Andrea knew what he was doing, sensed his need to get more from this, their first intercourse, than the quick fulfilment of a physical need. She did not try to hurry him when he gently brushed his lips against hers, though she realized how little time they had. His actions called for no response on her part, not even when he lightly ran his fingertips across her stomach, between her legs, and then on to her thigh. Laying still she waited, feeling his erection warm against her leg.
Surely she should have felt more than this. Bracing herself to take his weight as he moved on top of her, she was surprised at how little discomfort there was; the effort he made to support himself.
“This is the first time… with a man.” The words came without her planning them. They surprised her, and she waited for his reaction.
At the moment the tip of his penis entered her body, he checked for an instant. Then he was pushing into her. His mind was in turmoil. He had speculated, for so long, to himself. Not that he could ever have hoped… if she was telling the truth.
Beyond the windows a whole city was struggling to survive. On the floor in the deserted restaurant, two people were managing to forget it existed.
THIRTY-ONE
“Can you trust him?”
The SAS Colonel stalked from behind his desk and glared at Boris, though it was Revell he spoke to.
“So far I’ve had no reason to think otherwise.”
“Shit, shit, fucking shit.” Col. Granger looked at the document that Boris had just translated. “At least it confirms what we’ve obtained from interrogations. And it almost matches the number of chutes that have been retrieved.”
“It matches exactly.” Revell noticed that the Russian was edging towards the door. “The Police have spotted two canopies on the roof of the Olympic Stadium. Bodies are still attached.” He saw Boris finally manage to sidle from the room.
The Colonel didn’t bother to add the figures again. The body count stood at one hundred and ninety exactly. All the available evidence indicated that a total of two hundred and two Spetsnaz troops had made the drop.
“What about those snipers you engaged ? You claimed no kills. Where was it ? Oh yes, a side street hotel and the bank on Marienplatz. So how about it, think you’re being pessimistic?”
“I’d like to think I’m being realistic.”
“Could the bodies have been destroyed by the fire or explosion?”
“I couldn’t say, Colonel. I stick by what I know for sure. We left the hotel starting to burn nicely. On Marienplatz we scored a direct hit. We got no more fire from either location, but that doesn’t say that the Reds had hung about waiting for us to hit them.”
“In both cases I’m waiting for police and fire brigade reports. Do you think you got two sections with those hits?” Granger rubbed his hands hopefully.
“I’d think it highly unlikely. We weren’t utilizing that sort of firepower.” A motorcycle messenger entered and handed the colonel a paper. He unfolded it, and had to turn it hand over hand to get it the right way up.
“Shit, fucking shit. You missed them.”
Revell wasn’t about to labour the point again. If the colonel chose to persist in deluding himself by thinking that Revell and his unit had put in false claims, then let him. He truly didn’t care any more. He was too tired and had too many other things on his mind.
“We’re still missing twelve of the bastards.”
“Maybe they’ve deserted. Taken vehicles and skipped, right out of the city, perhaps. After all, we ran into a few who were trying just that.”
“Because you’ve seen a lot of men do that in the Zone, it doesn’t mean every unit is likely to disintegrate if it gets half a chance.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that, Colonel.” Revell could kick himself for suggesting anything. “But I do think we’re helping the Russians by building up this superman image of their Spetsnaz troops.”
“You’re an authority, you’ve fought them before?”
“No, all I’m saying is that I don’t believe the Russians have managed to build up and maintain elite troops trained to the standards that these are rumoured to have achieved.” Revell sought an example, and found an obvious one. “How about your outfit? Even with years of preparation, do you think you could find and train upwards of thirty thousand men to your standards?”
Col. Granger had flushed an angry red when the major had started speaking; gradually he managed to bring his temper under control. “So what are they then, boy scouts…?
“Simply well-trained troops who’ve had a good PR campaign organized for them in the West. Among them will be the good, the bad, and the deserters.”
“Fortunately I don’t subscribe to your theory, Major. I believe they will be holed up somewhere in the city centre, waiting for things to get back to normal, before popping up again.”
“You could be falling into a trap, Colonel, one of your own making. You work on that supposition, and you’ll be tying up troops and snarling up the city for a long time to come.”
Revell could see the colonel was not about to be convinced, but felt he had to give it one more try.
“They’ve had plenty of time to make a rim. They could have stolen transport, or hidden and waited to mingle with the first of the crowds coming from the shelters. Easy enough for them to obtain civvy gear.”
“That’s enough, Major. I’ll take care of matters my way. Don’t you have some transport waiting?”
For a moment, Revell stood his ground, then tiredness and apathy swept over him. What the hell, it wasn’t his fight any longer. Maybe he should make one more try. No, the hell he would.
Abruptly, Revell left the room. In the outer office he collected Boris. He was not alone. There were a number of the colonel’s troops there, all tough-looking heavily armed men. Their proximity was clearly causing Boris considerable distress. His manner was nervous and agitated.
“Major.” Boris hissed out the corner of his mouth as they went out. “In the last few hours, you have made me go up against drunken Spetsnaz, and sit in a room with ten SAS men. My bowels will not take what you are putting them through.”
“You’ll be okay. We’re finished with Munich. Transport is laid on. We leave as soon as we’re boarded.”
“Then my only regret is that it was not thirty-six hours sooner.” Going out through the front door, Boris walked straight into an SAS machine gunner draped with belts of ammunition. He jumped, apologized in Russian, and then went deadly pale as he realized what he’d done.
By the time Revell was outside, Boris was already two blocks away. Munich was returning to normal at an almost frenetic pace. Battalions of city employees were sweeping the streets, and squadrons of tow trucks removing burned-out, smashed, and abandoned cars. Damaged storefronts were being boarded over with sheets of pastel-coloured ply, giving the appearance of undergoing refit, rather than being hidden from the gawp of tourists.
True, there were more police on the street than was usual, but not exceptionally so, a few APCs parked in side streets, but that wasn’t such an unusual sight. Only the frequent roadblocks, where the identification of every man was double-checked, were out of the ordinary.
A few side streets were cordoned off, and the taint of smoke hung over the city, but the smell permeating the pedestrian malls was more likely to come from hot dog stalls and hamburger stands than buildings being damped down.
The main railroad station was still closed, after the destruction of its signal cabin by an overenthusiastic application of force by an SAS team. It was by truck that the Special Combat Company was to be moved.