about him. One newspaper had remarked on the fact that the groom was 42. That made him much older than Daren.
The Baroness von Munchhausen-Oberstein looked down on Washington as her 'plane prepared to land and felt like bursting into tears. She would be glad to see Vicki, they had always been close. But otherwise she didn't know what the hell she was doing in a 'plane over Washington, married to the serious faced fair haired German by her side. She seemed to be making a bloody mess of her life, and she had a feeling things were going to get worse not better. Daren had the same coloring as Vicki, with black hair and blue eyes. But there the similarity ended. Vicki had the classical features of a modem beauty, whereas Daren's hair was always an untidy mop and she had the small urchin face of a tomboy. She was smaller than Vicki and had never acquired her poise. The teachers of their finishing school in Paris had despaired of Vicki's younger sister who never behaved in their opinion as a young lady should. Madame Freada Rosental had thought her quite adorable. And Daren had been very impressed with Madame Rosental.
They had met at the Paris Opera. Daren, Vicki, and a group of other girls from their school had gone to see Othello. Daren had been seventeen at the time, and that evening she had been in one of her more mischievous moods. Refusing to buy a programme she had whipped one from underneath the nose of a very elegantly dressed woman who had been talking to her woman companion. Nothing happened until the first interval when the woman had marched up to Daren and presented her with a box of chocolates.
"I thought these might go with my programme," she smiled. She spoke English with a faint but attractive accent.
Daren had blushed scarlet and stammered her apologies and thanks for the chocolates. The woman had laughed out loud at Daren's discomfiture, and had generously invited her and all her friends for a drink at the bar. In those days they drank soft drinks, so the bill wasn't too heavy for Madame Rosental. Not that it would have mattered. As it turned out she was a rich woman.
Daren found herself being fascinated by Freada Rosental as she introduced herself. She had long blonde hair, and twinkling grey eyes. Her curvaceous figure was beautifully and expensively dressed, and she was obviously a woman of the world. Daren was flattered by the attention devoted on her, and willingly agreed to meet her, this time alone, in the next interval. She was invited to Madame Rosental's apartment, and it was agreed that she should turn up on the following Saturday.
Daren arrived at Freada's apartment not quite knowing what to expect. For once she had dressed carefully but simply. It was a warm evening and she had chosen to wear a sleeveless white cotton dress with a flared skirt. She had combed her unruly hair and inserted two gold clips to hold it back off her face. She wore a gold charm bracelet, fine silk stockings, and smart but sensible shoes. She came from a fairly wealthy family herself, so money in itself didn't impress her. But the sheer elegance of Freada Rosental's apartment did impress her. Situated near the Louvre it was virtually a penthouse overlooking the Tuilleries. The main room was vast, and the furniture was nearly all genuine antique-mainly French. Daren reckoned the apartment contained a fortune in furniture alone, but it wasn't set out like a show piece. It was meant to be lived in, and scattered amongst the priceless antiques were deep modern arm chairs. Freada had been wearing white superbly tailored trousers, and a white shirt blouse. She looked cool and elegant, and as she came forward to kiss her cheek Daren caught the whiff of perfume that was like Freada herself-cool and fresh with just a hint of sensuality. It was a warm evening and Freada had taken her hand and led her out onto a wide balcony outside the long glass windows which ran the whole length of the room. In the gathering dusk they had sat on a swing chair. Although in those days Daren didn't drink much Freada had insisted she had a martini. It must have been a stiff one because halfway through it Daren forgot to be elegant and reverted to her usual habit of drawing her legs underneath her and lying back on her seat. The air was balmy and she could see the trees of the Tuilleries far below, and people walking about. They talked for a long while, during which time they had several more martinis. She learned that Freada was thirty years old, had been married, but was now divorced.
"And you my dear?" Freada asked, touching one of her legs which were still tucked up underneath her. "I suppose you have a lot of beaux?"
Daren sighed, her head falling back onto the cushioned padding of the swing chair. "Well I've had a few boy friends, but I can't say I've ever gone for any of them. They seem very silly to me most of the time. I just don't bother any more. Vicki, that's my sister, is more interested in boys than I am. She knows how to cope with them. Somehow I don't."
Freada had moved closer, putting her am underneath her neck and along the back of the swing chair. "No I don't bother with men any more. Not after my husband. That was enough to last me a lifetime. Tell me my dear are you still a virgin?"
Daren had been startled by the question. It was a very personal question, and she hadn't really been expecting it. "Well, as a matter-of-fact I am," she stammered, blushing slightly.
Suddenly she was aware that Freada's ample bosom was pressing against her arm, and the hand which had been lying on top of her flared skirt had now gone underneath and was gently caressing her knee. Her heart started to hammer, but she felt powerless to move. As if in a dream she had turned to look at Freada. Their lips had brushed, and then Freada's mouth was glued to hers. She felt the woman's hand travelling up her leg and go underneath her panties. Her heart hammered louder, and she felt the most peculiar sensations running through her. They were a mixture of fear, curiosity, and undeniable lust. No boy had ever managed to arouse her the way this woman was doing now. She took her mouth away from Freada's, her head falling back on the woman's encircling arm. Her mouth felt dry and she was suddenly short of breath. She closed her eyes and gave a little cry as Freada's probing hand pushed its way between her closed legs, her fingers entangling with the downy black hair which surrounded her maidenhood.
Daren hadn't been the first young girl Freada had seduced, and she knew what she was doing. She was finding this young American girl wildly exciting, but she knew she would have to take her time so as not to frighten her. Therefore she continued to titillate Daren's delectable little twat for some time. Halfway through her teasing Daren had unfolded her legs, and sank further down on the swing chair with them apart. This gave Freada much more room to explore the juicy untried cunt, and carefully she inserted a finger between Daren's moist pussy lips. Complete penetration was impossible. The girl's hymen was still intact. This excited Freada even more, and tenderly she bent to kiss Daren's lips once more. She eventually led the dazed girl into the bedroom and got her undressed. Then she undressed herself while Daren watched. Freada was proud of her body which was statuesque. She had ample and shapely curves, and big milky breasts with dark red nipples. A luxuriant bush of fair pubic hair grew between her legs, and she had a fat sexy cunt.
Chmbing onto the large bed beside Daren she began to work her over with her mouth. Daren lay on her back, spreadeagled on the bed, wanting this to happen to her and yet still half afraid. She felt Freada's lips caress her full but still girlish breasts, and groaned as they travelled over her mons veneris and edged their way down between her legs.
Freada reached out and catching hold of Daren's hand pushed it up between her own legs. Daren felt the soft hairs underneath her hand, and before she knew what had happened two of her fingers had slipped inside Freada's sex hole. It was soft, warm and faintly sticky. Moving her fingers around she contacted Freada's clitty, and she felt the tiny bit of rubbery flesh go hard under her touch, and her fingers were suddenly wet. Freada took her mouth away from Daren's quivering cunt lips.
"My darling," she crooned. "Oh my darling. I want us both to have a good time. I want to be the first to enter inside you. Would you like me to do that? Then we can really enjoy ourselves. Please say yes."
Daren knew what Freada meant. She knew that her hymen was still unbroken. She also knew that it could be a painful business.
"Please don't hurt me," she had whispered.
Swiftly Freada got off the bed and went over to her dresser. When she returned she had a dildo strapped around her thigh. It looked enormous to Daren, who had never seen one before. Instinctively her hands had gone down to cover her pussy, and fear had returned to her eyes. But Freada had soothed her, telling her it would be all right, that she would be as gentle as gentle and she wasn't to worry. Taking Daren's hands away from her cunt Freada had opened the girl's legs wide. Dipping into a pot of face cream she had smeared it thickly on the rubber dildo, then getting astride Daren she positioned it onto her cunt orifice. All the while she talked to Daren, like a doctor calming a nervous patient. Pushing her hips forward she watched a grimace of pain flit across Daren's face, and felt resistance. She knew she had got the dildo up against the girl's tight hymen. Now was the moment. It would have to be done quickly. It would be painful, but only for a brief second. She pushed downwards, forcing the artificial cock deep into Daren's cunt. Daren felt a blinding flash of pain and screamed out loud. Freada withdrew the dildo, and watched while blood oozed out of Daren's now unobstructed sex channel. With a damp towel she had mopped up the mess, occasionally bending to kiss Daren's trembling lips. Taking off the dildo she lay down beside the girl, waiting for her to recover. Putting her arm underneath Daren's neck, she gently fondled her lovely breasts. Once again she put Daren's hand between her own legs, making sure that two fingers went into her excited quim. She would have liked to have gone on fucking Daren with the dildo until she screamed for mercy, but she knew if she did that she would probably never see her again. And Freada had a feeling she would want to see this charming American girl many times.
Again Daren felt her fingers inside Freada's soft pliable cunt hole. This time she deliberately rubbed the clitty with her fingers, feeling a thrill when it rose under her touch and it became wet and slippy. The pain between her own legs had completely passed away, leaving an aching void which amounted to desire. She shuddered with anticipatory pleasure when Freada's hand closed over her bush, her fingers gently running over her slit. Freada bent over the girl, her lips once more searching for Daren's. This time the girl responded, her tongue flickering like a frightened bird. Freada carefully inserted a finger up into Daren's recently violated cunt hole, and got to work on the girl's clitty. Almost immediately it was wet. Another minute ticked by, their lips stuck together as they searched each other's mouths with their tongues. Freada felt Daren's fingers up her fanny move faster as she frigged her clitty, and she returned the pressure, speeding up her own frigging of Daren's sex. She leaned further over the girl, allowing her big milk filled titties to press against Daren's smaller ones. A paralyzing sensation crept over Daren as Freada speeded up the frigging movement of her fingers. Without any effort on her part her legs rose into the air, and great shudders swept her body. She stuck another two of her fingers up into Freada's sexy cunt, churning them around in the sticky hole with swift decisive movements. They both began to groan and gasp for breath. Daren felt her legs threshing wilder than ever. She couldn't stop it. Something was coming up from deep inside her that had to be released. She tore her lips away from Freada's devouring mouth.
'Oh, oh, oooh!" she almost shouted, and with a tremendous upward heave of her hips she flooded her sex passage with the first really satisfactory orgasm she had ever experienced. It poured out of her wide open twat lips, soaking onto Freada's hand. With a low moan Freada squeezed her legs together on Daren's hand, and with a shudder released her own plentiful come. Daren felt her four fingers suck up into Freada's cunt become very wet and soppy as the woman ejaculated. She dropped her legs to the bed. Freada took her fingers away from Daren's pussy and bending down between the girl's legs greedily lapped at the girlish spunk which was still trickling from between her pink cunt lips. Then she lay back once more. Daren, with her fingers still inserted into Feada's well spunked channel, drifted off into a deep sleep. When she awoke two hours later Freada was still by her side. It was dark and she realized that the bedclothes had been pulled up over her. They were both in bed and it felt very cozy. She heard Freada's voice in the dark.
"Are you all right, my darling?"
Daren had reached out for the older woman, and their bodies had drawn close together. Soon they were again making love, and this time Daren was no longer frightened. She knew that this was what she had wanted for a long time. She had just needed someone like Freada, an older and more experienced woman to show her the way. By the time dawn tinged the Paris sky Freada had shown Daren quite a lot. Daren was completely enamored, and it was just the beginning. She saw a great deal of Freada in the following months, and when finally the time came for her to leave school and return to America she wrote to her parents asking permission to stay in Paris. She had told Vicki all about her affair with Freada, and Vicki had understood. She had never been tempted that way herself, she liked men too much. But if her sister preferred it that way, it was no business of hers. She promised to spin a yarn to their parents when she got back, telling them that Daren had decided to go on an art course. She also promised not to mention anything about Madame Freada Rosental. Soon afterwards Daren had moved into Freada's apartment. They were a full-time affair and they went everywhere together. Freada knew so much, and Daren was startled to discover that although she had spent so long in Paris she didn't really know it at all. A completely new Paris was revealed to her. An exciting underworld of special clubs, special liaisons, and special lives. They held parties in the magnificent penthouse and also went out to many parties. There were seldom any men present on these occasions, and if there were they were usually only interested in each other. It was a new and novel world for Daren and she thoroughly enjoyed it.
During this time she had dropped all her former acquaintances except Willi, or to give him his full title Wilhelm August Baron von Munchhausen-Oberstein. He came from a wealthy aristocratic family that went back for generations, and had based himself in Paris although he travelled a great deal attending to family estates and family affairs generally. He was very much in love with Daren, and had asked her to marry him several times. She always laughingly refused, wondering if he knew what the relationship was that existed between herself and the woman in whose apartment she was living. But Willi never asked, and she presumed it hadn't occurred to him that she and Freada might be having an affair. She continued to see him occasionally, accepting an invitation out to dinner about once a month. He was always beautifully polite and treated her as if she was already the Baroness. Willi wasn't exciting company but he was solid and reliable, and there was no doubt about the fact that he was devoted to her.
It was to Willi that she had run on the night she discovered Freada in bed with two other girls. She had first of all been shocked at Freada's blatant promiscuity, and then enraged. At least she might have chosen one of the other bedrooms, instead of the one they shared together. Running to the bathroom she had returned with a large jug of water and flung it over the two girls who lay giggling in bed.
Freada had got out and was rapidly dressing. Daren flung the empty pitcher at her. Freada ducked and it smashed into the glass of her dressing table, making one awful big mess. Running around the room, white with rage, Daren had snatched what clothes she could see that belonged to her and hurled them into a suitcase. She had then left, making sure that she banged the door hard behind her. She could hear Freada calling her name. She had stayed in Willi's apartment for a week, and although Freada telephoned to see if she was there she instructed Willi to tell Freada that he hadn't seen her. When she had got over her rage she felt listless and utterly depressed. How could Freada do that to her? Then she would go to her room and cry. Willi didn't find her much fun for that first week, but eventually she perked up. When Daren said she would marry him he was in his seventh heaven. He'd never expected her to say yes. He couldn't understand what had been happening between her and Freada Rosental, and he didn't want to know. Daren seemed happy again, and that's all that mattered. But the new Baroness von Munchhausen-Oberstein wasn't at all happy. She was wishing she hadn't got married. Wishing she hadn't been so impetuous. And most of all she was missing Freada. She couldn't forget the woman, no matter how she tried. She had searched the faces of the crowd at her wedding, wondering if she would turn up. But there had been no sign of her. She had deliberately got Willi to rush the wedding, frightened that if once Freada got hold of her she would change her mind. Consequently none of her family had managed to get to Paris in time. She was glad she was staying with Vicki in Washington and not with her parents. They weren't going to be very pleased with her getting married without their presence. "Oh what the hell," she muttered to herself.
"What did you say dear?"
Daren turned to the Baron. "I said what the hell."
"Oh did you," was his only reply. She could have hit him. There was a bump. She was on American soil again.
Vicki and Daren were alone at last. Vicld had put on a splendid dinner for her sister and her new husband and had invited a small and select number of guests. John, Vicki's husband, was unavoidably in Petersburg and hadn't been able to get back to Washington in time to greet Daren and her husband. He was due back in two days time, but had sent a telegram of welcome. He had never met Daren, who hadn't flown to the States for Vicki's wedding. The guests Vicki had invited that evening had been amusing, and in some cases they had been people in high government positions. Consequently Daren had been well entertained, and her husband, the Baron, had been delighted to meet so many American VIPs. The dinner had been a success. Tomorrow the two girls were flying to New York to visit their parents. Vicki had deliberately avoided inviting them to Washington to meet Daren when she arrived. She thought it might be better if they had talk first.
It was midnight and Daren had tucked Willi in bed telling him that she was going along to Vicki's room. The Baron, who had drunk rather more than usual during dinner, was asleep before she left the room. Now the two girls sat on Vicki's bed, and Daren related her recent turbulent history with Freada Rosental and her impulsive marriage to the Baron. Vicki listened intently.
"I think you've done the right thing Daren," she finally told her sister. "From what I've seen and heard of Willi he seems a solid sort of person. And he obviously adores you. The way I look at it if, in the future, you still feel the same way about Freada there's no reason why you shouldn't renew relations. It won't be the same, of course. You are now married. But many things can be done under the cloak of marriage."
Daren looked a bit doubtful. "I suppose you're right. A girl has to get married sometime. After all, Freada has been married once. Although the way she talks about it she makes it sound like a prison sentence. And I have to admit it is sometimes fun being a Baroness. But I also have to admit that Willi does bore me. He's very kind, but he has no excitement. And he leaves me cold in bed. Fortunately he's not the sexy type, so he doesn't pester me too much."
Vicki, who like Daren had changed into a nightdress, lay back on the bed with her hands under her head.
"He sounds like John," she said suddenly.
Daren looked sharply at her sister. "I'm sorry I haven't written much this last couple of years Vicki. But somehow time has just sped by. Life with Freada was always pretty hectic, and America seemed like another planet compared with the sort of life we were living in Paris. But although I didn't write much, I thought about you often enough. I was sure we'd never drift apart. We were always too close when we were kids."
"No need to apologize," Vicki smiled. "Life has been pretty hectic for me as well. Being married to the brother of two Presidents, and at this moment married to the Vice-President himself, hasn't been particularly peaceful."
The two sisters began to talk of the assassination of Robert T. Kelland, and Vicki told Daren of the ghastly scenes she had witnessed in Los Angeles.
"Sometimes I get frightened," Vicki told Daren. "Since Robert was killed we are all under special guard night and day. John doesn't talk about it much, but I can sense tension in the air. It's almost as if they expect the same thing to happen again. I feel quite sorry for Mary, Edward's wife. She can't even go shopping without a posse of Secret Service agents. It's bad enough for me, and my husband is only the Vice-President. On the occasions we are required to appear in public with the President himself the tension is nearly unbearable. And I have to admit when I see crowds of people I get nervous. Once when we were attending an open-air rally with Edward a car backfired quite close to where I was standing. My heart nearly stopped beating for a second."
"Do you like being the wife of a member of the First Family in America?" Daren asked, her voice slightly teasing.
"Like you being a Baroness I find it has a lot of advantages," Vicki replied. "But like everything else it also has a lot of disadvantages. Fear of get ting mown down by machine gun bullets is one of them. The other is the difficulty in being able to lead any sort of private life."
Daren leaned over Vicki's reclining body, looking directly into her face. "Just what sort of private life do you mean?"
Vicki smiled, and a fire glinted in the deep blue of her eyes. "Well I haven't got a Freada Rosental tucked up my sleeve if that's what you mean. But like your Willi, John isn't a sexy type. And like you my dear I am."
"Which means?"
"Which means, Daren, my dear, that I occasionally take a lover."
There was silence for a moment between the two sisters, then Vicki spoke again. "There's another reason why I'm pleased you've married Willi. Through me you are related to the President of the United States. You might be left alone in Europe, but here you will be in for some publicity. Being married will stop the sort of speculation newspapers are apt to go in for. And knowing your tastes my dear the less public speculation about our private affairs the better."
"Yes, I see what you mean," Daren replied slowly. "I was rooted out by Le Soir and Paris Match in France on several occasions. But I always managed to give them the slip. Being in the public eye means it's necessary to make sure that the facade doesn't slip."
"Precisely," Vicki murmured. "So long as the facade is all right you're all right."
"And at this moment do you have a lover?" Daren asked, lying back on the bed beside her sister.
"Not exactly. I'm thinking about it."
"And who is the subject of your thoughts?"
Vicki chuckled, a low throaty chuckle, and suddenly Daren was taken back to their days together in Europe. She and Vicki used to talk thus, whispering together in the dormitories of their schools in Geneva and Paris. It was always Vicki who got involved with some boy or other. She never did. Sex didn't interest her until she met Freada. But it had always interested Vicki. She remembered the dark haired, handsome, German speaking Swiss student who invited Vicki and herself to his parents' villa situated on the shores of Lake Geneva. Or rather he had invited Vicki and she had insisted that Daren went along as well. Vicki had always had her head screwed on the right way. She knew that the boy's parents would be less concerned if she shared a room in their rambling villa with her sister than if she'd been alone. She was right, of course. The boy's parents never knew that Vicki, who was then barely seventeen, spent the three nights of that particular weekend in bed with their sixteen year old son.
"The subject of my thoughts is a young Secret Service agent currently detailed to guard the Vice-President's wife," Vicki replied. "His name is Jerry Mavery, and he's very handsome."
"Why are you only thinking about it?"
"Various reasons. He's very young and has only recently been recruited to the Secret Service. I want to make sure of his discretion before I make a move."
"Sometimes I get fed up with being discreet," Daren replied petulantly.
"It's a small price to pay for being able to do what one likes," Vicki told her. "Discretion never did anyone any harm."
"Suppose not. Do you remember Kurt in Geneva, Vicki?"
Vicki chuckled again. "Oh, I remember him all right. He could never have enough. I enjoyed that weekend we spent at his parents' villa. Must have been pretty boring for you though."
"Not really," Daren replied. "I didn't feel left out because I was never interested in the Kurts of this world. And it was a lovely villa. Do you remember how cold the lake water was?"
Vicki remembered all right. Daren had swam out to a floating raft and was lying in the sun. She and Kurt scrambled out of the water onto the private beach of the villa their skin tingling from the cold water. Kurt had brown sun-tanned skin, black hair, white teeth and a sleeky muscled body. He had grabbed her and kissed her full on the mouth.
"Kurt," she had protested. "Someone will see us from the house."
"No they won't," Kurt had replied. "Father is at work, mother is out shopping, and the housekeeper has a day off today."
He had taken hold of her hand. "Come on, let's go inside."
They had run into the villa, and she had rubbed her wet hair with a towel as she ran. He had taken her straight to his room and pushed her onto his bed.
"Now Vicki," he had whispered. "Please now. I can't wait any longer."
She had responded to his wild youthful embrace, feeling the hard thick meat of his sex pressing on the front of her swimming costume. They had stripped, their skins still wet from the lake water, and he had taken her with all the youthful ardour of a highly sexed sixteen year old. She remembered his large throbbing prick in her hands, and his mouth chewing her nipples, her lips, her neck. His tongue going into her mouth, and the first moment of pain as his tool ground its way up into her channel. There had been no finesse about the way Kurt made love-he was too young for that:-but what he lacked in finesse he made up for in sheer sexual ardour. She remembered clinging to his muscled body, which was nevertheless still soft with puppy fat. They had both had an orgasm quickly, the result of exploring each other's body being too much for both of them. Then he had started again. He fucked her three times within the hour, and each time they both shot their loads in great gasping orgasms of lust. That night, and for the next two nights, she had crept to his room once the house had settled for the night. It had been like sleeping with a robot. Kurt seemed to have a constant erection, and an infinite capacity for sex. Every morning at dawn she staggered back to the room she shared with Daren fucked to a standstill. There she would fall into a deep sleep until it was time to get up for breakfast. She remembered on the second morning Kurt's mother remarked over breakfast that she was looking a little tired, and was she sleeping all right. Oh yes, that had been a weekend to remember. And she did remember it, like a dream. The sun shining on Lake Geneva. The exciting vitality of Kurt's youthful body. The white villa and the scarlet hibiscus. She had been very young and life was great. She was still young now, and her beauty had increased with the years. She now had poise and elegance, and she was aware that she was capable of turning any man's head. But Kurt remained in her memory because he represented a certain stage of her life. When she had been hovering between girlhood and womanhood. She had no regrets about being seventeen no longer. But she would always remember Kurt and the villa by Lake Geneva. She was sorry that Daren didn't have those memories, although she had made up for it in Paris.
MEN ARE NOT MADE FOR SAFE HAVENS
The television cameras blazed into life, bathing the rostrum on which stood the President of the United States with a white glare. President Edward D. Kelland crossed and recrossed his hand nervously out of sight under the lectern which stood in front of him. It was a tense moment for everyone in the packed hall in New York. The last President to appear on television had been Edward's brother, and he had ended up by stretching his length on the floor with his wife by his side, both riddled with machine gun bullets. General Marlborough at the back of the hall expelled a sigh of relief as the president began to speak. Nothing could possibly have gone wrong. The cameras had been taken to pieces in front of his own eyes and reassembled again. Every precaution had been taken. Amongst the members of the seated audience were many Secret Service agents. They completely encircled the Kelland party seated on the third row from the rostrum. The general, dressed as always in an inconspicuous dark blue suit, leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. His hands were steady and there was nothing about him to show the momentary tension he had experienced.
President Edward D. Kelland launched into the main part of his speech to the peoples of America. Virtually word for word he reiterated his murdered brother's sentiments on the necessity for an end to the violence and the hatred that existed between black and white citizens. And then he came to the most sensational part of his speech. Speaking in a firm voice into the banks of microphones in front of him he made his position crystal clear. He stated that he personally was urging the Senate to pass through legislation a Bill of Rights for all American negroes. Furthermore he went on to say that in his lifetime he hoped to see laws brought into existence that would impose severe penalties for these who practiced racial discrimination. The seated audience broke into a wave of clapping which lasted for some time. Eventually the President was able to continue. He went on to say that the free countries of the world looked towards the United States for a lead in the struggle against Communist domination. Amidst more clapping and cheers he concluded his broadcast.
"That lead cannot properly be forthcoming until we as a nation have put our own house in order. I believe, as my brother believed, that there is no such thing as a first or second class citizen according to the colour of his skin. There is only one class of citizen, and he is an American citizen. If this is an unpopular view amongst some people who are listening to me now, then I would ask them to look inside themselves and ask if I am not right. I defy racists no matter what their colour, and if I bring their wrath down onto my head I can only say one thing. It is something my brother also believed. Men are not made for safe havens."
Jerry Mavery, sitting in the row behind the Kelland party, kept his face poker straight. But the President's words stirred all the hatred and contempt he felt for negroes. He and many people like him had hoped that the second President Kelland would have more sense than to push forward the insane legislation relating to negro rights. Didn't the man realise that legislation, no matter how forceful, would never change the way people think. Niggers were niggers, and he, and millions of other Americans, would always think of them as such. Let them all rot in the slums of Harlem. Let them die of starvation, there would always be others to take their place-worse luck. They bred like cockroaches.
The television cameras faded. The President was off the air. Jerry watched him disappear through a door behind the rostrum. The Kelland party stood up, and headed by the President's wife they made their way slowly to the banqueting rooms where the President waited for them. It was going to be a kind of cocktail party, when people helped themselves to banks of food and drink. They were all specially selected guests, and the more special amongst them would be introduced to the President himself. Jerry joined the ranks of his fellow Secret Service agents that surrounded the party as they moved off. He particularly kept in his sights the Vice-President's wife, Mrs. Victoria Kelland. He had now been her personal watchdog for more than a week, and there was something about the woman that mystified Jerry. He had been quick to note that she was beautiful, and the way she moved made him think of only one thing. He had come to the conclusion that the Vice-President was a lucky man. His job was to guard Mrs. Victoria Kelland, and not socialize with her. Consequently apart from an original introduction, they hadn't spoken. But every time she left her house in Washington he would be close to her side. His car would follow hers when she went shopping. And he was always present at official functions. During this time he had twice sensed this beautiful woman regarding him intently from behind dark sunglasses. He could have sworn that she was interested in him, although when he had returned her scrutiny she had turned away, a slight smile on her lips. His position was such that he couldn't move. If he stepped out of line and made a mistake she could have him sacked on the spot. He could only wait. He hoped he wasn't taken off this particular duty before he had solved the mystery of Mrs. Victoria Kelland. She was definitely up to something, he was sure of that.
Vicki entered the banqueting room on her husband's arm. On his other arm he escorted the President's wife Mary. Vicki felt sorry for Mary, she was looking exhausted. She wasn't surprised. Television cameras didn't bring pleasant thoughts to the minds of the Kelland family, and Edward's speech had hit at the very heart of a dangerous situation. John had told her that Edward had gone against the wishes of his advisers in delivering that speech. John himself thought it was too strong, but Edward had been adamant. He said he owed it to Robert, who had died at the hands of racists. He pointed out that keeping quiet didn't help, it only encouraged the die-hard section of American society who didn't want to face the fact that negroes had the same rights as themselves. Anyway he had now made his position clear, and John had a feeling that at the next elections his brother would either stand or fall by that speech.
Vicki introduced Daren and her husband to the President. They were all wearing evening dress, and the Baron looked impressive. He was keenly aware of the honour of being introduced to the President, and Edward seemed to like him. The two men stood chatting for a few minutes, and Vicki managed to whisper in her sister's ear.
"What do you think of him?"
"He looks a tough guy to me," Daren whispered
"Exactly!" Vicki chuckled. "Just what I thought."
They didn't have time to say any more on the subject of Jerry who was standing in the far corner of the room by the door. But he had noticed the two sisters whispering together, and wondered what they were saying. He didn't know that Vicki had at last made up her mind, and that tonight he was going to get the sign that he had been half expecting. He watched the moving throng with alert eyes. He and the many other Secret Service agents in the room made no attempt to mingle with the guests. They had orders on such occasions to make their presence obvious. It was a warning to anyone who had any ideas about making trouble. They were all armed, and they had authority to shoot at the slightest sign of a disturbance. There were several negroes present. One was an internationally known athlete. He was now being introduced to the President. Jerry watched the black face break into a smile as he shook hands with President Kelland. In Jerry's eyes he was a no good simpering nigger. He wished he had an excuse to start shooting. Suddenly he was confronted by Colonel Victor Knowles, head of Internal Security, the department for which he worked.
"There's been a change of plans Mavery. The Vice-President's wife is not returning with him to Washington this evening. She and the Baroness are staying in New York with their parents. The Baron will also be with the party." He gave Jerry a slip of paper. "This is the address. You will follow them there in your car, and pick them up again tomorrow morning. They are taking the midday 'plane back to Washington. Once you have delivered them safely put yourself up in a local hotel. Tomorrow morning leave your car at central headquarters and travel with your party to the airport in their car. A seat has been booked for you on the 'plane to Washington. For the time being you are to continue your duties guarding the Vice-President's wife. All clear?"
"Yes sir," Jerry replied.
Vicki sat in front of the dressing table mirror while Carol combed her hair. She wore a turquoise blue nightdress, made from filmy almost transparent material. The outlines of her figure could be seen clearly, the material clinging to the swell of her bosom before falling away in graceful folds. Carol brushed energetically until Vicki's long raven black hair crackled with electricity and shone under the lights. It was very quiet in the luxuriously appointed bedroom, and while Carol did her hair Vicki played with the black onyx ring on her finger. They were in her parents' Fifth Avenue apartment. She had telephoned them from the hall where Edward delivered his speech, asking if she, Daren and her husband could stay the night as they wanted to do some shopping in New York before returning to Washington. Daren had agreed to the plan in advance. Vicki had known that Jerry Mavery would be detailed to stay with their party. She had told her parents that they would be accompanied by a guard, and had suggested that he be put up in the servants' quarters. Her mother, who had answered the 'phone, assured her there was plenty of room. So Jerry hadn't gone to a hotel as instructed. He was now installed on the floor below of the extensive apartment, in a room next to Carol.
Carol finished brushing her hair and stood back. She knew what her mistress was going to say next, and she didn't approve.
"Carol, will you go and ask Mr. Mavery to come to my room? I wish to discuss tomorrow's arrangements."
Carol frowned, and for a moment Vicki was taken back to the days of her childhood when Carol had been employed by her mother to look after herself and Daren.
"Are you sure you're doing the right thing? He's a Secret Service agent, and a low ranking one at that."
Vicki lit a cigarette. She had known that Carol wouldn't approve. That was why she hadn't counseled her advice in advance as she usually did. Carol was invaluable. Fanatically loyal, always discreet, she served her well. Vicki knew that without her she would be lost. She was much more than a maid. She was a friend, a confidante, and someone on whom she could always rely. Nevertheless she had made up her mind about Mr. Mavery.
"Don't be a snob Carol," she replied, and there was a glint of ice in her blue eyes.
Carol knew that glint. She'd been expecting something like this ever since the young Secret Service agent had been detailed to guard Vicki. She had seen her looking at him and knew the signs. But whether Vicki was determined or not, she intended to have her say. If anything went wrong Vicki would only have herself to blame.
"It's not a question of being a snob. He's not your type. How do you know if he'll be discreet?"
Vicki looked at her maid and sighed.
"Are you going to ask him to come to my room or do I have to go myself?"
Carol walked towards the door. "Don't say I didn't warn you," she said.
"You're supposed to be my maid not my jailer," Vicki retorted irritably.
Carol left the room without answering. When her mistress was in that sort of mood talking to her was a waste of time. She quietly walked along the carpeted corridor, past the door of the bedroom which Vicki's sister and her husband occupied, and down the stairs to the floor below. Jerry, who was just getting into bed, was startled when there was a knock on his door. He was naked and slipping on his underpants opened the door a crack. Carol got a glimpse of his sturdy athletic body, thinking that her mistress had, as usual, made a good choice in that department. It was the other departments she was worried about.
"Mrs. Kelland would like to see you about tomorrow's arrangements," she said stiffly.
"Hold on a minute and I'll be with you," Jerry answered. Quicky he redressed. So this was it. She was interested in him. He thought he hadn't been wrong. The idea of getting his hands on Mrs. Kelland gave Jerry a keen sense of anticipatory pleasure. He delved into his overnight bag which he always carried in his car and flung a liberal dose of eau de cologne onto his hair before combing it. Carol got a whiff of it as she led him to Vicki's room, and wrinkled her nose. The young man was, as she had suspected, brash. But he was also bright, she admitted to herself. He was apparently quite aware of her mistress's intentions.
Carol left the Secret Service agent outside Vicki's door. He knocked and was told to enter. He found Mrs. Kelland sitting at her dressing table wearing the sort of nightdress that sent his temperature soaring. She was smoking, and her deep blue eyes regarded him serenely. She was a cool number all right.
"Cigarette Mr. Mavery?"
He went to her side and took a cigarette from the offered pack. She motioned to a chair by the dressing table and he sank down into it. He kept his legs wide apart suggestively. Vicki kept her face straight although she was inclined to smile at this overt sexual display. She met his black eyes without blinking. He was a very handsome young man. His hair was the same colour as her own, and shone with the same lustre. The wide sweep of thick black eyebrows, well defined mouth and cleft chin completed a picture of youthful and rugged masculinity. Vicki was no mean judge of character, and in Jerry's face she saw a hint of brutality which would become more pronounced as he got older.
Carol was right to warn her; this young man could be difficult to handle. But she had made up her mind to take the risk such a liaison involved.
She decided to come to the point quickly. "What's your first name Mr. Mavery?"
"Jerry."
"A pleasant name. Perhaps for a little while we could drop formality?"
"Suits me."
Vicki smiled. "But such are the circumstances that come the dawn we shall be forced to return to formality."
"I understand."
"I thought you would," Vicki murmured. She got up from the dressing table. Jerry didn't need any prompting, but followed her to the bed. She lay watching him while he got undressed. His shirt quickly followed his jacket. Undoing his trouser belt he let them fall to his ankles. Kicking them off his feet he stood in front of her in a brief pair of white underpants which hugged his slim hips, stretching tightly across the swell of his sex. Jerry noticed the appreciation in Vicki's eyes at the sight of his muscled physique. Sliding the briefs off his hips Jerry stood naked, his nine inch cock hanging thick and long in repose. Getting onto the bed in front of Vicki on his knees, his hands went under the ankle-length nightdress she was wearing, pushing it up to the top of her legs. He began to stroke her thighs, his eyes on her half exposed black pubic hairs peering from underneath the pushed up flimsy material. He heard her breathing deepen and his prick started to rise, jutting out of its length in a horizontal line. He couldn't wait to shag the cunt of this beautiful woman. Her pampered skin felt like silk beneath his hands. He pushed the nightdress further up her body, over the top of her lush symmetrically shaped balloons. He couldn't quite manage it, so he ripped the material with a twist of his strong hands so that it fell apart.
Vicki hardly noticed her nightdress being ripped in two. Her eyes were fixed on Jerry's massive awakened lollipop. She reached forward, closing both hands over the erecting phallus. It jerked upwards, throbbing potently under her firm grasp. The circumcised foreskin peeled right back, and with a circular motion she rubbed the flat of her palm over the surface of the exposed knob until it ran with juice, causing Jerry to grunt. While she was busily erecting his rod to a hardness that made it feel like a rock, he pulled and twisted her sex-filled titties with forceful probing fingers. Getting from between Vicki's legs Jerry got astride her body, and still on his knees edged his way up until his knee-caps were pushing into her arm pits. Keeping his fingers dug into her fleshy bubbies he leaned slightly forwards so that his meat waved in front of her face, his balls resting on the base of her throat. Vicki was still holding onto Jerry's king-size weapon, and now she bent the juice-running phallus toward her lips. Opening her mouth wide she popped it inside, running her tongue over the ridge of the wide crown, licking at the escaping cock liquid. At the taste and smell of Jerry's masculinity, her legs opened further apart, pink twat lips moistly unfolding as uncontrollable lust raged through her body.
Vicki's devouring mouth brought Jerry to the very edge of a violent climax. Dragging his tool free from Vicki's gobbling lips he rapidly worked his way back between her wide open legs. Getting hold of her cunt with both hands he prised the already open lips wide apart, getting a good look at the pinkly wet inside of her sex hole. He was about to dip his head between her legs and have a good gobble himself, when he changed his mind. He'd got to have a fuck or he'd waste his spunk on the empty air. Ramming his knob into the wet hole, he stretched out straight above Vicki, hands resting on the bed on either side of her shoulders, arms straight.
Vicki's blue eyes gazed up at him, and he could see a line of cock saliva on her lips. She was moaning slightly as she felt the tip of his knob tickle the entrance to her channel. Suddenly he came down hard on top of her, his vibrating spunk-shooter screwing its way between her legs and up into her vagina with terrific force. His stomach jolted to a stop hard against hers, his burning rod completely submerged inside the cool sticky depths of her twat. Vicki gave a shuddering groan as the nine inch fuck stick rode into her non-stop. She felt as though her cunt was being split apart, and all her strength drained from her limbs.
"You bastard," she gasped, and Jerry was reminded of other girls who had called him names, Roanna amongst them. But they were all the same these women with hot pants. They wanted it, and they didn't care how they got it so long as they got it. Vice-President's wives or a whore off the streets. Once they got the urge you could do anything with them. And this woman had the urge. Already she was over the shock of his raping entry into her sex hole, and was undulating her hips, hugging ever deeper inside her his prize possession. He could feel the walls of her channel closing onto his penis, drawing his semen up from his bullocks. He began to screw her. Hard, brutal, forceful lunges. The more she moaned and squirmed the harder he fucked. He was certain of one thing. Mrs. Victoria Kelland never got this from her husband. In fact she wouldn't get what she was getting now from many men. He knew how to shag a woman, and he'd got the right sort of utensil for the job. He continued to grind into her, his breath coming in sharp gasps as his excitement mounted.
Vicki was responding to the screwing grinding joystick shovelling its way up and down her cunt. She was moaning really loud now, but it was with pleasure not pain. She started to wrap herself around the man who was giving her so much pleasure. She dragged his lips down to hers, her legs rose in the air and closed around his hips, her arms closed over the sweat soaked skin of his back. Her hips jerked up and down as he lunged into her. She opened her mouth, grinding her teeth against his, accepting his tongue. They were both moaning, bouncing up and down on the bed, their bodies welded into one. Abruptly she gave a tremendous jerk upwards with her hips, accepting full-on his last driving thrust. Their bodies froze motionless as his cock exploded at the same time as she herself started on a long orgasm. It was like having a water hose pushed up her pussy, only it wasn't water gushing out of the nozzle. When finally they came to an end she relaxed her grip with her legs and arms, lying with them outstretched on the bed, panting for breath, her bosom heaving. Dragging his dick from her fanny, which was awash with spunk, Jerry sprawled by her side.
The next day, Vicki, Daren and her husband, complete with their Secret Service guard, all took an ordinary flight back to Washington. She and Daren had done some shopping to satisfy their parents, that being why they had stayed overnight in New York, and then they had made a dash for the midday return 'plane. They received VIP treatment at the airport, and police cars picked them up on the perimeter and personally escorted them to the foot of the aircraft steps. There was no waiting about for the Vice-President's wife and Daren was quite excited at all the fuss. Vicki took it more calmly. She had got used to it. Jerry sat behind them on the 'plane, and once Vicki turned and met his eyes fleetingly. She didn't look again. The 'plane was crowded and many curious eyes were turned on their party. One woman bustled along the aisle once they were in the air and shook Vicki's hand, saying she hoped Vicki's husband and his brother the President were in good health. Vicki thanked the woman politely and she returned to her seat. After that Daren, who had been talking rather loudly, kept her voice low. They came down through low clouds over Washington into brilliant sunshine. As the 'plane came to a halt a car drew up alongside. A man jumped out from beside the driver and held the back door open as Vicki descended the steps. Getting into the back of the car Vicki saw him talking rapidly to Jerry. Finally the man came to the front of the car and got in besides the driver. Then they were off, leaving Jerry standing on the tarmac.
"What is happening to Mr. Marvery?" she asked leaning forward in her seat.
"I'm sorry Mrs. Kelland but his father has been injured in an accident. He will be returning to New York immediately. My name is Davis. I'm his replacement."
She held out her hand. "Pleased to meet you Mr. Davis. I hope you don't find it too arduous following me around." Then she sank back into her seat. She met Daren's eyes and shrugged. Willi snapped open a gold cigarette case and offered her a cigarette.
"Thanks Willi," she said, then slouched in the corner of the car drawing deeply on the cigarette. Just her luck she thought. Or perhaps it really was luck. Carol would think so when she returned to Washington. Vicki had given her permission to stay in New York for a further day. She had made the request after making a 'phone call to her sister who lived in New York. Apparently they hadn't met for some time and had begged Carol to arrange a meeting. Vicki didn't mind. The only difficulty she had with Carol was trying to make her take time off. Vicki knew she was lucky where Carol was concerned, and was already wishing she hadn't spoken so sharply to her on the previous night. While she had been shopping in New York she had bought her a huge box of her favourite chocolates. She would present them to her as soon as she returned to Washington.
Meanwhile Jerry was left at the airport kicking his heels and waiting for a return flight to New York. Finally he was airborne again, winging his way back to the city where his father lay seriously ill. Just when he had been beginning to look forward to his job in Washington. He hadn't formalized any plan, but apart from enjoying the favors of Mrs. Victoria Kelland, it had occurred to him that she could be useful in advancing his career. A woman in her position could do a lot of things if she wanted to. Jerry was ambitious, and was only too aware that it wasn't only what he knew but who he knew that made all the difference. Then he dismissed Mrs. Kelland from his mind and started thinking about his father. He had been given no details of what sort of accident his father had suffered, and was presuming it had been a car accident. It had happened last night, but they hadn't managed to contact his department until he was already on the 'plane for Washington. He hoped it wasn't too serious. He was fond of the old man, and they had similar ideas on a lot of things. He sat back in his seat, feeling suddenly bored with so much air travel in one day.
Jerry's eighteen year old brother Rod was waiting for him at the other end. They were very much alike in appearance, except that Rod's face wasn't so strong as Jerry's. He was still at college, and was in many ways a strange boy. As far as Jerry was aware he had no girl friends. In fact he didn't seem to have any friends at all. When Tim had been alive he and Rod had been inseparable. Jerry hadn't tried to make it a threesome. He was a born loner and preferred it that way. But since Tim had been killed Rod seemed to lose a lot of his drive. He had heard his father mutter more than once that the boy seemed to be asleep half the time.
Rod came towards him now, a worried smile on his face.
"What's happened?" Jerry asked his brother.
"It's bad. The old man's in a bad way. Got a knife wound in his lung."
Jerry stared at Rod in surprise. "A knife wound? How the hell did that happen?"
"Thugs. Niggers. Got him late last night when he left a ULAC meeting and was on his way to pick up his car. Caught him near the car park. Not many people around at the time. There were four of them. They surrounded him then beat it. But not before he'd got a knife in his chest. It's a wonder he's not dead."
"O.K. let's go," Jerry said. "Where is he?"
"Beth Israel Hospital, Stuyvesant Square. We can take a cab."
On the way to the hospital Jerry's mind churned with anger. He thought of the speech he had heard the President deliver only last night. Equality between black and white had been his message.
"Bloody fool," he muttered.
"What did you say?" Rod asked.
"Oh nothing," Jerry replied wearily. "I was just thinking of someone who is a bloody fool that's all."
What was wrong with these Kelland brothers he was thinking to himself? The first one who had become President had virtually urged the niggers to militant action. Well he came to a sticky end. If Kelland number two had any sense he would keep his mouth shut on the question. Instead of which he goes one step further than his brother. It had been soon after the first Kelland had made his speech that Tim had been killed. And now his father. It was madness to encourage the blacks. They didn't want equality. That wasn't their aim. They wanted superiority. They wanted to get into a position where they could kick the whites around, and the President was doing everything in his power to help them.
Bill Mavery was in a private ward. His normally ruddy complexion was white, and he looked much older than his sixty-three years. His breathing was difficult and doctors were contemplating putting him in an oxygen tent. But he had insisted that he wanted to see his son Jerry, and they had delayed. They had warned him that he wouldn't be allowed to talk long with his son. Mrs. Mavery now sat by the bedside, not saying anything. They hadn't had much to say to each other for a long time. Not since Tim was murdered. Looking at her husband she wondered how it was all going to end. First Tim, and now Bill himself. It was all so pointless. They had enough money to live comfortably and pleasantly. Why go around asking for trouble. Surely Tim had been enough for one family. It wasn't right to go on carrying the banner of hate forever. Bill, who had been dozing, opened his eyes and looked at his wife.
"Where is he?" he whispered.
"There now, don't fret," Marjorie replied. "He'll be here soon. Rod has gone to the airport to meet him. They'll be on their way right now."
Bill closed his eyes again. He'd got to reserve his strength while he still had some left. He'd got to convince both his sons that if they wanted their children to grow up in an America fit for white folk, then something had to be done. He was getting too old, and this damn world would put him out of action for some time. If it didn't finish him for good that was. Every time he drew in a breath he could feel the sharp heart-stopping pain in his chest. Damn those bloody niggers. God damn curse their black souls. It had all happened so quickly. It was dark as he walked the block to the car park. As he reached the corner they had appeared from nowhere. It had all happened so quickly that a man walking not more than fifty yards ahead of him didn't hear a thing until he shouted out. And then it was too late. He was lying on the ground feeling weak and faint, blood seeping from a wound in his chest. He'd struck out as soon as he was surrounded. Struck out hard at the one who had come at him, knife in hand. If he hadn't he was sure he'd be dead by now. That nigger had intended to get him in the heart. But he had deflected the thrust. What made him really mad was that he couldn't give the police any sort of description. He couldn't tell the difference between one nigger and another in broad daylight, never mind in the dark.
There was a tap at the door. It was his two sons. Marjorie tried to help him sit up but he waved her aside.
"Leave us," he told her.
She did as she was told, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. An hour later they were still inside, and a nurse entered the private room. Eventually Rod and Jerry came out, their faces looking grim.
"What's wrong son?" Marjorie asked Jerry.
"Nothing ma," Jerry replied. "Everything's all right. We've just got to hope that the old man will recover quickly. They're putting him in an oxygen tent. We might as well go home. They'll ring us if he gets any worse."
Always the same Marjorie was thinking to herself. They never told her anything. Not until it was too late. If she'd known half the rubbish Bill had poured into Tim's ears he'd probably be alive today. On the way back home in a taxi tears came into Marjorie's eyes. She couldn't help it. She just had a feeling of foreboding, as if she was in the grip of a nightmare and she couldn't wake up. There were evil forces abroad in America-Bill had told her this often enough. But she had always fought shy of believing that they had anything to do with her. Even after Tim's death she refused to believe that it was anything but an isolated incident. Now she wasn't so sure. Had Bill been right after all? Did they really have to fight all those black faces that thronged the streets of every American city?
At 4 am the following morning the phone rang by Mrs. Mavery's bedside. The Beth Israel Hospital was grieved to inform her that her husband had just passed away peacefully in his sleep. Marjorie cried for two hours, then got up. She went along to Jerry's room first.
VIOLENCE BREEDS VIOLENCE
Two things sparked off a second round of rioting in American cities. The most important was undoubtedly the President's television broadcast. Ir responsible negro elements took it as a green light for action. The second factor was the killing of Luther X. He had finally been identified through the remains of his car. There wasn't enough left to identify the remains of his body. General Marlborough, head of the Secret Service, was alarmed. He hadn't expected the disappearance of Luther X to receive so much publicity. Certain newspapers, however, took up the dramatic end of Luther X and Molly Rivo, Black Power News racists. The very thing that General Marlborough had been trying to stop was happening.
Rioting broke out in the streets of New York. Like a malignant disease it spread to other cities, and soon Washington, Baltimore, Chicago, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Kansas City, and other towns were plunged into chaos as militant black populations emerged from their ghettos. Negro neighbouhoods were the first to be affected, stores being looted and then set on fire. Trigger happy State Police, backed up by National Guardsmen, sprayed the riot torn streets with bullets. Within a week three hundred people were shot dead in the streets of New York alone. Casualties were high in other cities also and a conservative estimate put the total dead at approximately one thousand persons of both sexes, not a few of them being children. But it didn't quell the riots. By sheer force of numbers the negroes drove the police out of whole neighbouhoods of New York and other cities. Suicide negro drivers hi-jacked vehicles from the streets of their neighbouhoods and drove them straight at the advancing police patrols. These drivers were always killed, but not before their vehicles had careened into police ranks killing and wounding. In Chicago they set vehicles on fire, and sent them hurtling driverless along the streets where police were trying to close in. Often they crashed into buildings, exploding in flames, and adding yet another fire to the general conflagration.
The Police and National Guardsmen were forced to retreat. In one city after another they failed to gain control of large metropolitan areas. They resorted to different tactics, sealing off the worst riot areas and leaving them to the mercy of marauding looters. It didn't work. As soon as they had sealed off one area trouble would flare up somewhere else. They were in danger of losing complete control of their own cities. Police chiefs appealed for help. They were admitting defeat. Casualties were still mounting on both sides. The situation was getting desperate. The army was brought into the picture. Pentagon brass hats argued fiercely about how much force should be used. Tanks rumbled in the streets of American cities. In Kansas City parachutists descended from the skies armed to the teeth. It was a hazardous business landing safely in town parks and open spaces within sealed-off riot areas. Some of them never made it. The casualty total continued to rise. Outside the main disaster areas, now ringed by armored divisions, flash fires of negro frustration still flared throughout America. Many people who had been sitting on the fence joined those who blamed the President for what was happening on their doorsteps. They blamed him for championing the cause of Black Power, which was filling the streets of American cities with death and destruction. The new civil rights bill relating to negroes was held up. The American administration dithered, not knowing whether to continue machine gunning the rioting black populations, or resort to talks with Black Power leaders. The President remained firm. He advocated talks. His rebellious generals disagreed. Black Power, they said, had to be met with White Power. America tottered on the brink of civil war.
Jess Konrad sat in his living room, a glass of whisky-on-the-rocks in his hand. Jerry Mavery and his brother Rod sat in front of him holding their drinks and looking determined. They were out to avenge their father's death, and had come to him. They knew that he and their father had been close friends, and that Bill and himself had been involved with ULAC. They didn't know that their father and himself were also members of the Ku Klux Klan, a much more powerful organization than ULAC.
"It seems clear to me," Jerry was saying. "That father was knifed by people who knew his connection with ULAC. Otherwise there would be no motive. Therefore they probably belonged to an organization themselves, and it all points to the Black Power organization. There must be some way of getting at them. The police won't move. With Kelland taking the line he is they're beginning to get frightened of the blacks. They've even stopped shooting at the looters. Some talk about a new policy of non-violence."
They had been talking together for some time, and all this while an idea had been formulating in Jess's mind. He was as incensed as they were about Bill's death. And he was sure Jerry was right. Black Power had decided on militant action against ULAC. He was right about the police as well. They had apparently received instructions from high up to take things easy. Black Power was rearing its ugly head, and if something wasn't done to stop them anarchy would be let loose. He made up his mind.
"I think you boys ought to meet some friends of mine," he said. "They were also friends of your father."
"That's what I've been waiting to hear," Jerry told him downing his drink. "Let's go."
"I have to make a 'phone call first. If you'll excuse me."
Jess got up and left the room. He wanted this conversation to be private. When he returned he had set into motion the wheels of destruction in a country already in the grip of violence and fear.
Five minutes later he was weaving his dark blue Mustang in and out of New York's traffic, the two Mavery brothers sitting silent in the back. At one point a grim smile crossed Jess Konrad's face. He was thinking that it would be ironical if a second Mavery followed unwittingly in his father's footsteps.
Hours later he dropped the two brothers on their doorstep. The house was in darkness. It was very late, and it was apparent that Mrs. Mavery had retired to bed. He solemnly shook hands with the two brothers and left them. He reckoned they both had a lot to think about. Particularly Jerry. In an impressive ceremony both brothers had been sworn in as members of the Ku Klux Klan. Afterwards they had been introduced to three highly influential members of the organization. The men had worn hoods covering their heads, only their eyes showing through cut out slits. He himself had no knowledge of the real identity of these men. They remained anonymous, except to each other. They had cross-examined Jerry on his background and his present work with the Secret Service. They had also made sure that Rod could be trusted to help his brother if necessary in the dangerous task they had in mind for their new recruits. The task they proposed was the elimination of the man who championed the negro cause-the President of the United States. They had been waiting for someone such as Jerry. Someone who hated negroes and also had a reason for personal revenge. Someone whose job brought him into contact with Presidential circles. He was a gift from heaven for those men who wouldn't tolerate a President who thought negroes should be elevated to equality. They were men whose money and power came from the status quo. They didn't want things to change. They couldn't afford it.
Jess drove his Mustang into his garage, and locking the doors he went into the house. He decided to have one last whisky before retiring. He made it a stiff one. Then he sat heavily in his favourite armchair and listened to the clock ticking. His house was not far from the Mavery house, and in the same select residential neighbourhood. The blacks hadn't managed to get into this area-yet. Jess had a housekeeper but she didn't sleep in. Lighting a cigar Jess continued to drink, and think. He was thinking that the way things were going it was about time he hired himself a bodyguard. What had happened to Bill could just as easily happen to him. Until Black Power was squashed, and all talk of negro rights forgotten, no one with his connections was safe. He hadn't been at the ULAC meeting with Bill on the night he was knifed. But he could have been, and he would have been with Bill when he left to make his way to the car park. They would probably have got him as well.
Putting his drink down Jess made a slow tour of the house, making sure that all windows and doors were securely locked. Then he sat down again. There was no doubt about it he felt jittery. Yes, he would definitely hire himself a bodyguard tomorrow, and have him in the house all the time. He would feel safer. He didn't want some black bastard pushing a knife into his chest. Eventually he went to bed and drifted off into a heavy sleep. He had got through quite a lot of whisky during the course of the evening.
About an hour after he had gone to sleep there was a faint tinkling of glass in the downstairs living room. Jess didn't hear it, but slept on. A black shiny ball, which had been thrown through the window, rolled along the carpet and came to rest against the heavy ornate legs of a high-backed chair. Nothing happened for a minute and then there was a dull plopping noise. The ball had split apart and was on fire, rapidly spreading flames over large area of the carpet. In an incredibly short time the whole room was enveloped in flames, and great clouds of black smoke drifted into the upper reaches of the large house. By the time Jess woke up he was already coughing and spluttering, fighting for breath. At first he thought he was having a nightmare. He reached for the bedside light but missed it and knocked the lamp to the floor with a crash. Getting out of bed he stood swaying, the word fire flashing through his mind. The house was on fire. Finding the bedside telephone he lifted the receiver, frantically banging the hook. It was dead. He couldn't breathe. He had to get out of the bedroom. Flinging open the door he staggered back as he was met by a blast of heat and more smoke. The landing was a raging inferno. He could now hear the flames crackling and devouring their way through the whole house. He turned, intending to make his way towards the window. He walked straight into the bed, cracking his shins, and fell downwards onto the rumpled sheets. He tried to get up again but he couldn't. He was losing consciousness, but he knew if he did that he was lost. With one tremendous effort he raised himself off the bed and stood up swaying crazily. Then with a choking gurgle he fell backwards onto the bed once more and lay still.
Fire engines and police vehicles screamed to a halt and surrounded the burning house. Fire ladders shot into the air like octopus arms, and men tried to get into the bedroom where Jess lay on the bed. But it was impossible. All they could see through the heat broken windows was a mass of flames. Eventually the roof collapsed, and when daylight came the house was nothing but a shell, the burned remains of its owner buried somewhere in the debris. Firemen started the grim task of looking for him. Black Power had struck again.
Jerry was in a foul mood. He was getting fed up with attending funerals. It had started with his brother Tim. Then it had been his father. And now his father's friend Jess Konrad. He had received personal condolences about his father's death from Colonel Knowles, head of his department.
"Would you like to take a short vacation?" the colonel had asked him.
Jerry had refused, saying he would rather work. He now found himself in the large prison-like block which housed the New York headquarters of the Secret Service. He and another Internal Security agent were trying out the techniques of interrogation, and the man under questioning either knew nothing or was being difficult. His name was Marvin West, and until recently had been a free-lance newspaper photographer. His camera had strayed, and he had been caught taking shots of military air force bases. He insisted he had no ulterior motives in doing so, and that he had merely been trying out a new zoom lens camera. It was a thin story, particularly as he had been tailed for some time after the incident. During that time he was seen to post two envelopes that could have contained negatives. Eventually he had been brought in for questioning. His apartment had been ransacked but nothing had been found. Neither had there been any trace of the film he had taken of the military base. He said he had destroyed it, as it was only meant to be a test film.
The interrogation room was large, and divided up into small rooms by seven foot high screens. This way it was possible to interrogate several people at the same time in comparative privacy. Music played continuously over a loudspeaker system. It wasn't being played to soothe ruffled nerves. It was there to drown the cries of pain from difficult cases. Marvin West was being difficult, and Jerry withdrew into a corner with his colleague, a hard stony faced man of about forty.
"Soft approach no good," the man said in a low voice.
Jerry licked his lips, a gleam in his eyes. "We have authority for the next stage. Let's use it."
The man nodded and walked over to a filing cabinet in the corner. It didn't hold any files however, only tools of the interrogation trade. He took out two rubber truncheons and handed one to Jerry. They walked back to where Marvin West sat, his face suddenly going white. He was a man of about thirty, with a thin face and sandy hair. He wore glasses, and his eyes behind the thick lens looked frightened.
"Stand up," Jerry barked.
Marvin West stood up, his frightened eyes on the rubber truncheons his two questioners swung loosely in their hands. "You can't do that," he stuttered. "I have rights as a free citizen. I haven't been charged with anything. I demand a fair trial. I "
His voice broke off into a yelp of pain as Jerry swung the truncheon in a circle, catching West on his elbow joint with a vicious crack. He bent forward hugging his arm. Jerry's colleague moved behind, swung his truncheon and caught the man on the side of his head with a resounding thud. West reeled sideways, his spectacles falling onto the floor. He staggered about as if he was drunk, stepping on his fallen spectacles and crushing them underfoot. Eventually he stood still, shivering, his eyes peering short-sightedly first at Jerry and then the other man. Whack! This time Jerry caught him on the knee-cap. He doubled up and fell to the floor moaning. They started to kick him hard. He began to scream, rolling about on the floor trying to protect his head. Eventually they stopped, and dragged him back onto his chair by the scruff of his neck. Jerry's colleague seated himself at the small desk in front of the moaning man. He stood behind, truncheon at the ready.
"Why were you taking photographs of a military air force base?"
No answer. Jerry swung the truncheon in an arc and caught West on the back of the neck. He fell forward off his seat onto his hands and knees on the floor. He started to be sick while they watched. When he had finished vomiting Jerry dragged him back onto the chair.
"Why were you taking photographs of a military air force base?"
No answer again. Walking in front of the man Jerry dragged him to his feet. Putting the truncheon on the desk he swung his fist, thudding it into the man's stomach with terrific force. West went over backwards, howling like a wounded dog. It was some time before they could get him to sit on the chair again. By the time they had finished with him he looked more like a man of fifty than thirty. But he had broken down. If they were guilty they always did. Secret Service cars slid out of the car compound. West was just a poor jerk who had accepted a bribe. Their next port of call might flush out bigger fish. Marvin West was then handed over to the Central Intelligence Authority. Espionage was their baby. CIA cars joined the Secret Service vehicles as they closed in on the address forced from the tortured West.
That night Jerry roamed the "safe" streets of New York with the man who had helped him question West. His name was Guss Kelly, and he wasn't very talkative. They were both off duty until the following day, and they both wanted a woman. Jerry was still in a bad mood. Taking it out on West hadn't helped much. He still felt destructive.
"What about the nigger area?" he suggested to Guss.
"Don't be funny," Guss replied. "Haven't you heard? The only things in the streets of Harlem at the moment are tanks. Good thing in my opinion."
Jerry changed the subject. "How did West get into our hands? I would have thought CIA would have dealt with him from the start."
"Sonny you shouldn't ask so many questions. Secret Service agents are not required to ask why. But if you want to know my opinion one of the airfields he was caught photographing was the one containing the President's personal plane. And as you are no doubt aware, we gentlemen are urgently concerned with the President's safety. But please, no more shop talk for this evening."
"Sorry," Jerry answered. He knew that they were not supposed to discuss their work-not even with each other. But they had left headquarters together and had got talking, so here they were in a crummy bar off 42nd Street. It was crowded, mainly with resting actors and actresses. They were all having a wild time in the desperate sort of way desperate people do. Jerry and Guss sat at the bar in the corner, stonily surveying the chattering crowd. Guss was always stony faced, apart from his occasional rare smile. Jerry just felt that way. Finally he decided that the only thing to do was get loaded. He ordered more drinks. Guss didn't seem to mind, and when they were finished promptly ordered some more. They started a crawl along 42nd Street, doing all the bars, and getting steadily stoned. There was no difference in Guss's outward appearance. He remained poker faced and steady on his feet. Jerry could take his booze all right, but he hadn't had so much practice as Guss. He weaved slightly as they entered a bar called Jimmy's Bar. It was full of fairies who looked them over good and careful as they entered. They left without buying a drink.
"Fairies and niggers. That's all you get in New York," Jerry muttered.
Guss didn't answer, but catching hold of Jerry's arm guided him down a flight of steps and banged on a door with a grill. The grill slid open and a pair of eyes regarded them. Then the door opened and they were inside a kind of jazz club.
"Come here often," Guss confided. "Woman who runs the joint got the biggest ass in New York."
The woman in question, who had been standing on the small stage working her voice up and down an impossibly complicated scale like most jazz singers do, came over to greet them. Jerry saw what Guss meant. Her bosom pushed forward like the bonnet of an automobile, and her backside would have done credit to a barrage balloon. She must have weighed over 280 pounds, and all that flesh was tightly incased in white satin. She was wearing enough makeup to keep a whole line of chorus girls happy for a week, and her hair was dyed a brilliant pink champagne blonde. "Dolly" as she was inappropriately known, looked and sounded stoned on something stronger than mere alcohol. Nonetheless her small eyes, buried in layers of fat, didn't miss much. In her line of business she couldn't afford to. Apart from running a jazz cellar and singing in it, she also ran a whore house on the floor above. With all these activities she had to keep with it. She usually did. Only on very few occasions did she overdo the needle and get really high. The people who worked for her dreaded these few occasions. Last time she had tried to do a striptease on stage. She got down to her knickers and bra, exposing wide expanses of fat. When they finally got her out of the club and upstairs they had been forced to tie her down. She had been so high she would have done anything. They tied her to a grand piano; even her weight couldn't shift that. She had lain on the floor still only dressed in her knickers and bra, one wrist tied to the piano, looking like a stranded whale. She had started to giggle obscenely. She had giggled for two hours before dropping off to sleep. It had taken four strong men to get her into bed. Next morning she didn't remember a thing, and they didn't remind her. One of the customers had once asked her when she was going to give them another striptease, and she had looked at him as if he was nuts.
She clapped Guss on the back making him cough. "Come right in honey man," she boomed. "You and your friend make yourselves comfortable. I'm goin' to powder my little ole nose."
Guss grimaced as he received another thump on the back. They seated themselves at a table and ordered whisky.
"If that women had been with us today we'd have got through all that much quicker," Guss grumbled.
Jerry was inclined to agree. A blow from those enormous elephant arms would knock any man cold. With their drinks came a couple of girls. Both blondes with green shadowed eyes, they were nevertheless young and pretty.
"Like 'em?" Guss asked.
Jerry nodded.
"Go and tell Dolly we're booking you," Guss told one of the girls. Smiling she stood up. "And tell Dolly flat rates. We work hard for our money," he called after her. Still smiling she disappeared amongst people who had got up to dance. The other one snuggled up against Jerry, one hand around his shoulders, the other falling innocently onto his lap. Except that it wasn't so innocent. She soon found what she was feeling for between his legs. Like her friend she too began to smile.
Later, much later, Jerry found himself in bed with the two girls and Guss, who was lying on his back groaning while one of the girls gobbled him. They were all naked. He could see Guss's hairy chest heaving as the girl between his legs got into her stride. Her lovely white arse stuck up as she bent forwards with Guss's short but thick prick between her teeth. Clambering up behind her he slapped his long trunk between her open legs, feeling for her cunt opening. The other girl, lying on her side, came in on the act. Reaching forward she caught hold of Jerry's stiff cock, with her other hands she felt down her friend's belly until she located her twat hole. Prying the lips apart with her fingers, she inserted Jerry's dick knob into the opening. Jerry felt it go in and pushed hard. The girl fell forwards, Guss's penis plopping out of her mouth. She recovered and pushed herself back into position, wriggling her hips and drawing in a deep breath as Jerry's over-sized fuck stick went further up her cunt. Guss reached forward and forced her head down on his twitching tool again. She continued to gobble, while Jerry ground his way forward, penetrating her vagina to the hilt of his spear.
He began to screw her, slapping forwards into her fleshy buttocks which she raised high into the air, allowing him free access to her fuck hole. He felt something wet on his arse, and turning his head he saw that the other girl was kneeling behind him, pushing her face between his bum cheeks. He experienced a delightful tickling sensation in the region of his anus, and pushed his backside onto the girl's face, forcing her tongue inside his arsehole. He continued fucking the girl kneeling in front of him, his sperm rising at each upward jab of his cock. The girl behind was holding his buttocks apart with her hands. Keeping her tongue well into his shit hole she followed his fucking movements faithfully, tongue frigging him with an expert thoroughness.
Guss shouted out loud as his prick was gobbled to bursting point. "Go on, suck you fucking bitch! Suck harder you cow! Ooh! Harder! Occh!"
Jerry heard the bending girl he was shagging splutter and gag as her mouth was filled with come. Her cunt channel was getting soft and squashy and she was raising her bottom higher into the air. He lunged upwards, burying his spurting meat deep into her vagina, releasing a stream of sex cream.
The walls of her cunt channel closed on his spunking dick and held it. With a shuddering groan she released her own juices, still choking on Guss's plentiful discharge into the back of her throat. Although he didn't turn his head to look Jerry heard the girl behind him moaning softly. Her mouth still glued to his shit hole she had got two of her fingers inserted in her twat and had frigged herself to a climax. It ran out of her open pussy lips onto the bed.
Dolly, standing with her eyes glued to a peephole in the next room, released her breath and swayed her enormous hips. She saw Jerry withdraw his spunky cock and fall onto his back by the side of Guss. The two girls got off the bed and started to collect their scattered clothing giggling together. Quietly she replaced the picture which hung over the peephole and started to get undressed. The jazz club and whore house were closed for the night. Guss and his friend were the only two customers left, and they could sleep it off. They had already paid for their entertainment.
Slowly Dolly got undressed and flopped onto her bed naked. It was a large strong bed, but even so it groaned and creaked as her enormous weight hit dead centre. She turned out the lights. For a while there was silence and then Dolly's breathing began to get heavy, and the bed started to groan and creak again. It went on for some time until with a last frenzy of shuddering flesh and twanging bed springs there was silence. Dolly's Jazz Club had finally closed for the night. This time for good.
General Gordon Marlborough sat behind his large impressive desk and asked for questions. In front of him stood the heads of his department.
"How many men on the 'plane itself?" one asked.
The General referred to his notes.
"Ten in all. They will check everyone boarding and leaving the aircraft, and will also be spaced throughout the 'plane during the journey."
The questions started coming fast, but the General managed to answer them all satisfactory. He eventually stood up.
"Well I think that's all gentlemen. You all know what to do and what to expect. I'm sure there's no need to tell you that a slip-up won't be tolerated. Everything must go like clockwork."
When the men had left his office General Marlborough paced up and down, a worried expression on his face. The President was due to make his first big public appearance since his famous television broadcast. He was going to Chicago on the Presidential aircraft to attend a huge jamboree primarily intended to give Kelland supporters a chance to demonstrate their loyalty. The city was already in a turmoil preparing for the arrival of VIPs from all parts of the States. The White House was in a turmoil, and so was the Secret Service. General Marlborough had the tough task of coordinating his forces with civil police, the CIA, and the FBI. They were all combining on this particular operation.
The civil police were comparatively easy when it came to co-operation. The CIA and FBI were different kettles of fish. It was no secret that all three organizations clashed on too many fields of endeavor. Indeed, it was not uncommon for a fatality to occur. This type of situation was created when agents from rival organizations found themselves operating on the same case without each other's knowledge. The situation was further complicated by the fact that open rivalry existed between the heads of all three organizations. This rivalry, which started at the top, continued throughout the rank and file. Whatever one organization could do, the other two could do better. The three organizations guarded their professional secrets closely, and when it came to co-operation the atmosphere was tense.
The present Presidential tour called for unusually close co-operation. The Secret Service was personally responsible for the President's safety, but in these perilous times both the CIA and the FBI were called to join forces with the Secret Service. Departmental heads of all three organizations had conferred and agreed, after a certain amount of heated argument, on who should be where and when on the Chicago trip. General Marlborough had already been in conference with the head of FBI. All that remained was to tie up the details with the head of CIA-Yoyo.
The very name was enough to make the General feel irritable. Nobody knew Yoyo's real name, and only VIPs in both services knew that much. Otherwise he remained completely anonymous both to the public and his own organization.
"Yoyo," General Marlborough now snorted to himself as he paced up and down his office. He was thinking of the occasions, too numerous in his opinion, when Yoyo's men had outwitted his own agents. There had been at least two humiliating experiences when CIA had unmasked Russian agents within the framework of the Secret Service itself. General Marlborough would dearly have liked to retaliate on this score, but so far no CIA personnel, to the knowledge of the Secret Service that is, had shown any tendencies to be following the twisting trail to Moscow. But one day....
Meanwhile the General picked up his 'phone and dialed X.Y.X.Y. He spoke to no less than two secretaries, two aides, and a personal secretary, each time barking Marlborough into the mouthpiece, before Yoyo's casual "hello" reached his ears.
Yoyo was a good looking man of around thirty-five.
Medium height, broad shoulders, with thick yellow blond hair, violet blue eyes and a sensitive mouth. Immaculately attired in a charcoal grey suit made from silk and mohair, he wore tinted spectacles, and chain smoked. He was America's number one cloak and dagger man. He had a computerized brain that missed nothing and forgot nothing. He headed a vast network of tentacles that poked around everywhere. His methods were unorthodox, highly personal, and often bizarre. He had a sense of theatre which was appreciated by those who worked for him. Intelligence work is more often than not hard dull routine slogging. An operation personally launched by Yoyo was never that. He took the sort of risks that would have made General Marlborough's hair stand on end. But they were always calculated risks-calculated to the finest detail. A smile played around his mouth as he heard Marlborough's irate voice on the line. The first secretary who had taken the General's call had been prepared to connect him immediately. Yoyo had instructed that he go through the usual procedure. Yoyo also had a sense of humour, even if it was a little macabre at times.
He lit another cigarette and swung his feet onto the desk in front of him. His answers to the General's questions were laconic, but they made sense. The General got more irritated, feeling that Yoyo wasn't taking the matter seriously enough. At the same time he was unable to find fault with his answers. Eventually the conversation came to an end with a barked "goodbye" from the General. Presidential security, in these times of civil unrest, was to be a matter for all three organizations. Yoyo and the General had agreed to co-operate on all points of the forthcoming Presidential tour. He would be surrounded by FBI, CIA and SS agents from the moment he set foot out of the White House until he returned two days later. Yoyo ordered his personal secretary to tell the pilot of his private 'plane to stand by. He intended to descend onto the city of Chicago and see how they were making out.
Negro rioting had died down in the city, but there was still unrest. Yoyo wanted to smell the air. He had been requested to do so by the President himself. He wondered if Marlborough, and General Black, head of the FBI, knew of the President's request. If not he must remember to tell them at a suitable moment. He picked up a Dictaphone. Yoyo worked seven days a week, and quite a few nights. He still didn't have enough time.
His secretary interrupted on a line from the outer office. His 'plane was at that moment being serviced and wouldn't be available for another three hours. He cursed and asked to be informed as soon as it was ready to fly. He then finished dictating and sauntered out of his office, leaving his secretary with a telephone number to contact him immediately his 'plane was ready for takeoff. He caught a cab to Greenwich Village Square, just off which he had an apartment. He couldn't call it home. He had no home. Just apartments in the big cities which stretched across the States. They represented home when he was in that particular city, and after that they were just empty apartments. Yoyo liked it that way.
Most men, no matter how devoted they may be to their work, have some sort of private life. Yoyo was no different in this respect, except that he had several private lives in other cities besides New York. His present mistress and housekeeper emerged from the kitchen as he entered the apartment.
"Ah!" she exclaimed when she saw him. "I have been expecting you."
Juanita, a young Cuban girl, had eyes like twin pools of deep dark water. Long black hair was drawn back and tied on the nape of her neck. She was eighteen and her figure had reached ripe perfection. She had known Yoyo for six months and was very much in love with him. She didn't know, however, that in certain circles he was called Yoyo.
She only knew him as Max Reefe, a private airline executive. She reminded Yoyo very much of a girl he had known in Washington. She also had been his "housekeeper" and she had been about Juanita's age, with the same flowering perfection. Like Juanita, Nona had been innocent of his real identity. When he had found her she had been innocent in other ways as well. It was probably that which had hurt him. Her complete innocence. They had sent one of her breasts to him through the post. He knew it was hers. Nona had a birthmark which was the only flaw on her beautiful skin. He hadn't given way. He had kept the man they wanted him to release. A week later they sent him Nona's other breast. Eventually his men had caught the bastards responsible. He had personally made sure that they took a long time to die. And they died screaming for mercy. Screaming for a quick death to put them out of their prolonged agony. They found Nona as well. She must have died under the second operation. He saw her before she was buried. Her face looked like a little girl who had been terribly hurt. He had been the only mourner at her funeral. She had no relations and no close friends. She had died, and died horribly, before she had really begun to live. Nona had left a scar on his heart that he thought invincible. It had been that bloody innocence.
And now Juanita. She didn't know it but she was tailed wherever she went, and a constant guard was kept on the apartment by his agents. It was the least he could do. He hoped it was enough. They were clever, they always sought out the weakest point to strike, or so they thought. Well, they had made a mistake about Nona. They would make a mistake about Juanita if it came to the push. He couldn't afford to give in to blackmail of any sort.
"Why were you expecting me Juanita?" Juanita, who was wearing a dress of deep green silk, her favourite colour, closed her hands over her heart. "Always when you are close I get a warning here."
Yoyo laughed, putting his hand on hers, feeling the taut young breasts under the form hugging silk. "Juanita, you had no idea I was arriving at this minute. Now tell the truth."
Juanita laughed with him. "No, it is true Max. I didn't know. But I'm glad. I was feeling lonely, and a little frightened."
Yoyo tensed and his violet blue eyes flickered like summer lightning around the apartment. "What do you mean Juanita?"
"There is a man. I saw him through the window of the apartment early this morning. He is still there. Sometimes he moves away, but always he returns."
He went with Juanita to the window that looked down on the sidewalk. Yes there he was, Carl Gatt, the great lumping oaf, lolling about as if he was taking part in a beauty parade instead of carrying out his duties as a CIA agent and merging with the background. He had seen the man as he entered the apartment block, and Gatt had seen him. All that Gatt knew was that he was a high-up in CIA. It should be enough to make him carry out his duties a little more professionally.
"If he is still there when I leave I will talk to him Juanita. But he is probably harmless." He thought rapidly. Gatt should be due to be relieved quite soon. Someone else should be on duty by the time he left. He would have a word with Gatt as soon as he returned to CIA HQ, and of course he would have to be taken off this particular rota. Gatt was due to be torn off a few stripes. Certainly Juanita mustn't be allowed to see him again. He sat down pulling Juanita onto his lap.
"I haven't got much time my love, then I must go. I expect to be away from New York at least a week. Will you wait for me Juanita?"
Juanita squirmed close to his body, putting her head on his shoulders. "Always I will wait," she answered in her soft sing-song voice more accustomed to the Spanish language than any other.
It was the answer Yoyo wanted to hear. It was all play-acting of course. There was no future for himself and Juanita. But she didn't know that, although one day when she was older and wiser she would learn. He hoped when that day came she would look back on their times together and not regret them. That's the most he could hope for her. He was pressing his lips against her ear underneath the heavy silk of her hair.
"Let's go to bed Juanita. I will miss you when I'm away."
Lying naked on his back on top of the bed Yoyo felt all the tensions of his hectic life slipping away. Juanita lay close to him on her side. He turned his head, burying his face into the softness of her breasts, smelling the feminine warmth that emanated from Juanita. His body began to tingle with the excitement of her close naked proximity, and the feel of her hand stroking his chest, his navel, finally closing over the waiting hard stick of his sex.
He turned to face her, her name on his lips. He ran his hands down her smooth young body, thrilling to the soft curves of her hips, the rich growth of hair between her legs, the gorgeous dampness, telling him that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Their lips met and her hands closed over his phallus that jerked uncontrollably at her touch. Then she was guiding it between her legs, sliding herself onto the hard meat of his cock inch by inch until their bellies came together, and they were part of each other. Wrapping their arms around each other's bodies, they remained lying on their sides, their hips moving close together and then withdrawing a little, before moving together again. Their mouths opened, teeth against teeth, tongue against tongue. The movement of their hips quickened, withdrawing further apart, pushing together ever faster. Their breathing deepened, and Yoyo felt a singing in his ears. He was in the never-never land of imminent sexual release. Faster and further apart their hips moved, their bellies slapping hard against each other at each forward thrust. Yoyo got Juanita's tongue between his teeth, biting hard. He was screwing her solid now, and she was coming to meet him at each lunging thrust. Yoyo could hear his tool squelching inside Juanita's cunt. She had pulled her tongue from between his teeth and thrown her head back, drawing in great shuddering breaths of air. Her eyes were closed and he could see the fringe of her long lashes, the flared nose, and parted red lips. He shot forwards, his prick abruptly erupting its jet of lava inside Juanita. She went over onto her back, legs wide apart, while he kept himself glued to her body, slowing gyrating his hips, emptying his manhood into the depths of her spunking vagina.
Slowly their breathing returned to normal, but Yoyo continued to lie on top of Juanita. He drifted into a light sleep, and reaching down with her hands Juanita pulled a cover over both of them. She was uncomfortable under his weight, but she didn't move. A woman, for in spite of her tender years Juanita was a woman, in love as she was, doesn't mind such things. She knew that before long the telephone would ring and Max would leave her again. She hoped the man outside had gone away. She hoped Max wouldn't be gone from New York too long. She hoped ... Then Juanita also slept.
ANGEL OF DEATH
The alarm clock by Jerry's bedside shrilled at 7 a.m. He groaned and went to sleep again. Five minutes later the clock shrilled again. It was that sort of clock. Jerry reached out and banged it silent. It was warm and snug in bed. The sky through the bedroom window was a washed-out blue, and it looked kind of cold. The girl in bed with him had her back to him, and she seemed to be sound asleep. He was damned if he could remember her name. Not that it mattered. They came and went. He wished he hadn't drunk so much last night, but he'd been out with Guss again and he could take enough liquor to sink a battleship and still look and sound the same. The events of the past few days flashed into his mind, and he felt a knot of fear form in his stomach. Everything had been arranged by the KKK. All that remained was for him, the key figure, to carry out their instructions. Jerry had no qualms about what he was about to do that day. But he did have qualms about getting caught. They would flay him alive. He'd never make it for a trial. And even if he did his mind boggled at the sentence they would dish out.
He began to relax again. Nothing would go wrong. The plan was very simple like all good plans. He stopped thinking about it and moved up to the girl by his side. Drunk or not he seemed to have made a good choice-unless Guss made it for him. He vaguely remembered coming back by taxi from Dolly's Jazz Club, and he remembered fucking this girl when they got back to his apartment. But he couldn't remember many of the details. His hands went round the girl's body, getting a good squeeze of her titties, and she turned her head and looked at him through sleep heavy eyes. She was pretty, and young.
"Haven't you had enough big boy?" she asked in a drowsy voice. Then she groaned as Jerry's hand went down between her legs, rubbing against her pussy. "I feel kind of sore around there," she to him. "You wouldn't stop last night."
Jerry grunted in her ear. He couldn't remember exactly what he did last night, all he knew was that he felt like a bit this morning. The girl still lay with her back to him, and he pressed his erecting meat hard against her soft arse. She squirmed a little and then lay still. Jerry eased himself off her body, then getting hold of his early morning erection he pushed his knob between the girl's arse cheeks, pressing the juicy wet cock onto her shit hole. She gave a slight yelp and tried to move away. Wrapping his arms around her chest he pulled her back onto him, at the same time shoving his hips forward. He felt a slight pain as his foreskin caught on the tight rim of her anus. If she was sore in front she could take it from the back. Anyway he felt like a bit of arse this morning, and the girl had got a beauty. He could feel the sexy flesh of her bum cheeks closing together as he forced an entry.
"Jerry no!" she groaned. "For Christ's sake give it a rest. Ooh! Jesus!"
"Come on, you can take it," Jerry grunted. "Just relax. Let yourself go. I'm going to shoot a load up your arse whether you like it or not."
Marlene, who was a good-time girl, nonetheless had been brought up and conditioned to certain codes of behaviour, and this sort of thing wasn't in her book of rules. She felt the colour mount to her cheeks as Jerry's prick burrowed its way up into the most intimate part of her body. She'd got to stop him. It was hurting her, and although she didn't quite know why she was sure it wasn't right. It was unnatural. She began to wish she had never returned home with Jerry. But he was such a good looking boy, and very sexy. That was the trouble. He was a damn sight too sexy. Why, Marlene thought to herself, couldn't she find someone who was like herself-moderate? She liked sex all right, but this was going too far. Either she found herself in bed with someone who was too pissed, or too mixed up, to get a hard on, or it was with someone like this rough neck who screwed a girl rotten and then threw them out on the streets. Why the hell should she let him do what he liked with her? She came here for a good time, not for money. This wasn't her idea of a good time.
Marlene started to struggle, pulling herself away from the hard rod screwing into her arse. She had no sooner started than she realized she had made a mistake. With a laugh Jerry had pinned her flat onto her face onto the bed. She gave a strangled squeal as he came down onto her backside, ramming the whole length of his nine inch dick into her burning arsehole. Clenching the bedsheets in her hands tears came to Marlene's eyes. Christ he was hurting her. Sore as she was it would have been less painful taking it the other way. He started to fuck her arse, and at each downward thrust the breath was knocked out of her body.
Jerry was enjoying himself. He knew he was hurting the girl lying helpless beneath his powerful body. He liked hurting people. It made him feel sexier than ever. He began to give her shit hole a real good shagging, deliberately aiming his sweating fuck-stick to the left and right, up and down. When he'd finished with her she'd be shitting herself. At each downward lunge she gave a gasping groan. Reaching down he splayed her buttocks wide apart with both hands, grinding his tool into her raped back channel with brutal force. She'd stopped struggling. Pity! He liked it when they struggled. Slap! Slap! Slap! His belly hit into her splayed bum spheres rhythmically. Faster! He was going to shoot. It was coming. His gorgeous spunky white cock juice was rising.
"Aaaah!" Jerry fell down on the helpless Marlene's backside, spurting his come abundantly into her aching burning shithole. With another convulsive heave Jerry released a second load. This girl's arse was a damn sight tighter than her cunt, that much he could remember.
Marlene waited until he had emptied his last drop of come into her arse, then pushed him off her back. She bit her hp hard as his penis slid out of her rectum with a loud squelch. Climbing stiffly out of bed she made for the bathroom, gathering her clothes as she went. She left the apartment without saying goodbye. Jerry didn't mind. He'd have thrown her out anyway. He threw back the sheets, feeling the tight knot of fear returning to his stomach. The white sheets were stained with spunk, blood and shit. He went into the bathroom.
A gusty wind blew across the tarmac. Vicki sat in the back of a limousine with her husband, watching the activity that surrounded the Presidential jet airliner.
"It's big isn't it?" Vicki commented.
"Not big enough," John replied. "It needs bringing up to date. I've advised Edward to do something about it. By the time they've got everyone in it's pretty cramped. The back part has been converted into a kind of office-cum-bedroom. I think the President of the United States deserves something a bit more spacious."
An aide appeared by the side of the car and John lowered the window.
"The President's helicopter has left the White House sir. It should touch down on time."
John thanked the man and rolled up the window. More cars were rolling out onto the tarmac. He saw General Marlborough in the back of one of them.
"Excuse me Vicki. I'm just going to have a word with Marlborough."
Vicki nodded and watched him stride over to General Marlborough's car. She saw the General get out and salute her husband smartly. Both men climbed back into the car. She continued gazing out of the window. Then she saw him. Jerry Mavery. She hadn't seen him since he was recalled to New York on account of his father. He was helping to push press photographers away from the aircraft stens. Uniformed police were taking up their positions. She glanced at her watch. Another ten minutes and Edward was due to arrive. Jerry, breathless from his exertions with the grumbling press photographers, straightened up and saw Vicki's face looking out of the limousine window. He saluted, and saw her wave. This wasn't the time to go and talk to the Vice-President, talking to General Marlborough in his car. More and more cars were coming out onto the tarmac, their windscreens plastered with special passes. The President was going to get quite a send-off.
Two black dots appeared in the sky. They were the two helicopters containing the President and his staff. The President, peering down at the waiting jet liner, the crowds of people, and parked cars, took his wife's hand.
"Well Mary. This is it. Wish me luck."
Mary returned the pressure of his hand and smiled. "I'm sure everything is going to be fine," she said. But her voice sounded worried. Edward had refused to allow her to go on this trip with him. Official communiqu's had been issued saying that the First Lady had a cold and would not be accompanying the President to Chicago. It hadn't been her idea. It had been Edward's. It was a shocking state of affairs when the President of the United States feared to expose his wife to the risk of appearing by his side in public. She would be glad when he got back. Perhaps in the future, when things had quieted down, the situation would be more settled. Once the civil rights legislation had gone through, and certain factions had been forced to face a fait accompli, common sense would return to a country that was being pushed to the brink of civil war. Heli-pads loomed up under the descending helicopter, and Mary Kelland didn't have the opportunity to talk to her husband again. As soon as they stepped from the aircraft they were surrounded by VIPs who had gathered to wish their chief a good journey. Camera bulbs flashed. She smiled and waved to Vicki as Edward and John shook hands. The two brothers stood talking, while the other helicopter disgorged its load of Presidential aides, press secretaries and personal secretaries. They filed into the waiting jet liner, walking up the steps between the line of Secret Service agents who all had white badges in their buttonholes slashed with red. At the back of the 'plane mountains of luggage were being stowed on board, the porters being closely supervised by Secret Service personnel.
It was so simple, yet as Jerry walked over to the parked cars, fear turned his legs to water. Reaching underneath the seat of the car which had brought him to the airport he took out a slim square black leather attache case. It was very heavy. Rejoining the group at the rear of the Presidential 'plane he placed the attache case onto the pile of luggage belonging to the Presidential staff. Across the front of the attache case was a white stick-on label. All luggage going aboard the 'plane was inspected by the Secret Service. When they were satisfied a label was attached. Nobody questioned his action. Nobody seemed to notice. Most of the agents surrounding the 'plane knew him by sight. And anyway the badge in his lapel was enough. They had sufficient to do without watching each other. He stood back watching the porters place the pieces of luggage onto a chute which disappeared into the bowls of the jet liner. He'd done it! It had been unbelievably simple. With the help of the KKK he'd changed the course of history.
Never for a moment did Jerry think in human terms. Never for a moment did he think of the personal suffering his action would cause. A born egoist, with a strong streak of sadism which grew in strength as he got older, KKK had cleverly played on his self-esteem and sense of grievance. They had filled his head with the destiny of his country, and the vital part he would play in that destiny. Jerry Mavery was not an unusual character. There are many like him in the world. They make good soldiers, good policemen, good Secret Service agents. Sometimes they rise to high positions and then they become dangerous. A saber rattling private soldier and a sabre-rattling general are two entirely different matters. A general can order thousands to their deaths. The only unusual thing about Jerry was the fact that he had been presented with the opportunity to do something dramatic without rising to a high position. There is nothing noble about assassination, yet as Jerry saw the black attache case disappear into the belly of the Presidential 'plane, he felt a surge of power in his veins. He had done something really big. He counted for something. Future generations would read about his action in the pages of history, even though his name would never be mentioned.
"Mavery, stop day-dreaming. Report to Colonel Knowles immediately."
It was a high-ranking Secret Service officer, and Jerry moved off at the double in search of his department boss. He found Colonel Knowles standing by his car issuing a stream of instructions through the car radio. His words were being relayed to men spread on the perimeter of the airfield who all carried walkie-talkies. He switched off and turned to Jerry.
"Mavery, I'm sorry to give you such short notice but we're a man short on the Presidential 'plane. I want you to report to Colonel Rogan, who is already on board. He will give you instructions to be carried out once you arrive in Chicago. You will be working in liaison with CIA personnel."
The colour drained from Jerry's face, and his mouth hung slightly open like an idiot's. Colonel Knowles, who was accustomed to his staff jumping to it when he gave orders, looked at Jerry's white face.
"Are you feeling all right Mavery?"
"Something I ate for breakfast sir. Perhaps it would be better if you asked someone else to take the Chicago trip."
"Nonsense. Ask Colonel Rogan to give you an air pill once you're aboard. You're one of our youngest agents, and between you and me the President likes to see fresh faces around him. He thinks us old ones are getting a bit past it."
Taking Jerry's arm he guided him to the steps of the 'plane. "Goodbye Mavery. See you when you get back."
As if in a dream Jerry found himself being guided into the interior of the Presidential aircraft by a smiling stewardess. He stumbled into the main cabin which was filled with Presidential staff, newspaper reporters, Secret Service agents, and God knew what else. Blind panic suddenly hit him hard. He turned back the way he had come, only to find the narrow gangway blocked by Colonel Rogan.
"Are you Mavery?"
He nodded his head miserably, dimly aware that it was too late. The jet motors were warming up, and the red light was glowing in the interior of the cabin warning passengers to fasten their seat belts.
"I've allocated you seat 2B, behind you on the left. When we touch down at Chicago get out ahead of the secretarial staff. I will be waiting for you and the others with instructions. We will be playing a secondary role from Chicago airport to the centre of the city. CIA men will be thick on the ground-worse luck."
Jerry remained staring at the Colonel.
"Mavery, are you listening to what I'm saying?" he snapped.
"Yes sir." Jerry turned and stumbled towards seat 2B.
"Here, let me help you with your seat belt." It was a woman's voice, and as Jerry fell heavily into his seat she unraveled the seat straps and clipped them around his waist. Joyce Holland was thrilled. A press secretary, attached to the White House Public Relations Department for the last six months, this was her first experience of a Presidential tour. She hadn't expected the additional good luck of having a handsome Secret Service agent seated next to her on the Presidential aircraft. She knew Jerry was Secret Service by his badge. She herself wore her own special badge, and had been told to co-operate with the gentlemen of the Secret Service with their badges of white slashed with red. She was very willing to co-operate with this handsome young man.
"Don't you like flying?"
Jerry looked at the girl without seeing her. The 'plane had turned, jet motors whining, shivering on the tarmac. This couldn't be happening. It was a nightmare. He had been caught up with the sweep of history he had been so happily dreaming about. He was going to be killed. He glanced through the small round window over the girl's shoulder. He could see the cars and a group of people standing in a distance. The 'plane plunged forwards and gravity pulled him back onto his seat. The waving figures, the cars, the ground, disappeared in a blurring flash. The Presidential 'plane with its load of human cargo swept into the grey sides, soared through the heavy layers of cloud, and emerged into brilliant sunshine.
Colonel Rogan glanced at his watch. Dead on time. He settled back in his comfortable VIP seat and lit a cigarette. The Secret Service had got the President into the air without incident. CIA and FBI had a tougher job in Chicago. In some ways, he was glad it was mainly their baby, although it was a kind of snub for his organization. But if anything went wrong Secret Service men would be on hand. The 'plane hit a thick layer of cloud and bumped slightly, then rose leaving the cloud behind. The Presidential aircraft hadn't quite reached its cruising ceiling yet. The pressurized cabin was warm. Colonel Rogan twisted a knob in the rack above his head, directing a jet of cool air onto his face. Putting out his cigarette he released the catch on the seat which allowed him to recline further backwards. He drifted into a light sleep.
Down on the ground Vicki got back into the limousine with her husband, after saying goodbye to Edward's wife and others. As their car swept out of the grounds of the military air base, guards and uniformed police stood rigidly to attention saluting the Vice-Presidential flag fluttering from the bonnet of their limousine.
"I've had a letter from Daren," Vicki told her husband.
"Really," he replied, looking politely interested.
Vicki knew he was thinking of other things but she persisted. "She says she's going to leave Willi."
That did catch John's attention. "Whatever for? They've only just got married."
"Something about not being compatible."
"Rubbish. She must have known what he was like before she married him. She's not a child."
"I think she married him in a hurry."
"Why? Is she pregnant?"
"No, I don't think so."
John gave up and returned to his original train of thought, which was concerned entirely with Vice-Presidential affairs. He never did understand some women and their odd behaviour. He didn't really understand Vicki. Women weren't like men, he concluded. Which wasn't a very original thought for a Vice-President.
Vicki continued to think of Daren on the way home. Her letter hadn't said much, except that Freada Rosental had made a big come-back and Willi was being difficult about the relationship. He wanted to take Daren away from Paris and she wanted to stay. She hoped there wasn't going to be a scandal. She wondered if John had thought about that possibility. She took a pair of sunglasses out of her handbag and placed them firmly onto her face.
"Vicki the sun's not shining."
"I know John but I'm thinking about Daren."
"Women," John Harold Kelland thought to himself. Still he had to agree they suited her. Gave her an air of mystery. She really was very beautiful, and the grey tailor-made coat flecked with dark blue looked very chic. He leaned over and took her hand. "I'm sorry if I'm preoccupied these days. Seems to be so much work."
Vicki left her hand in his for the rest of the drive. She was mildly surprised. John didn't usually get affectionate in the back of cars. Particularly an official chauffeur driven car. But if he felt that way ... She started to think of Peter Van Bilt, Vice-Presidential aide. He had recently joined John's staff and she had met him for the first time last night at a farewell dinner party for Edward. She had spent a little too long talking to him, and she had noticed Mrs. Kelland, senior, looking at her sharply. She would have to be more careful. Mrs. Jenny Kelland may be an old woman, but she didn't miss much. She had visibly aged since Robert's death. Vicki felt sorry for her, although she couldn't express it adequately. There was virtually no rapport between herself and Mrs. Jenny Kelland. They belonged to different generations. Her generation-what did it stand for? Violence? She shivered.
"Are you cold my dear?" John asked.
No she wasn't cold. John wondered what his beautiful wife was thinking about this time. A new hat? Or Peter Van Bilt his new aide? John Harold Kelland, for all his mild manner, wasn't completely unaware of what went on around him.
The Presidential aircraft was one hour out of Washington. President Edward D. Kelland sat in his private apartments behind a walnut desk surrounded by his advisers. They were working on the speech he was going to deliver in Chicago and it was proving tough.
"I don't think it's necessary, Mr. President, to reiterate the things you already said in your television broadcast."
This was John Cooper speaking, head of the White House Public Relations Department.
"I wasn't suggesting that I repeat my television broadcast word for word John. But I think there should be something in my speech indicating that I stand firm by what I said then."
The air conditioned cabin drew away the clouds of cigarette and cigar smoke. Ice chinked in glasses. The President leaned forward over the wad of paper in front of him, marking pencil in hand. The other men closed in, watching. They wanted their chief to be a success in Chicago. They weren't at all convinced that his television broadcast had been a success. There were at least two men in that pressurized cabin who thought it was a rotten speech. One was the President's adviser on domestic politics, and the other headed the Presidential election machine. This man was acutely aware that the President was halfway through his term of office. He thought it about time the President started steering for a safe ticket. Negro rights wasn't that in his opinion.
In the front of the 'plane Jerry sat gripping the arms of his seat, the girl's voice by his side coming through from a distance. She was telling him that she had a sister in Chicago and she hoped she would be given enough time off to go and visit her.
Abruptly he got up and started to walk along the gangway before she had finished speaking. Joyce stared after Jerry in surprise. Apart from yes and no she'd hardly got a word out of him since the flight started. She didn't think she was any great shakes when it came to fascinating men, but at least he might have been more courteous. She wondered if all Secret Service agents were so rude.
"Colonel Rogan, I've got to speak to you."
Colonel Rogan, who had woken up and was scribbling on a pad of paper on the pull-out table from the back of the seat ahead of him, looked up at Jerry with irritation. His sharp eyes scanned Jerry's face and he looked thoughtful. He had once studied medicine, and he diagnosed hysteria verging on mental breakdown. Mavery's eyes were wild, the pupils dilated. Perspiration poured off his forehead, his body was trembling and his speech uncoordinated, each word jerking out of his mouth with an effort. Taking a new piece of paper he quickly wrote something on it and handed it to a white-haired man sitting behind him. Then he got up and led Jerry to the back of the cabin. Here in a small recess usually reserved for aircraft stewardesses he sat Jerry down on a folding seat attached to the wall.
"Now Mavery what's wrong?"
"There's a bomb on this 'plane. You've got to get the pilot to land immediately. There's not much time left."
The white haired man to whom Colonel Rogan had passed the scribbled message came and stood besides the Colonel. He was just in time to hear what Jerry said about a bomb. He was carrying a doctor's bag, which he placed on the floor rummaging about inside it. Jerry started to get up but gently and firmly Colonel Rogan pushed him back into his seat.
"We know all about the bomb Mavery," he said.
"It was removed before we took off from Washington."
It was the last straw for Jerry. The grey mists of a nightmare world pressed further onto his brain. How could they know? No one had seen him. Why hadn't he been arrested?
"You don't know," he blurted out. "It's in a black attache case. I put it there. There's not much time left I tell you. You've got to do something."
His voice was rising hysterically, and swiftly Colonel Rogan bent over him and undid his jacket.
"Take your jacket off Mavery. The doctor here will give you something to calm you, then we'll go and look for the bomb. All right?"
Jerry tried to stop the two men, but he didn't seem to have any strength in his limbs. They rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and the white haired man plunged a needle into his arm. Then they replaced his jacket, and all the while he kept telling them they'd got to do something, and Colonel Rogan continued to tell him that everything was under control. They had injected him with morphine, and the effect was very quick. Jerry stopped trembling and his terrified face became calm. His eyes lost the wild desperate look, and became serene and dreamy. They led him back to his seat with ease. Releasing the catch they pushed the seat back into a reclining position, and fastened the safety belt around his waist. Jerry's eyes were already closing. The doctor had given him a strong shot. He drifted off to sleep, his mind a hazy jumble of broken incidents. Somewhere outside the warm glow of which he was the centre Jerry was aware that something terrible lurked in the shadows. But whatever it was couldn't touch him now. He was safe so long as he remained inside the warm glow of light. So long as he didn't move. His eyes shut tight and he was asleep.
"Do you mind keeping an eye on the young man?" Colonel Rogan asked the wide-eyed Joyce Holland. "He's not very well and we've given him something to put him to sleep. He ought to stay that way until we check into Chicago."
"Yes, sure," Joyce replied. "He has been behaving kind of funny."
Colonel Rogan thanked her then went forwards and waved the security man aside who sat outside the pilot's cabin. He told the captain that he wanted orders given for someone to go down into the luggage compartment and check all luggage for a black attache case. As he left the cabin the Colonel heard orders being given for a search to be carried out. He didn't believe Mavery. Obviously the boy was mentally deranged. He would make sure he got a complete medical as soon as they arrived in Chicago, and he would telephone Colonel Knowles of Internal Security. The man must be getting lax to allow a man in Mavery's condition aboard the 'plane. It was a last minute arrangement admittedly, but that was no excuse for putting a hyper-tensioned hysteria case aboard. Perhaps the boy was affected by jet flight. It was possible.
Meanwhile he could take no chances. He must carry out a check on Mavery's bomb scare. He returned to his seat and continued writing a report meant for Presidential eyes. In the report there were several sly digs at CIA. General Marlborough would have to see the report before it was passed on of course. But Colonel Rogan didn't think the subtle anti-CIA comments would be deleted. Fifteen minutes passed, and Colonel Rogan was just coming to an end of his report when it happened.
The two crewmen in the luggage compartment were killed instantly by the explosion. The left wing of the 'plane went down, and people sitting on the right hand side of the main cabin were flung from their seats into the gangway. Joyce Holland began to scream. President Edward D. Kelland's head smashed against his desk knocking him un conscious. His advisers and aides were flung about the small cabin in a second or two of indescribable confusion. There was another explosion and the huge jet liner plunged earthwards, flames pouring from the fuselage. All air left the pressured cabins, abruptly asphyxiating those who were still alive in the aircraft. No one stood a chance. He didn't deserve it but Jerry died in his sleep.
Radar panels on the ground went suddenly blank. Operators gazed at their empty screens with incredulity. One minute the Presidential aircraft was on course, and the next it had plunged and disappeared. Telephones started to ring. Within sixty minutes the United States of America, the world's most powerful nation, was once more plunged into utter confusion. At one point the grid systems supplying power to the telephones services became overloaded. In New York, Washington, and many other cities across the States communications went dead. Rumor of a Communist coup spread like a forest fire. Panic set in. In Washington Chiefs-of-Staff frantically shouted into their lifeless telephones. If Russia had decided to launch an attack against its most powerful rival to world leadership at that moment, their fight for global domination would have been won. But they didn't. America was being attacked from within not without. The hard core of racialism, hate, and violence, was imposing its will on a country built on the principles of democracy and equality. The Angel of Death hovered over the Statue of Liberty.
ANGEL ONE
It was the 1st July, 1981. San Antonio, Texas, bubbled under a heat haze. Yoyo sat in an armored Cadillac and waited. His thoughts weren't all pleasant. He could remember doing exactly the same thing in Chicago some years back. Waiting for a President who never arrived. He heard a shout. "There it is!" Getting out of the Cadillac he looked up into the blue sky. Yes there it was. Angel One. An enormous red, blue and silver jet. The Presidential Air Force One jet liner, code named Angel One. It glittered under the sun's rays as though on fire as it descended onto a distant strip of San Antonio's International Airport. Yoyo quickly dismissed the simile from his mind, again thinking of that catastrophic day in Chicago where he had waited while the Presidential 'plane had done just that-come down in flames. Angel One turned and taxied towards the waiting reception committee. A long motorcade was also lined up. The President and his wife Vicki were due to make a tour of San Antonio before re-boarding Angel One for the short hop to Dallas where the real fun was due to begin.
The Governor of Texas, late arriving at San Antonio airport to greet the President, cursed as his light aircraft circled. He had just received a message from the control tower stating that it was closed to all traffic. The Governor radioed back that as the Governor of Texas he would like permission to land. His voice had been faintly sarcastic. Permission had been given. His 'plane skidded onto the tarmac and jumping out he made a beeline for the waiting crowd. He took his place just in time. A ramp was being wheeled to the side of Angel One. The doors opened and the President of the United States appeared, followed by his wife the First Lady of America. Applause broke out, and VIPs lined up to shake hands.
Yoyo busied himself with the motorcade. He walked over to where General Marlborough stood by his car. Once again he and the general were required to co-operate. There were also some FBI agents integrated into the motorcade, but not many. It had been decided that Yoyo himself, surrounded by his agents, would be in the lead car of the motorcade. Immediately behind him would be the President's armored Cadillac, and behind that would be General Marlborough with his own men. Everything had been planned to the last detail. Men would also trot along on either side of the Presidential car. He would thus be surrounded by a moving arsenal. Yoyo intended to keep it that way. He had survived the purges that had taken place when President Edward D. Kelland had plunged to his death. Much to his surprise so had General Marlborough. The General had been personally responsible for the take-off of the Presidential 'plane for Chicago on that fatal day. Everyone had expected his head to roll. But it hadn't. President John Harold Kelland had personally backed up the General. Yoyo didn't like that. It hinted at a personal friendship between the General and the President.
Yoyo hadn't changed much over the intervening years. His blond hair was still thick, only now the sides were slightly touched with silver. His suntanned handsome face had perhaps acquired a few more lines, but as far as women were concerned they added to his attraction rather than detracted from it. Juanita was now married, and sometimes he sent her a postcard. She had meant more to him than most of the others. She had finally left him sadly but with no regrets. It was the way he had wanted it. And she had left unharmed by her acquaintance with Max Reefe, airline executive. That had been important for Yoyo as well. He would never be able to forget what happened to Nona. He now had another mistress installed in his Greenwich Village apartment in New York, Greer Brecht. She was special also. They had first met in circumstances that were anything but romantic.
Greer was from Germany, where she had lived with her German husband in Frankfurt. He had been an aircraft designer working on an American military project in Germany itself. One day Greer went on a two week visit to her parents in Berlin. She never arrived at her parent's home, and her husband received a visit from two tough looking individuals. They didn't waste time coming to the point. If he wanted to see Greer again, and in one piece, he would hand over the details of a very special jet fighter 'plane on which he was at that moment working. In the presence of his two visitors Herr Brecht had telephoned Greer's parents and told them that Greer's visit would have to be postponed. She had caught a heavy cold and lost her voice. She would be telephoning as soon as she recovered. He then promised to "post" blueprints of the experimental fighter 'plane in a dead letter box which the two men went to some pains to describe to him in detail. In a flash of inspiration Herr Brecht told his unwelcome visitors that it would take him at least three days to collect all the information they needed. They didn't like the idea of waiting so long, but they agreed. He insisted it was impossible to give them what they wanted any quicker.
That night Herr Brecht did nothing. He was afraid to go out, and he was afraid to use his telephone in case it was being tapped. He spent a sleepless night worrying about Greer, and next morning went to the aircraft factory and reported for work as usual. He immediately requested an interview with the man in charge of Security at the factory. The man was an American and he cabled New York. He was unsure how to handle the situation. That same day Yoyo and two agents descended onto Frankfurt. Yoyo was intrigued. The details of the experimental 'plane were Top Secret. He had received orders direct from the White House to investigate personally.
There was only one definite lead. The dead letter box. It was a recess inside the metal hand rail of a bridge on the outskirts of Frankfurt. Yoyo contacted the Bundesnachrichtendienst, the German Secret Police, and was given permission to go ahead. They kindly offered him all facilities. On the third day he made use of these facilities-a suitable room for interrogation. They had picked up the man who had taken an envelope full of blank paper from the hand rail of the bridge. He was stubborn. They smashed all his fingers, and were starting on his toes before he talked. Moving swiftly they travelled by 'plane to Berlin. Cars were waiting to take them to an address in the very centre of the city. Herr Brecht insisted on coming with them. With two car loads of German Secret Service Police they surrounded the address which they had extracted from the man in Frankfurt. Three men had emerged. They came out shooting, one of them holding Greer in front of him as a shield. Before Yoyo could stop him Herr Brecht had run towards his wife. He was shot in the stomach, and died later in hospital. Greer had broken away from the man who was holding her and run to her fallen husband. One of the three men who had come out of the house was shot dead, the other two dropped their guns. They were East German Communists, part of an extensive spy cell in West Berlin. Yoyo stayed to help clean it up. He was in Berlin for a month, and before he returned to America he visited Greer who had returned to Frankfurt.
Greer was twenty-three, slim, blonde, with widely spaced blue eyes and a trusting nature. She had no plans for the future. Yoyo personally made sure that his government would provide for her during the remainder of her life, should she not remarry. After all her husband had died in the service of America. One night he had taken her out to dinner and then deliberately seduced her. If that was the right expression. Greer had come to him willingly enough. She was lonely, and Max was an attractive man. Also, much tougher women than Greer had failed to resist Yoyo when he put his mind to it.
Greer proved to be one of the sexiest girls he had encountered-and Yoyo had encountered quite a few. They hardly slept at all that first night. They had undressed and got into bed. Yoyo's hand had reached out, feeling for her full breasts. Greer was shivering violently, and at first he had thought she was afraid. But it wasn't that. Her hands had clasped his erect tool, and she was pulling him on top of her. He began to savage her titties as she manipulated his prick, rapidly working him up to the point where he nearly spilled his semen into her hands. Pressing his hands between her wide open legs he found her cunt wet and waiting for him. Greer hadn't got any time for love play on that first occasion. She liked sex and for over a month she had been without it. She didn't think she was being disloyal to her husband. As much as she had loved him he was dead. She was still alive, and she had to live her life as she saw fit. The man lying naked by her side attracted her overpoweringly. He had the same sexual responses as her own. They were urgent and had to be satisfied.
Yoyo was on top of her now, and Greer guided him between her wet cunt lips, and all the while great shudders of desire swept her limbs. He came down, sinking into her soft sweet honey hole. Her arms and legs had closed around him, holding his near ejaculating prick deep inside the womb of her vagina. Fiercely their mouths had drawn together, and without moving they had both started to spunk, Yoyo's cock spurting uncontrollably inside Greer's soaked quim. That had been what might be termed an aperitif. They dozed, had a cigarette, and started again. There was no position that Greer wasn't willing to try with her lithe young body, and Yoyo found her enormously exciting and satisfying. Come the dawn he had asked her to visit America. She had accepted. For the last six months they had some good times together, while she looked after his apartment in New York. She also knew him as Max Reefe, but she also knew that he was a part of the American CIA. She didn't ask any questions. Greer was a practical girl, and also discreet. Yoyo actually thought of asking her to marry him. He was still thinking about it. He knew it wouldn't be fair-on Greer that is. Being married to the head of CIA would be no joke for any girl. But he was tempted. There was something about her that he hadn't found anywhere else. She could be quiet for one thing. Not say a word for hours, just happy in his company. He'd never known a girl with that gift.
Yoyo jerked out of his reverie. The President and his wife were extricating themselves from well wishers and were being guided towards the waiting motorcade. The President was kind enough to shake hands with him before climbing into the car. His wife smiled. Yoyo, not for the first time, thought the President's wife was quite something. Those huge, serene blue eyes. What was she really thinking?
Vicki, at that precise moment, was thinking, and not for the first time, that Yoyo was a very attractive man. Funny, she never thought of him as anybody but Yoyo. She had met him on several occasions when he had been summoned to the White House. She must remember to ask John what his real name was. He must have one. Vicki, during the years she had been First Lady of America, had become quite adept at public appearances. She smiled at all the children waving flags, and waved to the women. She left the men to her husband. Unusual for Vicki!
Police helicopters whirred above the motorcade, the streets were packed dense with people, newsreel men started their cameras. The President was due to give a brief speech of dedication at the San Antonio Medical Centre. They were then sched uled to return to Angel One and take off for Dallas. It was the first time a President had visited Texas, and yelling Spanish Americans went wild. The top of the Presidential car became covered in streamers. It was cleared away by a Secret Service agent. Vicki continued to wave. John became quite jubilant.
"I told you it was going to be a success," he told her.
Vicki nodded and continued smiling. She had been apprehensive about this trip. Still was. The negro rights legislation had been passed through the Senate in the face of enormous opposition after the assassination of the second President Kelland. But the Kelland family had become inextricably tied with negro rights, and trouble still occasionally erupted in American cities. Texas had been a State most bitterly opposed to the new legislation. They had large coloured populations, and the white Texans hadn't taken kindly to the new era of equality for all. They hadn't been able to stop the new legislation, so in general they tended to ignore it. But they couldn't ignore it altogether. The negroes themselves saw to that.
Vicki hadn't changed much either with the passage of time. In fact she hadn't changed much at all at first glance. Her black hair still hung thick and shining on her shoulders. Her beautiful face remained exactly the same. Her figure was perhaps a little fuller, but it suited her. Always sexy, Vicki now had the added sensuousness of a maturing woman. She still had some way to go before she reached thirty, however. Just how far no one was sure, except her husband.
She was the youngest First Lady America had ever had. And she was certainly the most chic. She had a real talent for wearing clothes, and what the First Lady appeared in today half the women of America would be wearing tomorrow. Today she was wearing a dazzlingly white short jacket with wide three quarter length sleeves, and a matching pencil skirt. Underneath the jacket she wore a deep marine blue velveteen blouse that matched her startling eyes. A black onyx ring was the only jewelry she wore. She knew that on this sort of jamboree the wives of ranking officials would be wearing their entire jewel boxes. She had no intention of competing, although she had amassed quite a collection of stones herself.
Precious stones, however, were not Vicki's main concern. From the day she had emerged from the awkward stage of girlhood into womanhood Vicki had remained consistently interested in men. She was the type of girl who would have made a first class courtesan in earlier days. The 20th century, however, grew more puritanical as it neared its close. High class courtesans were becoming very much a thing of the past-officially. Human nature though remained the same. The courtesans of today got married and presented a respectable facade. Behind that facade things carried on as always. Such a career would have suited Vicki's temperament, if things had not turned out differently. Had she not married John Harold Kelland there is no knowing what niche Vicki would have chosen for herself. As it was she had successfully carried out her duties as a Senator's wife, a Vice-President's wife, and now the wife of the President himself. John had taken the oath which made him President only hours after Edward's jet airline had crashed. John was the third and last of the Kelland brothers.
At each stage of her husband's career Vicki had, in spite of difficulties, maintained a private life of her own. Sometimes she wondered if John was aware of this. Such as when about eight months ago he suddenly dismissed Captain Peter Van Bilt from his private staff. There was no real explanation. Peter was simply transferred to duties outside the White House. Vicki was sorry, although not heartbroken. Neither she nor Peter could complain. If John had really wanted to be malicious he could have done much more damage to Peter's career than merely have him transferred. She didn't comment about Peter Van Bilt's disappearance from the White House. Neither did John. Also she had other interests. These interests centred around a certain Mrs. Lilah Hendrix, a Washington hostess of some renown, whose oil millionaire husband had died leaving her a vast fortune. She and Vicki had become firm friends, understanding one another to a quite remarkable degree.
Lilah was aged forty, and looked thirty, with a mass of dark brown curly hair, a slim figure, and a very vivacious personality. She adored her role as Washington hostess, and many household names attended her functions. The President and his wife crowned her social success on the occasions Vicki managed to persuade John to attend one of Lilah's dinners. As their friendship developed, Vicki came to learn that Lilah didn't spend all her time in the limelight. Like herself she conducted another, much more discreet life which had nothing to do with being a socialite hostess. Lilah owned two houses in Washington, one of them devoted entirely to her personal pleasures. And it was to this house that Vicki went on the occasions she was free from the many duties that now surrounded her as the wife of the President.
Vicki found Lilah's private parties much more fun than her official ones. Using the name of Henrietta, she would pile her long hair on top of her head, and arriving late would casually mingle with Lilah's carefully selected guests. Lilah's rooms on these occasions were always very dimly lit, and so far no one had recognized her. Her pinned up hair made a tremendous difference to her appearance, and Lilah's guests were not prone to celebrity spotting. By the time Vicki joined the party they were only out for one thing, and they found Henrietta a very attractive woman.
White House guards had become accustomed to the President's wife returning alone in the early hours of the morning. She invariably returned by the West Gate, and they would swing it open and stand to attention as her black Mercedes slid past. Vicki liked her Mercedes, but she couldn't use it very often. In her position she was expected to drive American cars.
The last time she had attended one of Lilah's very private soirees, the occasion had been memorable. She had arrived late as usual to be greeted by Lilah herself who was wearing nothing but a garland of flowers.
"Henrietta darling," she had cooed, careful as always to use Vicki's alias. "You're just in time." She lowered her voice. "Everyone has had a lot to drink, and we've all agreed to wear nothing but these." She pointed to the garland around her neck, which hid nothing.
There had been nothing else for it. Either she left the party there and then, or she changed into a garland of flowers. Lilah assured her that if she went into the main room as she was, she would be the only person dressed. The flowers won. Vicki didn't want to leave the party, and neither did she wish to make herself conspicuous. In Rome one does as Rome does, so she undressed in Lilah's boudoir and tripped gaily into the room wearing the same as everyone else-a garland of flowers. The huge room glowed from the usual pink bulbs, themselves recessed in wall panels. The scene was bizarre. To begin with Lilah had gone to town with her house of pleasure. She had the money and the imagination. The vast room contained nothing that wasn't functional for immediate pleasures. Long low leopard skin divans rested snugly in the deep pile of the carpet. The whole of one side of the room was taken up by an immensely long bar lit tered with every imaginable kind of drink. In the centre of the room was a large lily pond, from the middle of which rose a male and female statue facing each other, their genitals sharply etched in the white marble. A fountain played between the two statues, so that they glistened in the pink lights.
There must have been close on a hundred guests, and Vicki wondered where on earth Lilah had managed to find so many garlands of flowers, because that's all everyone was wearing. As if in answer to her thoughts Lilah whispered in her ear. "I had the garlands made specially to give arriving guests. But it was Philip's idea that we should all wear the garlands and nothing else."
Philip was Lilah's pet young man, and he looked after this large house for her and made all the necessary arrangements, once Lilah had told him what she wanted. Vicki saw him now standing with his back to them at the bar. He had a good physique, but when he turned holding two drinks in his hand she saw why Lilah was so fond of Philip. He had a very long and very thick tassle hanging between his legs. Lilah saw Vicki looking at her Master of Ceremonies.
"Quite a useful young man," she murmured. "Useful in many ways." She emptied the contents of the glass she was carrying.
"Come on Henrietta, let's go help ourselves to some booze."
Vicki smiled to herself when she thought how lady-like Lilah could be on occasions. She wondered what her background was like before she married the oil millionaire. She had said something about being in films. She could imagine Lilah on Sunset Boulevard-as it used to be. All that was history now. As Lilah poured two stiff helpings of vodka there was a scream and a splash. Turning around they saw that a girl with long red hair was sitting stupidly in the shallow lily pond, much to the amusement of other guests. She had apparently missed her footing.
"That silly bitch has had too much to drink," Lilah commented, pouring the vodka down her throat, just leaving the ice in the bottom of the glass. Two young men had jumped into the pond and started to pull the red-head to her feet. One of them had got his hand round her backside and up between her legs. Vicki saw the young man's prick stiffen, and for the first time in her life she found herself in the middle of a full scale orgy.
Philip came over to where she and Lilah were standing. "Things hotting up Lilah. Who's this you've got with you? Haven't I seen you here before?"
"Yes, she's been here before," Lilah interrupted quickly. "Now be a good boy and dim the lights. Looks as though we're in for some fun."
Philip did as he was told, going behind the bar and releasing a panel in the wall. He dimmed the lights until everything in the room became shadowy, and turned up the music which came from concealed amplifiers spaced around the walls. Lilah caught hold of Vicki's hand.
"Come on let's join in the celebrations."
As they walked past the fountain Vicki saw the red headed girl sandwiched between the two young men who had gone in after her. She could hear the girl gasping excitedly, and was just in time to see the large prick of the man in front of her screw its way up into her cunt. The man behind seemed to be trying to force himself an entry from the rear. He had caught hold of the girl's arse cheeks, and was pulling them apart as he probed his way forward with his cock. Everyone was getting in on the act, and the carpet was littered with writhing copulating figures. Hands pulled Lilah and herself down onto the thick pile of the carpet, and Vicki found herself surrounded by an intricate pattern of limbs. Strong arms pulled her flat on her back, and a hungry mouth closed onto hers. She felt her legs prised apart, and a gorgeous tickling sensation was roused in her as a tongue licked the rim of her dampening sex orifice, opening up the rosebud lips. Hands squeezed her full milky white breasts, and fingers urged her teats to harden. The devouring mouth left her lips, and with a suddenness that took her breath away a thick wedge of cock was pushed into her mouth.
Choking she reached up to hold it back, gagging on the thick juices running off the big cock knob that probed deep into her mouth. The tongue between her open legs had entered her cunt hole, working hard on her clitty. Groaning Vicki felt her own juices escaping, and whoever was between her legs gobbled noisily, lapping at the premature cream. Her fingers dug into the thick mass of pubic hair in front of her face, and she started to suck the juicy meat filling her mouth. Her hands closed round the man's swaying balls, and she heard him grunt as he bent forward, plunging his fuck stick up and down the roof of her mouth.
Dimly she could hear the music in the background, and all around her the grunting gasps of ejaculating men and women. The tongue had left her milky wet twat hole, to be replaced by the hard head of a rampant fuck tool. It sank into her tongue-frigged cunt, filling her to capacity. Her legs were pushed up into the air, and the man between them came down hard, his mouth chewing on one of her bruised nipples. The phallus jammed into her mouth was vibrating and pulsating at the back of her throat. Frantically she tried to push it back, but as her hands closed around the thick hairy base, the knob jerked between her teeth erupting a long flow of hot spunk into her mouth. It drew back of its own accord, and then came forward again, once more spurting a stream of semen, forcing her to swallow great mouthfuls.
Gasping, choking, the thick wedge of screwing dick between her legs driving her to a frenzy, Vicki rose to a climax, releasing her spunk as the prick which was ravaging her hot pussy shot its load of cream into her vagina. The spent lollipop in her mouth slid out from between her aching jaws, and the man lying on top of her withdrew his steaming joy stick. Almost immediately another took his place. Vicki groaned. She'd had enough. But she didn't have time to move before another, much larger cock, entered her running wet fuck hole. Looking up she saw the grinning face of Philip. He was the last person whose attention she wanted to attract. But perhaps he didn't know who he was doing over with his big prick. His eyes were glazed in the dim light, and she could smeU drink on his breath. He sank his enormous length between her legs, and started to fuck with great sweeping thrusts, knocking the breath out of her each time he came down. In spite of the fact that she had just had an orgasm she found his rhythmically moving muscular body exciting, and if Philip had continued he would probably have dragged another climax out of her already well shagged quim. But Philip came quickly, burying his shaft deep inside her, shudderingly emptying his spurting cream, his mouth biting at her come-covered lips. He then lay supine on top of her. Rolling him off her onto his side, she carefully levered herself off the still hard stick of his prick. Philip seemed to have sunk into a drunken sleep.
Staggering to her feet Vicki had witnessed the dying embers of a mass orgy. The red haired girl was still in the fountain. She was lying half in and half out, her long hair hanging over her face. She looked as though she had been fucked to a standstill, which was probably the case. She made her way to Lilah's private quarters.
But as Vicki waved to the crowds in San Antonio she wasn't thinking of Lilah and her private parties. She wasn't thinking of anything in particular, except that she would be glad when all this was over. She felt as though she was in a cage, and it was getting very warm. The air conditioners must have broken down. However, this was no time to start complaining. She continued to wave.
President Kelland duly made his speech at the San Antonio Medical Centre, and the motorcade started on its return journey to the airport. It was a fight to get the Presidential car through the dense crowds, and Secret Service men started to get tough. Eventually they cleared a passage, and finally the President and his wife were standing on top of the aircraft ramp waving to the crowds behind barbed wire fencing. Then they disappeared and the mighty jet engines whined into life. The whine developed into an ear-splitting roar. Yoyo sprinted for his own jet, already packed with his men. Everything had been organized for an identical motorcade in Dallas, all he had to do was get there on time. Angel One would not reach its top cruising speed on this comparatively short hop. His own jet should arrive just ahead of the Presidential 'plane. He made it, running down the steps of his aircraft as Angel One prepared to land on the main airstrip.
The Dallas reception committee was headed by Vice-President Lucas Jansen and his wife. The sun was blazingly hot. Beyond the barbed wire perimeter of Love airfield thousands of people had already gathered. The waiting motorcade was to drive right into Dallas where the President would deliver a speech at the Trade Mart Hall. Yoyo watched the Kellands shake hands with the waiting VIPs. He couldn't help noticing the way Vicki moved. He thought she was a very sensuous woman. Soon they were making their way to the waiting motorcade. General Marlborough and his men, who had arrived in their own jet, fanned out taking up their positions. Yoyo signalled to his own men. The chauffeur swung open the door of the armored Cadillac, identical to the one the President had travelled in on the San Antonio motorcade.
"I hope the air conditioning is working," Yoyo heard the President say to the chauffeur. He hurried forwards, as did General Marlborough, but the President was already inside the Cadillac with his wife. He waved to both of them, and they saluted smartly.
There was some confusion in some parts of the waiting motorcade. Some trouble about who should sit where and with whom. Protocol was rearing its difficult head. But finally everyone was in place. The lead car, filled with local police, moved away. Yoyo gave orders for his own car to proceed. The Presidential motorcade into Dallas City was under way. Motorcycle escorts roared into life. Yoyo could see Secret Service agents hanging on the sides of General Marlborough's car immediately behind the President's vehicle. When the motorcade slowed down in the centre of the city they would jump off, walking on either side of the Presidential car.
Once outside the perimeter of the airport the crowds lining either side of the roadway were comparatively thin on the ground. But as they approached the centre of Dallas the crowds began to thicken. Cheering broke out. Many were carrying placards welcoming the President to Texas. Vicki began to enjoy herself. Everybody seemed determined to give them a good welcome. And then she saw one placard which took the smile off her face momentarily. "You are entering a segregated State Mr. President" it read. There were some people who would never forgive the Kellands for the way they had championed the rights of American negroes. Always there would be hate. Vicki made herself forget the placard, glancing at John to see if he had noticed it. She knew by a slight frown which crossed his face that he had.
The crowds and cheering grew in volume. Yoyo and General Marlborough kept up a constant stream of orders into microphones which they held in their hands. The motorcycle escort fanned out, forcing the line of civil police and crowds back onto the packed pavements. The street the motorcade was now in was lined with tall buildings. Vicki glanced upwards through the car window, and saw that all the windows of the buildings were wide open, and people were hanging out to watch the passing of the President. Not that they could actually see him up there.
The lead car was turning at an intersection. Vicki glanced at her watch. Another five minutes and they should arrive at their destination. She looked forward to getting out of the car. The feeling of being in a cage was returning to her. It was something to do with all those faces smiling and waving. She continued to smile and wave back through the bullet-proof glass of the closed car windows. She saw one of the motorcycle escorts fall off his machine as a section of the crowd surged forwards and surrounded him. She put her hand out onto John's knee. It was the last act of Victoria Kelland, First Lady of America.
Neither Vicki nor her husband heard the dull explosion and the whine of the approaching shell. It landed directly onto their armoured Cadillac, designed primarily to protect the occupant from bullets not shells. It was blown apart, instantly killing the President, his wife Vicki, and the two chauffeurs sitting in front. Yoyo's car was thrown sideways right into the mass of screaming struggling people on the sidewalk. The tank blew up, spraying the air with burning petrol. Yoyo and his agents never stood a chance. General Marlborough's car was thrown backwards onto the car behind it. Both cars were a tangled mass of wreckage, filled with dead bodies. General Marlborough's career had also ended. Six motorcycle escorts were thrown from their machines and killed by the blast. Many more people in the packed sidewalks were killed or injured by flying pieces of shrapnel and debris. The whole street became a mass of struggling, screaming, terrified, stampeding people. Women and children were crushed underfoot. In the middle of all the horror one of the drivers in the suddenly halted motorcade went wild, desperately trying to drive his car through the densely packed frightened crowd. His car smashed into people who couldn't get out of the way. All the time he kept his finger on the car horn, until finally someone in the back of the car pulled him away from the controls.
Secret Service, CIA and FBI agents ran amok waving their guns, not knowing what had happened. Somebody was shouting that the President had been bombed. Yoyo's burning car set fire to a shop front, and a pall of smoke began to drift over the street. The pavements were littered with dead and dying men, women and children. Fire appliance and ambulances started to arrive, but they couldn't get near the shelled motorcade because of the teeming mass of people who had turned out to watch the President. General Marlborough's second-in-command fought his way up from the rear of the motorcade to his chief's car. What he saw nearly made him sick, tough though he was. He could see what was left of the general's face pressed up against the splintered windscreen of his upturned vehicle. He looked up at the blue sky. He was searching for an answer to the carnage that surrounded him.
But the answer wasn't in the sky. It was in a small room in a tall building overlooking the entire street. A young man lay on the floor, badly burned and dying. By his side lay the long barrel of a bazooka gun. Escaping gas from the gun had caused a conflagration in the confined space. It was something that Roderick Mavery hadn't thought about.
He lay on the floor unconscious, barely breathing, after suffering the first agonies of the exploding gas.
Far away in New York in a large and luxurious skyscraper office three men sat drinking. One of them looked at his watch, then looked at his two middle-aged, grey haired, hard-faced companions. They were the same men to whom Jerry and Roderick Mavery had been introduced by Jess Konrad. If their plans had gone according to schedule the last of the Kelland brothers was no more. Also, according to their carefully arranged plans, they should have seen the last of Roderick Mavery.
