Black Horn (24 page)

"Do
that," Frank said. "The man has used that weapon and likes it ... and
our budget is open-ended." He said the last words knowing that Corkscrew
Two, despite his business, was honest to the marrow of his bones. "Does
moving those machines to Hong Kong within eight days present a problem?"

He
noticed the merest smile on the face of the man opposite.

"None
at all. I've been supplying arms to certain criminal gangs there and in
southern China at an increasing rate for the last five years."

Frank
stood up, realising that Corkscrew Two was probably the main arms supplier to
the 14K.

"Have
you shipped any of those FNP90S in that direction lately?"

"None
at all," the Belgian said, also standing up. "And I give you my word
that I won't, until you let me know that your operation is over."

They
shook hands and Frank headed back to the bar. Corkscrew Two went to the
telephone.

Tom Sawyer
was punctual. He walked across the large room, glancing around, then moved up
beside Frank and gave the bartender a nod. Again the bartender poured a glass
of house wine. He passed it over and refilled Frank's glass. Frank turned to
look at the man. He was big and broad and as black as ebony. His real first
name was Horatio, but from childhood he had been known as Tom. He had left his
native Tennessee to join the Marines, but had quit after his first stint
because he could not stomach the schoolboyish discipline. They carried their
glasses over to the corner table and within a few minutes Frank had filled in
the American on the events of the past few days. When he had finished, Tom
Sawyer said, "It's a pity about Michael. He was a good man. How's Creasy
taking it?"

"He shows nothing. But I guess he's hurting. One thing's for sure -- he wants that
Tommy Mo's ass. Are you in?"

Tom Sawyer asked, "What's the rest of the team so far?" Frank told him, and the American nodded, "Damn
right, I'm in. I don't have to ask you if the money's good?"

"It's
top of the range."

"When
do I start?"

"You
just started. We'll be heading for Hong Kong in three or four days. Jens and
The Owl are already there. In the meantime, you can help me here. I'm trying to
track down Do Huang and Eric Laparte. The rumour is they're in Panama
City."

The big
black man nodded. "The rumour's correct. That old windbag Hansson passed
through here last week. He came from Panama City. Apparently Do is working on a
construction site, and Eric's drinking himself to death."

"Can
you get addresses for me?"

"I
can give you a contact in Panama City who can do that."

At
about four o'clock in the morning, Lucy Kwok Ling Fong had a nightmare. In it,
she was walking into her house in Hong Kong again and seeing her father, mother
and brother hanging from their necks. She jerked awake in a cold sweat.

It was
a very hot sultry night and, although the windows were open and the ceiling fan
turned above her, her whole body was wet. She got out of bed and went into the
adjoining bathroom. She was about to slip under the shower, when she realised
that she did not want to sleep again until the sun came up. It had always been
like that, even as a child. Whenever she had a nightmare she had never been
able to sleep until she had seen the sun. She decided to go to the kitchen,
make herself a coffee and then have a swim.

Five
minutes later she was sitting by the pool, wrapped in a large towel, sipping at
a mug of beautiful Italian coffee and waiting for sunrise. She glanced around
the patio. There was a single light over the kitchen door. The pool lights had
been switched off. She took off the towel and was naked. She walked down the
steps into the pool and its cool water. She decided to swim ten lengths. The
exercise soothed her mind. She swam in a breaststroke so as not to make much
noise. After the ten lengths, she sat on the steps with water up to her waist.
She could hear a dog barking in the village below, and then from the side of
the pool, a voice said, "I have a beautiful Chinese mermaid in my
pool"

Instinctively,
her hands came up to cover her breasts. He was sitting in a canvas chair, with
only a brightly-coloured sarong tied around his waist.

"How
long have you been sitting there?" she asked.

"About
ten minutes," Creasy answered. "I came out to have a swim and found a
mermaid."

"You
couldn't sleep?"

"No.
And I guess you couldn't, either."

She
shook her head. "I had a nightmare. And when that happens I have to wait
for the sun to come up before I can sleep again."

His
voice was soft but there was a harsh timbre to it.

"What
was your nightmare about?"

"It
was about my family."

"Are
you all right now?"

"Yes.
I'm all right."

Suddenly
Lucy realised that during the conversation her hands had fallen away from her
breasts. She noticed that his gaze was on them but she did not raise her hands
again. She leaned back in the water, with her elbows on the upper step.

She
said, "When do you think we'll be heading for Hong Kong?"

"Frank
called today. He managed to locate those two guys in Panama, so I'll be going
there tomorrow to check them over. Yourself, Mrs Manners and Rene will head to
Hong Kong a couple of days later."

"So,
take your swim."

He
stood up, saying, "I've got to fetch my swimming trunks."

"Are
you shy?"

It was
quite dark, but she saw the white of his teeth as he smiled.

"I
guess not."

Now she
could see his body language. He dropped the sarong and she could see the body.
He dived in.

He
stroked her, as though soothing a kitten which had been taken from its mother.
Neither had consciously seduced the other. It had been as natural as a flower
spreading its petals. They swam in the semi-darkness for several minutes and
then sat on the steps and talked. She related, in detail, her nightmare and
then abruptly broke down in tears. He put his arms around her shoulders, and
held her close until her sobbing stopped.

"I'm
sorry," she murmured. "I've tried to be strong, but sometimes it's
difficult, especially at night. I wake up feeling like an orphan... which is
what I am. You just happen to be here with a shoulder to cry on."

"No
one is really an orphan if they have friends," Creasy answered.

"I
know. But even among friends I sometimes feel lonely."

"You
won't be lonely tonight," he said. "And you won't wait for the sun to
come up before you sleep. You'll sleep in my bed, with your head against my
shoulder. Nothing else needs to happen. If you have another nightmare, I'll be
there."

She
suddenly realised that was exactly what she wanted: to be able to close her
eyes and sleep and know there was somebody next to her. Somebody who could
protect her against anything.

They
climbed out of the pool and dried themselves and went to his bedroom. It was a
huge vaulted room with a vast bed, framed by a wispy mosquito net hanging from
the ceiling. In Lucy's eyes, that bed was akin to sanctuary. It was as though
the net added even more protection. He opened a drawer and gave her a sarong,
saying, "I always sleep in these, ever since my Far East days."

For a
moment she hesitated, trying to decide whether to tie the sarong about her
breasts or around her waist. Finally, she decided that, since he had already
seen her naked, around her waist would be more appropriate and certainly more
comfortable. He lifted the mosquito net and she slipped under it and on to the
bed. He followed. She was facing away from him. He put an arm around her waist
and pulled her close, and murmured, "Sleep now. Nothing can harm
you."

She
could not sleep.

She
heard the soft sound of his breathing, near her ear. She snuggled back against
him. She felt totally secure, but still she could not sleep.

After
fifteen minutes, he said, "What's the matter? Your body is tense. I told
you nothing would happen. You won't wake up in the night and find me on top of
you. You have to trust me."

With
total honesty, she said, "I do trust you... more than anybody I've ever
known. I'm not worried about that, it's just that I'm nervous. I guess I've
been that way ever since my family were killed."

He took
his arm from around her and sat up and switched on the low light above the
headboard. She rolled on to her back and looked up into his face. He was
smiling slightly and in the dim light, the hardness of his features had given
way to a shaded softness.

"There's
going to be a major role reversal here," he announced.

"How?"

"Well,
you're a beautiful Oriental woman, and I spent many years in the Orient.
Whenever I came out of Cambodia or Laos or Vietnam, the first thing I did after
checking into a Hong Kong hotel was go to a local massage parlour. A real one,
not a sex joint. On dozens of occasions, the hands and fingers of an Oriental
girl eased the tension out of my body. I know the technique. So maybe now it's
my turn. Roll over on to your stomach."

She did
so and he straddled her and the next moment, scarred hands and fingers were
working at the muscles in her shoulders and neck. It only took her a minute to
realise that he knew exactly how to find the areas of tension. He used a
strength that bordered on pain, but after fifteen minutes, her whole body began
to relax. Then he pulled himself from on top of her, knelt beside her and with
the sides of his hands beat a tattoo down her back, like a drummer. It went on
for many minutes and again came close to pain. It was as though her body was
taking in thousands of electric shocks. He moved lower and did the same to her
buttocks. Five minutes later, it all changed.

He
began to rub her back with the palms of his hands. At first, with a lot of
pressure, but then slower and softer. She felt like a kitten being stroked and
she heard his voice saying, "Now, your muscles are relaxed. Maybe you can
sleep."

There
was no possibility of sleep. During the past few minutes, the gentleness of his
hands had aroused her. She reached down to her sarong and pulled it off. She
lay naked on her stomach and murmured, "Some more, please... just a little
more."

For a moment,
she thought she might have broken the spell, but then his hands were sliding
over her naked bottom and down her thighs, and later still between the cheeks
of her bottom as she inched her legs apart. She heard him saying gruffly,
"This is supposed to be purely therapeutic"

"It
is," she answered, her face against the pillow. "It's more
therapeutic than you would believe... When was the last time you made
love?"

Above
her, he chuckled. "That's not a polite question to ask a man who hasn't
had the time or been in the situation to make love for months."

She
rolled over on to her back and smiled up at him and whispered, "Now we
will reverse the roles again. How long is it since you made love to a Chinese
woman?"

She
watched his face as he thought about that.

He
said, "At least fifteen years."

"Have
you forgotten how it was?"

"No.
Such things are never forgotten. It's a coincidence, but she was a nurse at a
private hospital in Hong Kong." He touched the scar on his shoulder and
said, "I'd been wounded in Laos. I was in bed, immobile, in that hospital
for about three weeks. She looked after me. She had to give me bed-baths. She
was very thorough and every day washed every part of me. I had a great
embarrassment one day when I got an erection during that ritual. But she wasn't
embarrassed. I was in a private room. She closed the door and locked it and she
came back to me and made love to me while I lay on my back."

"Was
she beautiful?"

"Perhaps
to others she was no great beauty, but she was sweet and gentle and, in my
eyes, definitely beautiful."

"Did
you give her money?"

"No.
I think I'm a good enough judge of character to know that she would have been
insulted. It only happened once. I waited for two months after I had left the hospital,
then sent her a jade bracelet, with a note of thanks for looking after
me."

As she
watched his shaded face, she felt a surge of emotion. She asked, "Do you
think I'm beautiful?"

He was
looking at her face. His eyes travelled down her naked body: the small high
breasts, the curved waist, the wisp of jet black hair at the apex of her
thighs, and the long slim legs all the way down to small highly-arched feet.

"That's
a rhetorical question," he said.

She
frowned in puzzlement. "What does 'rhetorical' mean?"

"It
means to ask a question, when you already know the answer."

"But
I thought you hardly noticed me."

"I'm
very good at not showing things. But for the past days I've hardly been able to
keep my eyes off you."

"I
would not have guessed," she murmured, and then patted the bed beside her.
"Lie here."

He slid
down beside her and then definitely experienced the role reversal. She gave him
a kiss on the lips, at first chaste, just touching his mouth with hers, but her
fingers were moving through the hairs on his chest like a flock of butterflies
fluttering through grass. As the butterflies moved further down, the kiss
became less chaste. Her small tongue probed between his lips and the fingers on
his chest were replaced by her breast moving in gentle circles. He could feel
the nipples as they became erect; he could feel his own erection, and so could
the butterflies.

She
eased him on to his stomach and this time, she straddled him. As she leaned
forward, he felt her warm breath on his neck. Her tongue flicked gently around
his neck and across his shoulders, meandering along his spine. She nipped at
his skin with her teeth as she slid towards his feet and as she moved down, the
soft mound between her legs brushed his buttocks. As her tongue flicked between
his inner thighs, he clenched his teeth and gripped the pillow. It was akin to
pain... but the pain of self-control was becoming unbearable. He rolled over to
face her.