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 Walking the Dog by Smilodon Chapter 11

   Angela woke me sometime later, sliding into the bed beside me and
assuming her usual position, head on my chest, one leg thrown over me.  She
nuzzled my neck and whispered that she was very happy.  Her father was
alive and not a criminal: she'd never believed that he could be.  I grunted
some sleepy reply and lapsed back into unconsciousness.  She wasn't having
any of this and proceeded to wake me again by the simple expedient of
grabbing my cock and starting to pump it lightly while lightly caressing my
face with her lips and tongue.  Her eyes gleamed in the dim light and I
could see the flash of her teeth as she smiled down at me.

   "Martin, I want to make love.  There is madness all around us.  I want
you inside me, to make me feel real again."

   I have never been able to refuse a polite request from a beautiful
woman. I rolled her onto her back and kissed her gently.  My fingers found
her opening, wet and ready and I slipped into her in one smooth movement.
Whether it was the situation or whether it was simply my love for her, I
couldn't say, but I was seized by the need.  I slammed myself into her with
uncontrolled passion.  Her legs went around my back and she bucked her hips
to match my frenzied pace.  We didn't say a word; the only sound was our
rapid breathing.  This was a different type of lovemaking.  Up until this
moment we had been gentle, thoughtful lovers.  This was animalistic;
fucking is the only word to describe it.

   I could feel the wetness dripping out of her and soaking my pubic hair,
my balls and my thighs.  Her head was thrown back, her eyes half shut and
her mouth was contorted into a feral rictus that parodied her normal sweet
smile.  I felt rage boiling within me.  Rage that we had been placed in
this nightmare, rage that we had not been allowed to just be lovers,
anonymous, happy, untroubled.  The rage fed my passion and pounded away
like a man possessed.  She was gasping now, getting close to orgasm.  I
pulled away and turned her over, seizing her around the waist, I hauled her
buttocks back towards me and rammed myself into her again.  Reaching under
her, I grasped her breasts and rubbed her nipples between fingers and thumb
with one hand and slid the other down to where we joined.

   Angela was panting now and uttering a continuous low moaning sound that
I could somehow feel deep down in my balls.  I rubbed her clitoris with the
knuckles of my right hand, pressing firmly.  My other hand still alternated
between her breasts, squeezing and rolling the erect nipples.  She came
with a huge shudder and her fists drummed on the bed as the climax gathered
and roiled.  Her vaginal muscles went into spasm and she clamped down hard
on my thrusting, hammering prick.

   A measure of sanity returned and I slowed my pace, giving her long slow
thrusts as she came down from her high.  She was sobbing quietly, murmuring
endearments.  My rage returned and I set off again, pounding and pumping
until my own orgasm shook me to the core and I poured all my anger, love
and fear into her.  I cried out as I came that I loved her.  She slammed
back at me, swivelling her hips and buttocks, milking me with her
contractions.

   Afterwards we lay side by side in the spoon position.  I hugged her and
stroked her hair, telling her over and over again that she was wonderful,
glorious, that I loved her.  She turned towards me and planted kisses all
over my face.  "I love you, my Martin," she said.  "I love you when you are
gentle and I love you when you are fierce, like a lion, just now.  How did
you know that was what I wanted?" I had to admit that I hadn't known, that
I had been following my own driven needs.  I tried to explain about the
rage and the love but she hushed me with a kiss.  "It will be all right,"
she said.  "You will look after us.  Always you keep me safe, yes?" I
didn't reply but uttered up a silent prayer - please, God, let it be so.

   We slept then.  No dark dreams troubled my rest and I awoke the next
morning feeling utterly refreshed and ready for anything.  I woke Angela
with a light kiss and she smiled up at me, her hair a dark storm spread on
the pillow and love in her blue, blue eyes.  We could hear the sounds of
others up and about in the kitchen so we showered quickly and dressed, to
see what the day might bring.

   Angela's father was with Steve and Bill in the kitchen.  Steve had
obviously got over being duped and the three of them were conversing in
what I took to be Russian.  Bill looked up as we came in and said "Morning,
all.  Just been chatting to the colonel here, miss.  Swapping old soldiers'
stories." He had an engaging grin and twinkling eyes.  They all looked
completely at ease, like old friends.  It would be too easy to forget just
how lethal these three men could be.

   Niall and Liam were out patrolling the perimeter that they had set up
around the cottage.  It had been agreed that they would stay in the area
while the rest of us went to meet Rollo Yeates.  Angela and her father went
into Cromer, taking Steve with them as a bodyguard, to photocopy the
colonel's papers at one of those little printing and stationery shops.  I
walked the dogs with Bill as my guardian.  He told me something of their
history with Liam and Niall.

   Niall had been their company commander in 2 Para - the 2nd Battalion,
Parachute Regiment.  Liam had commanded another company but they saw a lot
of him too.  The twins were known in the regiment as 'the gruesome
twosome.' They were very well respected by both officers and men. 
Apparently, they had a reputation for bringing their troops back alive. 
"Bags of low cunning, those two," said Bill.  After Desert Storm, Bill and
Steve had volunteered for the SAS and had undergone the gruelling selection
process in the Brecon Beacons.  Niall had helped them prepare, training
with them and encouraging them to use their initiative whenever the
situation allowed.

   I had often wondered why neither Liam nor Niall had volunteered for
Special Forces and voiced this question aloud.  Bill shrugged.  "They would
have walked in if they'd bothered," he said.  "I asked the Boss meself,
once.  He said it wasn't for them; that they were regimental officers and
preferred it that way, but I don't think that was the reason.  There was a
rumour that they objected to what the SAS was doing in the Six Counties. 
They're both 'left-footers' and Irish to boot, so it could be true, but I
reckon it was something else."

   "What?" I asked.  Bill grinned.  "They wouldn't have been allowed to
serve together.  Those two have always been joined at the hip.  The SAS
wouldn't have let them both in at the same time.  One wouldn't go without
the other.  Sometimes it's like they're two halves of the same person, if
you get my meaning.  Finishing each other's sentences, knowing exactly what
the other is going to do.  In combat it was brilliant.  I mean, imagine the
advantages you get when one company is supporting another and he knows
exactly what his brother will do when the wheels come off!  I think it was
Napoleon who said 'no plan survives contact with the enemy.' Well, the Boss
and his brother could make it up as they went along."

   I sort of understood.  I've never been a man of action but I thought I
could grasp what the chaos of the battlefield could do to pre-prepared
plans.  Just as life itself can sometimes bowl you a bouncer; only in war,
the consequences could be a lot bloodier than mere inconvenience and wasted
effort.

   Bill was trying to get Magic to act like a proper retriever and bring
him back the sticks he hurled into the sea.  Magic, being the daft dog he
is, would rush off full of enthusiasm and return with the stick.  As soon
as Bill went to pick it up, he'd dash off again and then lie down on the
sand to chew the offending stick to splinters.  "He hasn't really got the
hang of his trade, has he?" Bill said with a chuckle.  I laughed and told
him that Magic was not the brightest bulb in the box.  "What about the
other one?" Bill asked.  "Trotsky doesn't do retrieving," I said, "it's far
beneath his dignity." Bill tried anyway and was rewarded with one of
Trotsky's 'are you completely mad?' looks.  He then stalked off in the
opposite direction, a disdainful tail held high.  Bill laughed out loud. 
"I guess that told me!"

   We made our way back to the cottage after an hour or so and were just in
time to meet the others on their return from Cromer.  We loaded everyone
into the Volvo.  Steve insisted on driving and Bill sat beside him.  Angela
sat in the back flanked by the colonel and I.  There wasn't much
conversation as we drove south through Norfolk and into neighbouring
Suffolk.  Angela's father questioned me, via Angela, as to my job, my
income and, to Angela's intense embarrassment, my intentions towards his
daughter.  To this latter enquiry I said simply that keeping her from harm
was my immediate priority and he beamed at me like a schoolboy.

   Then he wanted to know if I spoke any other languages.  I admitted to
bad French and passable Greek.  I had learned Classical Greek at school and
had taken evening classes with a mad old Cypriot in demotic Greek.  He
spoke Russian, Swedish and German so we had no common means of
communicating.  I asked him why he did not speak English, as I knew many in
the Russian military learned the language of the 'enemy', particularly
during the cold war.  He laughed and said that as an Estonian, he wasn't
trusted not to listen to the BBC or the Voice of America.  He made it into
a joke but there was a bitter undertone to it.  He then struck a desultory
conversation in Russian with Bill.  I couldn't make out a single word so I
sat in silence, holding Angela's hand.

   Felixstowe has an interesting history.  At one time it was the base for
many of the great Flying Boats of the pre-war era.  It was from here that
the Mayo-Mercury combination flew to South Africa in the 1930's.  The Mayo
was a large Flying Boat that carried the Mercury, a fast four-engined
seaplane, piggyback.  The Mercury would then be launched while airborne to
continue the journey.  It was revolutionary at the time.  Flying boats went
out of fashion with the coming of the jet engine and for a while,
Felixstowe lapsed back into a sleepy little fishing port on the Suffolk
coast.  Then came the great Container revolution and the port became the
busiest in the UK.

   The modern Dock area is enormous and we had to drive around for a while
and ask several times until we found the right part of the terminus.  I
recognised Rollo Yeates instantly even though I hadn't seen him for twenty
years.  He was a tall, gangly individual with thin sandy hair and a pink
complexion.  He obviously recognised me too, for he walked briskly towards
the car, hand outstretched, as soon as he saw me emerge.  Rollo ushered us
into one of those temporary office huts that had a sign reading HM Customs
& Excise on the single door.

   There were three men inside, one in the uniform of a senior Customs
Officer, the other two, like Rollo, in business suits.  I made the
introductions and noticed Rollo did not reciprocate.  Whoever his
companions were, we didn't need to know.  I gave a quick summary of events
to date.  The others listened in complete silence.  Rollo nodded once
briefly when I had finished and then turned to Angela's father and began to
question him closely in fluent Russian.  The Colonel handed over the
photocopies of his information and Rollo quickly scanned the top few
sheets. His face went pale as he started on the list of names.  He shoved
them into the hands of one of the other suits and turned to study us.

   "If this is true," he said, "and I have to say I believe it probably is,
then we are in a world of shit." That struck me as a particularly accurate
summary.  The other three said nothing but I could see by their faces what
they were thinking.  Either we were all mad or it was really true.  The
customs man was the first to react.  "We've isolated the bronze shipment.
How do we tell which of the ingots contains this supposed plutonium?" Rollo
asked the colonel and he replied that the manufacturer's mark was stamped
lengthways on the bars as opposed to horizontally.  About a quarter of the
shipment was comprised of the false bars.  He had had to spread the
plutonium thinly to allow for the lead sheathing and a thin skin of bronze
over the top.  They were otherwise identical in size and weight.

   The Customs officer said, "right, we'll take it from here" and departed
shouting rapid instructions into a walky-talky.  We were left alone with
Rollo and the suits.  One of the anonymous men, the one Rollo had given the
papers to, looked at us.  His face was set and he held our eyes in turn
with an unblinking stare.  "I don't suppose I have to tell you how much
panic this would cause if it were to become public knowledge," he said.  "I
am going to have to ask you all to sign the Official Secrets Act, of
course. This matter is now classified.  If any of you chooses to divulge
this information to anyone else, anyone at all, there will be the severest
consequences.  And I do mean severe.  Do I make myself plain?"

   Bill gave him a grin.  "Bollocks," he said.  If this gets out, pal, the
last thing you'll be worrying about is the Official Secrets Act.  Anyway,
me and Steve have signed the bloody thing so often we could recite it by
heart.  As for the colonel here, what are you going to do him?  He is a
representative of the Estonian government.  Miss Angela's an Estonian as
well and that only leaves Mr Booth here." He turned to me, his eyes
twinkling with enjoyment at the suit's obvious discomfort.  "Looks like
you're bound for the Tower of London, sir!" He winked broadly as he said
it. Bill turned back to the two men.  His smile had gone and his tone was
curt and dismissive.  "We have come to you with this information because we
understand what a bloody mess this all is, chum.  You can take your
Official bloody Secrets Act and your little threats and shove 'em up your
jacksie." He gave Steve a brief look and went on.  "Come on, folks, we're
leaving."

   Rollo Yeates put a hand up and caught my shoulder.  "I know you will
keep it quiet, Martin," he said.  I nodded.  Rollo compressed his lips in
approximation of a smile that didn't touch his eyes.  "We really owe you
people a debt if all this turns out to be true." I shook my head.  "Rollo,"
I said, "I just want my life back." He looked like he was about to say
something else but just shook his head.  "I understand," he said.