“What’s a Trojan…?”
It was Garrett’s turn to be bellowed into silence. “It’s a mobile whore house, isn’t it?” Hyde noticed that Dooley appeared to be about to voice further indignation and annoyance, and went on quickly. “Now everyone in the Zone knows about Frau Lilly’s outfit. Even if they’ve never seen it, they’ll have heard all about it. But anyone can respray a couple of old Soviet armoured personnel carriers, and then try pulling a few stunts. The wonder is that no one appears to have done it so far…”
“That’s as well,” Ripper grinned, “else her girls would have started getting a different welcome from the one they’re used to.”
A muted rumbling noise came from Dooley, but he saw the NCO was watching him, and thought better of it.
“If I can go on?” Hyde finished shuffling the notes into neat stacks. He began to pocket them, with tantalizing slowness and deliberation.
“Maybe the nasty piece of work who bosses the 717th is twisted enough to think on those lines. Gould be he’d shoot first, ask questions after, if he did at all. So we needed an ace…”
“You don’t. I reckon you print your own, the number you get dealt…* This time there was no shouting, but Ripper felt all eyes on him. His words petered out.
“And talk of the devil, she’s here.” Hyde made a show of looking over Dooley’s head, toward the trees, and the others turned to look.
Silence. Not a word, not a whistle. No grunts, no catcalls, no dirty laughs or smutty remarks. Silence.
“What is the matter. Have you not seen a woman before?” Before any of them could articulate a single word, Andrea was gone. It was Garrett who broke the silence. “Shit, I’ve never seen her dressed like that before, you know, like a female.”
“I’ve never seen her sober before,” Carrington added. Ripper groaned. “I’ve never suffered from premature ejaculation before.”
“You what?” Dooley finally managed to screw his head back into its more usual position on his neck. He had followed Andrea from sight without moving his body, through almost a complete circle. “What’s that?”
“I’ve come in my pants.”
“Rather there than in mine.” Carrington gently rippled the deck, thoughtfully. “That was cleavage I saw. I know it was. I’ve never thought of her as having tits.”
“I think on the basis of what we’ve just seen it’s safe to assume, that in every respect, Andrea is all woman.” Along the boundary wire of the Russian compound, Hyde noticed the prisoners were standing three deep. The card players had not comprised her only appreciative audience, had beaten those feelings out of him. And here, once more, she was sweeping away any chance of their revival.
“And you know you’re only in because your presence tilts the scales a little in our favour.” He would have given much to cut her down to size, but she was impervious to any sarcasm he could summon. “So do your job when the time comes. Until then I don’t want to see you.”
“Will this do?” Turning on her toes, Andrea displayed the tight stretch jeans and low cut top. Her dark hair, combed out and shining, swung across her face and accentuated her high cheeks and deep brown eyes.
“Yes, yes that’s fine. It’s fine.” That had to be the greatest understatement Revell had ever spoken.
She had been unkempt and bleary eyed from drink for so long, he’d almost forgotten how attractive… no, how beautiful she really was.
The transformation was truly incredible. It was only when he looked harder, and closer, that he could still see traces of the puffy face and blood-shot eyes. They had been concealed by the surprisingly skilful application of make-up.
“You know I would not have done this, had there been any other way you would have included me in on the raid.”
For a brief moment Revell had been wishing things back the way they were, the way they had been when he had first known her. Then he’d worshiped her, had been totally devoted to her. But gradually her indifference.
TWENTY THREE
The clothes, like the cosmetics and her unrestrained hair, felt strange. Andrea walked among the trees, putting distance between herself and Revell. Between herself and all of them.
She tolerated their oafish company, or had so far, because with them there was always ample opportunity for killing. That was changing though. This raid could be the last before the combat company was disbanded.
Before that happened, before NATO Field Intelligence got their hands on her and put her in the cage reserved for ex-East German border guards, she would disappear. There were plenty of opportunities to join other, less official units fighting in the giant no-man’s-land of the Zone.
Perhaps she would start her own gang again. Men were so easy to control. As long as they were led to believe they were in charge they could be manipulated effortlessly. And they never realized.
What would Major Revell do? He had kept the command together through more than fifty actions rebuilt it when their numbers had been reduced to that of a handful of wounded survivors. For most of her time with him the unit had operated almost like one of the old free-companies.
Starved of weapons and vehicles, by an HQ that didn’t approve of what it saw as the diluting effect of so-called private armies, it had kept itself supplied by taking what it wanted. Battlefield salvage, capture from the enemy and outright theft from their own dumps; that was how it had survived.
From each of the best men she had plucked different skills. That of the sniper from Clarence, the subtle techniques of command from Revell, combat driving from Burke. And much more, from many others.
She had fought off passes and outright attempts at rape. And been successful. Dooley’s instruction in unarmed fighting had been an important factor in that.
Looking down she saw the swell of her breasts above the flimsy ruffles of the whore’s blouse. Ackerman had obtained it for her. The only part of the outfit she liked was the black leather boots. High heeled, they were tight fitting to the knee.
Stupid women. Resorting to such things, and for what? In the case of the prostitute whose clothes she wore, so that she could get a man to make money, so that she could go out and get a man. It was pathetic, futile.
Between her legs she felt the seam of the jeans rubbing into her. She looked about to see that she was alone. The woods were still. There was no sound. Leaning back against a tree she ran her hands from her throat, over her breasts, across her flat stomach to the tops of her thighs.
A drink. She’d have given anything for a drink. But those had been Revell’s terms. One drink, no raid. The major knew she would not take one, but he couldn’t stop her thinking. Swallowing hard, she tried to push the thought from her.
The action of unfastening her narrow leather belt was almost an unconscious one, as was the moving of her hands to her waistband. Edging the jeans from side to side as she eased them down over her hips, she closed her eyes. Very gently she slid her hand underneath her body and began gently to rub. At the first contact she was wet, and her fingers slid inside.
Her mind was cluttered with thoughts that she didn’t want. She thought of those stupid whores. All women were stupid, but at least they were usually clean, not covered in hair with those ugly stupid things between their legs. What of the whore who had worn this blouse. She would do anything for money, anything. Even do this, if she were given enough.
Andrea’s fingers moved more urgently. Yes, even this. The only difference to the scene laid out before the sniper’s position was the gradual lengthening of the shadows. He could see only a small arc of the sky, above the distant horizon. It was free of cloud, and he hoped it would continue that way.