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 Walking the Dog by Smilodon Chapter 13

   The next morning began with a Council of War.  The Chechens appeared to
have withdrawn from the game, at least for the present.  What we were left
with was the colonel's papers.  The theft of the bronze shipment weakened
our position a bit but we weren't looking for admissible evidence.  That
was a job for the police.  We were in the dark as to how they would now
proceed.  The talk went round in circles and led nowhere.  The colonel was
the most gloomy.  He had pinned all his hopes on British Intelligence. 
Swann of Special Branch hadn't been too encouraging.  Elsewhere, the news
was bleak.  The main story on the bulletins that morning was the car bomb
that had killed Rollo Yeates and his two companions, now identified as
'members of the security services.' I thought the Chechens, assuming it was
them, might have done us a favour.  Murdering three men to keep the story
quiet and then trying to kill us would surely prove something big was
afoot.

   According to the News stories, the police were pointing the finger at
some splinter group from the IRA that had 'claimed responsibility' as the
saying goes.  Claimed responsibility - admitted their guilt, more like; but
not on this occasion.  There was no Irish connection in the colonel's
lists. This seemed to be a piece of opportunistic publicity seeking on the
part of some murderous bunch of thugs.  Nothing made any sense.  We
wondered aloud how the opposition had cottoned onto the bronze shipment in
the first place.  We didn't have any answers for that one either.

   "We need to find that bronze," Liam said after a deal of further aimless
discussion.  "If the Chechens took it, where would they take it?  It's not
small, you couldn't just hide it in the boot of the car or something." The
colonel then let fly a volley of excited Estonian.  Angela translated, "My
father says that they would have to have had help, need contacts here in
England.  We should look at his list and see if we can see someone who
might fit." Of course, once she'd said it, it was obvious.  The Chechens
needed a base of operations.  Mickey Cornell couldn't have been their only
helper in the UK.  He wouldn't have had the resources on his own.  We
needed to find someone with access to storage facilities.  Someone who was
wealthy and had underworld connections or, at very least, was known to be
unscrupulous.

   We pored over the colonel's lists and identified four or five who might
fit the bill.  Two were Asian businessmen who had come to prominence in a
scandal a couple of years previously.  They had been discovered to have
links with Palestinian terrorist organisations.  They would certainly be up
for something like an Islamic Bomb but Niall thought they would be under
surveillance; they were too obvious, somehow.  The colonel's notes showed
them as having helped finance the project but with no other involvement. 
We decided to discount them for now.  Another man was a known head of an
organised crime gang that operated out of South London.  His involvement in
the affair was suspected rather than proven.  There was a large question
mark against him because he was avowedly racist and unlikely to support
Middle Eastern causes.  On the other hand, there was a lot of money
involved, which would certainly tempt him.

   I had a thought.  "Look," I said, "I'll bet Special Branch are doing the
same as us.  I can't believe it would be anyone obvious.  Let's have a look
for the least likely looking ones.  They'd still have to be rich, of
course, but those on record as having the type of places that could be used
are bound to get a visit from the police.  I think this calls for some
lateral thinking." We went back to the list and came up with three names.
One was a senior civil servant, one was an MP and the third was a newspaper
tycoon of dubious origins.  All three had become involved, according to the
notes, simply for money.  They were linked together and, more importantly,
all had the possibility of being linked to Michael Cornell.  We needed to
find out more about them.  Information in the public domain was one thing
but we needed the hidden stuff.  I thought immediately of Bernie.  If
anyone would know how to get the dirt on someone, Bernie would; and if he
didn't personally then I was willing to bet that he had the contacts.

   I called him and explained what I wanted.  "You're fishing in bloody
deep waters, Mr Booth," he told me.  "I don't know about this Travers
geezer (Travers was the civil servant) but Charles Brownlock, MP, is a
right nasty bastard.  And as for Renfrew, you've only got to read that rag
he calls a paper to know what he's about.  Bloody thing ain't nothing but
porn and attacks on decent people.  If you go after him and he finds out,
your name will be splashed all over that scandal sheet.  Probably accuse
you of cheating the taxpayer and throw in some allegations about
child-abuse or drugs for good measure.  You must remember what he did to Mr
Young?" I did remember but somehow it didn't matter what happened to my
reputation.  Three weeks before it would have bothered me.  It didn't any
more.  The situation was too awful to let small things like personal
reputation get in the way.  Anyway, if he was involved, he wouldn't be in
any position to blacken anybody's name for quite some time to come, if all
went according to plan.

   Bernie agreed that he would do some 'devilling.' He promised to get back
to me as soon as he had something but said I wasn't to hold my breath.  I
reported the conversation back to the others and we agreed to let things
take their course.  There was always the chance that Special Branch would
find the shipment before Bernie or his pals dug up anything interesting. 
All we could do was 'hurry up and wait' - as the saying goes.

   Angela, Bill and I walked the dogs.  Bill was determined to get Magic to
act like a proper retriever but he had little luck.  I told him Magic was
simply a disgrace to his breed.  He was simply too daft to get the hang of
it.  He treated the whole thing as a huge game.  He'd fetch the stick Bill
hurled far out into the sea but as soon as Bill approached him to pick it
up, Magic would grab it again and be off down the beach.  It was hilarious
to watch.  Bill was getting more and more and frustrated.  Just at the
point we thought Bill was ready to explode, Magic would drop the stick at
his feet.  He wanted Bill to throw it again and start off another round of
'tease the human.' Angela and I fell about laughing.  The look of
controlled fury on Bill's face contrasted perfectly with Magic's daft grin.
He has this habit of curling his upper lip back to expose his teeth.  It's
supposed to be a sign of canine intelligence but I reckon Magic was the
exception that proved the rule.

   It was a dull, dampish morning with curtains of rain sweeping across the
flat grey sea.  All the rain seemed to be falling a mile or two offshore so
we were spared a soaking.  Even so, the damp was penetrating and with it
came the cold.  We were glad to be back in the warm and we shook out our
coats and settled ourselves by the fire.  It was far too early to expect to
hear from Bernie and there wasn't much else we could do until we had the
missing information.  Angela decided to start work on a new sculpture so I
went along to watch her.  It is one thing hearing a process described but
quite another to see it put into action.

   She started to make some sketches of Trotsky.  She sketched quickly. 
She never drew the whole dog, just portions of his anatomy; the curve of
his leg, the line of his shoulders and the like.  Then she did his face and
captured him perfectly.  One never thinks of sculptors as being draftsmen
but she had real talent.  I found myself staring at Trotsky's face on the
paper.  She had caught his expression perfectly, slightly disdainful but
alert.  The artist's model wandered over as to have a look for himself.  He
put his head on Angela's knee and gazed at her soulfully.  After a minute
or two of ear-scratching he decided his beauty had been sufficiently
recognised and had received sufficient compliments for him to go back to
his position away from the fire.  In all truth he had probably just got too
hot but it is easy to ascribe human reasoning to a dog like Trotsky, he's
so damned bright.

   Once Angela had made enough sketches, we went through to the studio and
she began to make the clay model that would eventually form the mould.  She
worked quickly at first, throwing great handfuls of clay into position and
roughly shaping them with her hands.  Eventually she had a Trotsky-sized
mass of wet clay that was only very roughly the shape of a dog.  Now things
slowed as she shaped and scraped until the outline of a husky was
unmistakeable.  Suddenly she said something in Estonian that didn't need
translation and crumpled the whole thing back into a lump of shapeless
clay. She smiled at me ruefully.  "It was the wrong proportions." She
started over, moistening the clay and her hands from a wooden tub of water
she kept nearby for the purpose.

   It was obviously very physical work and soon beads of perspiration
appeared on her forehead and upper lip.  She paused long enough to strip
off her sweater and continued.  She was wearing a sleeveless sort of vest
under the sweater and now I could see the play of her muscles as she
kneaded and pounded at the clay.  It was a fascinating sight and I was
utterly enrapt.  Once more a recognisable husky appeared out of the clay.
It was almost as if there was a real dog inside, pushing his way out
through the clinging earth.

   Angela's face was a study in concentration.  She didn't frown as some
do. Her expression was grave, her eyes focussed and lively.  I felt I could
almost see the force flowing out of her hands into the model, bending the
wet clay to her will.  At length she was satisfied.  She had produced a
replica of Trotsky in size and outline.  Now she began the delicate task of
sculpting the detail.  She worked with what appeared to be a cross between
a spatula and a scalpel.  Soon I could see Trotsky's face appearing under
her hands.  It was perfect.  She captured the flare of his nostrils and the
way his blunt muzzle sort of blended into the rest of his broad face.  She
worked faster; the clay was beginning to dry.  I knew this was the critical
time.

   We had been in the studio for nearly six hours without exchanging more
than a handful of words.  The time had flown by.  I had risen only once to
turn on the lights as dusk fell.  I heard the others making dinner but felt
no hunger myself.  I was utterly absorbed watching the woman I loved doing
the thing she was created for.  At long last she stood back and plunged her
hands in the water butt to wash away the clay.  Her face was streaked in
sweat and her arms must have been aching like the devil but she showed no
signs of slacking.  "Now we must fire the model," she said and strode
across to the electric kiln to bring it up to the required temperature.

   Her skin was glowing and her eyes danced with a bright and feverish
light.  She was exalted, lit by the creative fire within.  Strangely, I
didn't feel excluded.  I felt a part of something wonderful and, to me,
utterly mysterious.  I had watched some ancient esoteric rite, had seen the
goddess summoned and the sacrifice performed.  It was, in short, like
magic. Angela stalked the model she had made.  She stared from all angles,
moving closer once or twice to administer the finest of finishing touches.
At last she pronounced herself satisfied and asked me to assist in moving
the model on its specially designed little trolley into the kiln.  "Don't
touch it," she warned me, "push it by the base.  Slowly, slowly!"

   We eased the model into the kiln and she gently shut the door.  "Even
the draft from that door can disturb it," she said.  The firing was to be
slow at a low temperature.  If the heat was too fierce, we ran the risk
that the clay would shatter or be too brittle.  "Now we wait." Angela
smiled at me and came to rest her head against my chest.  I could feel the
tension in her back and shoulders so I made her sit in the chair from where
I had watched her and began to massage her.  Her singlet was soaked in
perspiration and she stripped it off.  I used my fingers to prod and pummel
the knotted muscles and watched her visibly begin to unwind.  Her fair skin
was smooth and silky to the touch.

   She got up once to dim the lights and then slid back into the chair. 
"Where were we?" She murmured dreamily and looked back at me, her eyes soft
now, the fierce light dimmed to a residual glow.  The depth of my feeling
for her consumed me, could there ever have been a more wonderful creature?
I moved around the chair and encouraged her gently to lie back.  I began to
work on her shoulders at the front and then switched my attention to the
corded muscles of her stomach.  It was easy to understand now how she
remained so firm and toned.  The effort expended had been more than Steph
could have managed in a month of workouts.  "My legs, also, Martin, please,
" she said and obliged by lifting her hips so I could ease off her jeans. I
went and locked the studio door and returned to start work on her in
earnest.

   I started at her feet, manipulating each of her toes and massaging the
soft balls of flesh beneath each one in turn.  She sighed dreamily as I
squeezed the insteps of her feet and stroked my thumbs over the soles of
her feet.  Then I took each leg in turn.  I rubbed her calf muscles and
kneaded my hands deep into their softness.  She was utterly relaxed now,
looking back at me with hooded eyes.  When my hands reached her thighs, her
legs fell open and I worked my way into the soft tissue of her inner
thighs. She shifted her bottom forwards in the chair and grinned at me.  I
leaned up to kiss her lightly on the nose.  "Don't stop now," she said.

   I used a lighter touch to stroke her thighs and gently rubbed the backs
of her legs, lifting each one in turn.  I was conscious now of the musky
scent of her body.  Little tufts of pubic hair were showing each side of
the crotch of her panties and I made a show of tucking them back in, not
quite but almost, touching her sex in the process.  We were both now well
aware of the game and were playing it with all our might.  Her eyes had a
misty cast now and a languorous smile played about her full lips; she
moistened them with a flick of her tongue and I felt my mouth go dry.  I
stroked her hips, easing her panties down just a fraction so her pubes just
showed above the waistband.  Then I worked on her abdominal muscles, gently
pressing my thumbs into her yielding flesh.  I leaned forwards and flicked
my tongue into the sweet hollow of her bellybutton.  She sighed deeply and
stroked my hair as I trailed kisses over her stomach and chest, pulling up
short of her swelling breasts that seemed to be engaged in battle with the
straining fabric of her bra.

   Skipping over her bra, I kissed the swelling upper slopes of her breasts
and nibbled softly at her neck.  I climbed her body like a vine, nuzzled
her ears and then out mouths sought it each other and we kissed slowly and
deeply, our tongues wrestling and competing.  I slipped my hands behind her
and, after a brief fumble, unhooked her bra.  She eased it off with a
shrugging motion.  Her nipples stood out proudly.  I wet my finger and
circled it round and round her areola.  Her breasts seem to swell visibly
under my hands and she arched her back to offer more of them to my touch.
Still I stayed away from her nipples and placed a line of silken kisses on
the underside of each breast.  Each time I would approach her nipples but
shy away at the last minute, giving the barest flick with the tip of my
tongue.

   Her skin had the tangy taste of salt and I covered every exposed inch
with little licks and kisses.  I could tell I was really getting to her and
her hips began a slow undulating dance of their own.  I made a sudden grab
then and captured both her breasts in my two hands, stroking my thumbs over
the rock-hard tips and she gasped.  I caught her breast in my mouth and
sucked in as much as I could cram into my eager mouth, flicking her nipple
with rapid strokes of my tongue.  At the same time I pushed her panties to
one side and slipped first one and then two fingers into her wetness.  She
bucked against my hand and I rotated it back and forth against the swollen
nub of her clit.  All the while I was sucking on one breast and cupping the
other in my free hand.  She started to come and I dived between her legs to
suck on her clitoris.  This drove her over the top and she grabbed my head,
pulling my face hard into the junction of her thighs.

   She seemed to be coming non-stop.  Her hips were rearing and gyrating
furiously and her fingers tore at my hair so hard it made it my eyes water.
At length, she pushed me away.  "No more, please, I can't stand any more,
my Martin," Her skin was flushed and there were bright pink patches at her
throat and on her cheeks.  Her eyes were wild and unfocussed and her hair
was matted with a fresh batch of perspiration.  I don't think I have ever
felt so pleased with myself.  There is something totally marvellous about
pleasing one's lover to the point of delirium.  I lay across her body as
she came down, tracing kisses up and down her ribcage until she giggled. 
"Ah, that was wonderful," she said.  "Now it is my turn to drive you mad!"
I shook my head.  I felt no desire at all for myself just then.  I had had
my satisfaction from hers.  "Later, my love," I told her, "That was enough
for me just now." And if it hadn't been, the beautiful smile she gave me
then was more than enough for any man.