"It was my mother's," Hadiya said behind me as I held it up.
I turned to her, questioning her with my eyes.
"It was my mother's wedding dress," she repeated. "She was Fergus' wife."
"His what?"
"His wife. She married him when I was four. Fergus was my stepfather."
Then, for the first time, she betrayed emotion at Fergus' death. Tears flooded her eyes and she buried her head on my chest, her hands clutching my arms. I soothed her the best I could, assuring her that everything would be all right. The tears subsided gradually, and she managed to say, "He was good to me, Nick. He was like my own father. He may have been a bad man, but to me he was good. After my mother died, when I was 10, he cared for me like I was his own daughter."
I nodded, understanding.
We were still standing very close to each other, and suddenly I was aware of a new, different feeling. Hadiya's breasts were pressed against me and I could smell the warm, sweet scent of her hair. My arms moved around her body. I kissed her hard, my tongue snaking into her mouth, exploring it, meeting and entwining with her tongue.
Hadiya reached around behind her and unfastened the buttons of the dress she was wearing. It slipped to her feet. Underneath she wore only tiny sheer black bikini panties that clung to her bronze curves. Her bare breasts which had so excited the tourists at the Miramar a short time earlier thrust outward, full and free, their brown tips erect.
I fumbled for a moment with my own clothing, and then found myself beside that warm, exciting body on the bed. Hadiya's dark eyes glowed softly in the dimness of the room. Her arms pulled me to her and her hands moved down my back.
I kissed her, and now her tongue flicked into my mouth and explored it while her hands caressed me. I laid a row of kisses along her shoulders, moved down to those swelling breasts and finally down across the rise of her belly to the navel that had held a small artificial gem during her dance at the hotel. I lingered at the navel, caressed it with my tongue, and a low moan escaped her.
Her thighs gripped me, and I sought the depths between them. We united with a soft gasp from her. And then those hips that did magic things in the dance began moving in response to my measured thrust. The torrent built inside us. The wild hips thrust and quivered with a primitive rhythm, reaching out for me.
She raised her legs high above my shoulders and I gripped her buttocks with both hands. She moaned as she moved in perfect unison with my thrusts, deeper and deeper, harder and harder, trying to lose myself inside her. Hadiya's hips kept moving with me for a long time, but then she arched her back, her fingers raking my arms, a sharp scream coming from her throat. I shuddered, heard myself make a strange animal sound, and collapsed atop her. I was covered with perspiration. I moved off Hadiya. My head sank into the pillow and I dropped off into satisfied sleep.
I was wakened by a tugging at my shoulder. I bolted upright to confront a terrified girl.
"Someone's at the door," Hadiya hissed in my ear.
I reached for Wilhelmina, but it was too late. The door burst open and a man charged in. He threw a shot my way. T rolled off the bed, landed on the floor. I grasped the night lamp and flung it, then leaped. I hit him just as he was raising his gun to fire again. The palm of my hand swept upward and caught him under his chin. His neck snapped backward with a crack which echoed off the walls of the room.
I reached for the wall switch, turned it on, and looked at the body before me. The man was obviously dying. Then I glanced at Hadiya. A crimson red blotch was spreading below her left breast. She had taken the shot meant for me.
I lifted her head in my hands. Pink bubbles trickled through her lips, then she shivered and was still.
The man on the floor muttered a groan. I went to him. "Who sent you?" I shook his arm.
"Ayoub," he coughed, "my brother…" and he died.
I fished through his pockets, found only a stub from a United Arab Airlines flight. If he was Ayoub's brother, it was natural for him to track me down. Blood vendettas are a part of life in this part of the world. I had killed his brother, and it was his duty to kill me. It was all so damned stupid, and Hadiya was dead because of it.
Two
My BOAC flight 631 arrived at London Airport at 11:05 of a sunny morning the next day. No one met me because Hawk had not wanted a reception of any kind. I was to hire a taxi, like any other visitor, and ask the driver to take me to the British Travel Association offices at 64 St. James Street. There I would see a man called Brutus. Brutus, his real identity a well-guarded secret, was Hawk's opposite number in London. He was the head of Special Operations Executive's Select Missions Division. He would give me specific instructions regarding the assignment.
I used a password to gain access to the off-limits top floor of the Travel Association building and was met by a two-man military guard in spit-and-polish British Army uniforms. I identified myself.
"Follow us, sir," one of them told me, deadpan.
We moved down a corridor in close, brisk formation, the guards' boots pounding in hard rhythm on the polished floor. We stopped before a large paneled door at the far end of the corridor.
"You may enter, sir," the same young man told me.
"Thank you," I said and opened the door into a small reception room.
I closed the door behind me and faced a middle-aged woman seated behind a desk, evidently Brutus' secretary. But my eyes traveled quickly past her to a truly lovely sight. A girl in a very short leather dress, her back to me, was leaning over a window seat to water a plant in a box outside the window. Because of her position, the dress revealed every inch of her long milky thighs and part of a well-rounded, lace-covered little behind. I liked Brutus's taste in office help.
The older woman followed my glance. "Mr. Carter, I presume," she said, smiling.
"Yes," I said, reluctantly shifting my gaze. As I spoke, the girl turned toward us, holding the small watering can.
"We've been waiting for you," the secretary said. "I'm Mrs. Smythe and this is Heather York."
"My pleasure," I said to Mrs. Smythe, but my eyes returned to the girl. She was blond, her hair cropped short. Her eyes were large and blue, the most vibrant blue I had ever seen. Her face was perfect: a straight, finely-shaped nose over a wide, sensuous mouth. The micro-mini she was wearing barely covered her even when she was standing straight. The brown leather swelled out over a well-rounded bosom above a narrow waist. Her calves were sheathed in brown boots that matched the dress.
"Brutus will see you immediately, Mr. Carter," said Mrs. Smythe. "The paneled door on your left."
"Thank you." I gave the blonde a smile, hoping to see more of her later.
Brutus got up from behind a big mahogany desk as I walked in. "Well, well! Mr. Nick Carter! Good! Good!"
His hand swallowed mine and pumped it. He was a big man, as tall as I, and had one of those square British army faces that is all jaw. There was gray in his sideburns and there were wrinkles around his eyes, but he looked like a man who could still lead a military assault force and enjoy it.
"I'm glad to meet you, sir," I said.
"My pleasure, my lad! Distinctly my pleasure! Your reputation precedes you, you know."
I smiled and took the chair he offered me. He didn't go back to his seat but stood at one corner of the desk, his expression suddenly somber.
"We've got a big one here, Nick," he said. "I'm sorry to get you involved in our problems, but you're not well known here for one thing and, frankly, I wanted an experienced man who would have no hesitancy about killing, if it becomes necessary. Our only man of your caliber is inextricably involved in a problem at Malta."