In any case, I thought, there's no point taking the dry-throat non-fun route. I'd go home the other way, by way of Karachi, New Delhi, and Bangkok. After Bangkok, what? I shrugged mentally. Kyoto, probably, since I have never cared much for the smog and clamor of Tokyo. Then Kauai, the Garden Island of Hawaii, San Francisco, New Orleans and finally, Washington, and an undoubtedly furious Hawk.
Before all that, of course, there was still tonight — and probably tomorrow night — in Dhahran. Muscles tightened involuntarily, and I grinned to myself.
I'd met Betty Emers just a week ago, her first night in Dhahran after having been in the States on a three-month vacation. She had come into the club at about nine o'clock one night, one of those women with such a sexual aura that somehow, in that special, subtle way, communicated the message to every man at the bar. Almost in unison every head in the place turned to see who had come in. Even women looked at her, she had that kind of presence.
I'd been attracted to her at once, and she hadn't sat alone at her table more than five minutes before I walked over and introduced myself.
She'd scanned her dark eyes over me for a brief second before she returned the introduction and invited me to join her. We'd had a drink together and talked. I learned that Betty Emers was an employee of one of the American-owned oil companies — and I learned that her life in Dhahran had lacked an important element: a man. As the evening progressed and I found myself becoming more drawn to her, I knew that that would soon be remedied.
Our evening ended with a night of furious lovemaking in her small apartment, our bodies unable to get enough of each other. Her deeply tanned skin was as soft as velvet to the touch, and after we'd spent ourselves, we'd lain quietly, my hand gently caressing every inch of that wonderfully smooth skin.
When I had to leave the next day, I did so with reluctance, showering and dressing slowly. Betty had wrapped a wispy robe about her, and her farewell had been a hoarse, "See you again, Nick." It had not been a question.
I thought now of her perfect body, the flashing eyes, her short black hair, and I felt her full lips under mine when Td taken her in my arms, crushing her to me as we lingered long and deep over a farewell that promised more delights to come…
Now, driving down the Ras Tanura road in a hot, dusty Jeep, I was sweaty again. But it wasn't the same. I grinned to myself as I drove through the Dhahran compound gate. It soon would be.
I stopped at the security office and left word with Dave French, SAMOCO's chief security officer, where to pick up Raschid and the Dutchman. I brushed off his congratulations and desire for details. "I'll give it all to you later, Dave, right now I want a drink and a bath, in that order."
What I really wanted, I told myself as I climbed back into the Jeep, was a drink, a bath, and Betty Emers. I had been too busy with Hamid Raschid and his gang to have spent more than a few phone calls with Betty since that first night. I had a little catching up to do.
I halted the jeep outside my Quonset hut and clambered out. Something was wrong.
As I reached for the doorknob I could hear the strains of Bunny Berrigan's "I Can't Get Started" coming through the door. That was my record, all right, but I certainly hadn't left it playing when I went out that morning.
I pushed open the door, furious. Personal privacy was the only surcease from the steaming cauldron of Saudi Arabia and I was damned if I would see it violated. If it was one of the sadikis, I told myself, I'd have his hide, but good.
With one motion, I threw open the door and stormed in.
Lounging comfortably on my bed, a tall, glistening drink in one hand and a half-smoked cheap cigar in the other was David Hawk, my boss from AXE.
Chapter 2
"Good afternoon, Nick," Hawk said calmly, his grim-visaged New England countenance as close to a smile as he ever allowed. He swung his legs around and came to a sitting position on the side of die bed.
"What on earth are you doing here?" I stood in front of him, towering over the small, gray-haired man, my legs spread defiantly, arms akimbo. Forget Karachi. Forget Delhi. Forget Bangkok, Kyoto, Kauai. David Hawk wasn't there to send me off on vacation.
"Nick," be admonished quietly. "I don't like to see you lose control of yourself."
"Sorry, sir. A temporary lapse — the sun." I was still seething, but contrite. He was David Hawk, a legendary figure in counter-espionage, and he was my boss. And he was right. In my business, there is no place for a man who loses emotional control. You either retain your control at all times, or you die. It's as simple as that.
He nodded amiably, the foul smelling cigar firmly clamped between his teeth. "I know, I know." He leaned forward to peer at me, squinting slightly. "You look awful," he observed. "I gather you've finished the SAMOCO thing."
There was no way he could have known, but somehow he did. The Old Man was like that. I strode over and stooped to examine myself in the mirror.
I looked like the sandman. My hair, usually jet black with just a few flecks of gray, was matted with sand, and so were my eyebrows. The left side of my face was a stinging pattern of scratches, as if someone had worked me over with coarse sandpaper, caked with a dried mixture of blood and sand. I hadn't even realized I'd been bleeding. I must have scraped myself worse than I'd thought scrabbling up the sand dune. For the first time, also, I realized my hands were tender from pressing them against the hot metal of the truck out in the desert.
Ignoring Hawk, I threw off my bush jacket and slipped out of the holsters that held Wilhelmina and Hugo. Wilhelmina would need a thorough cleaning, I thought to myself. I quickly got rid of my shoes and socks and then stepped out of my khaki pants and shorts, all in one motion.
I headed for the shower in the back of the Quonset hut, the sharp coolness of the air conditioner icy on my skin.
"Well," Hawk commented, "you're still in good physical shape, Nick."
Complimentary words from Hawk were really rare. I tightened my stomach muscles and surreptitiously stole a glance downward at my bulging biceps and triceps. There was a puckered reddish-purple depression on my right shoulder, an old gunshot wound. A long, ugly welt ran diagonally across my chest, the result of a knife fight in Hong Kong years ago. But I could still press over six hundred pounds, and my records back at AXE Headquarters still carried "Top Expert" classifications in marksmanship, karate, skiing, horsemanship, and swimming.
I spent a full half-hour in the shower, soaping, rinsing, and just letting the icy spikes of water blast the grime off my skin. After I had toweled myself vigorously, I donned a pair of khaki shorts and rejoined Hawk.
He was still puffing away. There might have been a hint of humor in his eyes, but there was none in the coldness of his voice.
"Feel better now?" he asked.
"I sure do!" I filled a snifter to the halfway mark with Courvoisier, added a single cube of ice and the barest splash of soda. "All right," I said resignedly, "What's up?"
David Hawk took his cigar from his mouth and squeezed it between his fingers, staring at the smoke curling up from the ash. "The President of the United States," he said.
"The President!" I had a right to be surprised. The President almost always kept out of AXE affairs. Although our operation was one of the most sensitive in the government, and certainly one of the most vital, it also often overstepped the bounds of morality and legality that any government must, at least on the surface, espouse. I'm sure the President was aware of what AXE did and, to some small degree at least, aware of how we did it. And I'm sure he was appreciative of our results. But I knew, too, that he'd rather pretend we didn't exist.