A visa to the U.S.? Don was certain that a Communist agent of her stature always had a visa, whether genuine or forged. Of course, Louisa told them she had the visa because she had planned to visit her "cousin" in New Jersey. But she was willing to forget her cousin, she said, to go to Dallas with Don and Marie and stay with them in their "mansion."
It was easily arranged for Don to sneak Louisa out through the back entrance of the hotel, and at ten that morning, they were all three in a taxi headed for Orly. Shortly after noon, their jet was winging them out over the Atlantic. It was basically such a simple seduction, Don marveled, once the groundwork had been laid. Everything was perfect! As soon as they landed at Idlewild, the police would be there to arrest her, and his mission would be completed.
But suddenly, something seemed terribly wrong! The stewardesses didn't have on the same uniforms they did when the plane left Paris. The interior design of the plane was different. A stewardess in a green, Russian Army uniform walked toward him holding a deadly Soviet, large caliber automatic! He looked out the window at the wings of the plane. In place of the familiar markings of the American airline, was a large red hammer and sickle!
"What the devil is…?"
When he turned to look at Louisa, she was completely naked and laughing, laughing like a mad woman!
"You fool! You clumsy American spy!" she screamed at him. "You think your prick is so great! You will not think so after Comrade Ludmilla shoots it off! Shoot him, Comrade! Right in his prick!"
At that moment, Don Cabot woke up screaming.
Chapter 2
Don Cabot jumped up from the bed in his overheated Budapest hotel room and ran to the long mirror on his bathroom door. He had on only a pair of boxer shorts and a T-shirt, both drenched with perspiration. He was breathing heavily, as if he was in some sort of daze and had to shake the cobwebs out of his head to think where he was, and why he was there.
Marie, Louisa, Paris, the burly bodyguard. Yes, they had been real enough. The dream had been perfectly accurate up until the point of the plane suddenly becoming Soviet, and his being ordered shot through the balls by Louisa. Actually, the mission had been quite successful if not a little emotionally involved. The beautiful Louisa had fallen so desperately in love with him that she was willing to defect and provide Western Intelligence with a complete list of all Communist agents and their descriptions, their modus operandi, anything that would help. The only condition was that he should kill Marie. Louisa was insanely jealous of her. The "killing" of Marie was not too great a. problem, he recalled. With the use of a small plastic bag of catsup under her dress, blank cartridges and help from a news reporter in writing up her "obituary." After that, Louisa went to Washington and told all. The information she provided helped to almost wipe out the world-wide Communist spy network, force them to start from scratch, all over again. It was one of the biggest coups of Don Cabot's career up until that time. And he was only twenty-eight years old.
But that had happened eleven years ago!
Don never had long dreams or nightmares then. He was on the go constantly, always trying for the encore that would be the greatest feat in the history of East-West espionage. But now, he realized pain fully, as he took a shower, put on a clean shirt and fresh suit, that he might not even get out of Budapest… alive.
After packing his suitcase, Don suddenly realized that it was night, late… how late? Ten or eleven o'clock. He shook his drowsy head again. He needed… no-no… he wanted a drink. He only wanted a drink. To think otherwise, that he needed a drink, would be to completely admit defeat. He looked at himself in the mirror again as he adjusted his half-windsor to precision. He didn't look like an old man.
Don studied his tanned, handsome features in the mirror. The corners of his mouth were twisted, giving him a mocking, almost sneering and cynical expression. It was the look that made women crawl to him. Or, at least, it used to. The exception was Eva Harnecz, the brilliant and beautiful and young Hungarian scientist who was the reason for his trip to Budapest.
"The bitch!" he said aloud, watching his snarling expression in the mirror. "The beautiful, bright-eyed, sexy genius! Damn the perverted cunt!"
Five minutes later, Don Cabot was down at the almost deserted hotel bar. He hated to work in the Iron Curtain countries with their lack of personality, mirth friendliness and cheerfulness. He downed his first Scotch neat and ordered another one, sipping it as he glanced around the colorless bar and lounge.
Why did it have to end here, he thought to himself? Why not in sunny Italy, Paris, the Riviera, or even Florida? Why Budapest? And then he reminisced again. His life had been exciting, adventuresome. He had a better record than any other agent in Western Intelligence. Maybe the dreams were good for him. They haunted him though, because the endings were always such that they became nightmares. There was the time in Rome, he recalled with a smile. He had dreamed about it two nights ago-the eighteen-year-old Italian girl with the overdeveloped body of firm, smooth flesh, and her twenty-four-year-old sister…
Then he pulled himself up sharply. It was no good, he reminded himself sternly. This is no time to get sentimental and nostalgic. If your premonition is correct (and, deep down inside him he knew that it was) you've got to get word back to "Alfa."
Don had already made two copies of his report, reading it into a miniaturized tape recorder using the maximum security code. It was simply a question of finding a reliable carrier for the second tape. He would carry one himself, of course, because it was vital that the Communists should think they'd successfully prevented the "leak."
What if they caught him? He assumed they would break the code without too much difficulty, and then it would be vital to his side that they assumed it was the only copy. They had merely to eliminate him and double their own security arrangements. But even if he did get through, even if his present lack of confidence in the future was simply due to nerves, he knew he was of no further use on this particular assignment.
The bartender refilled his glass with scotch and Don drank it down quickly. It was then that he realized he wasn't even tasting the drink. Pure alcohol would have served the same purpose. He merely wanted to dull his senses, not savor the enjoyment of a well-mixed cocktail or even to take pleasure in the slow, relaxing warmth of the whisky.
He replaced the glass on the bar counter and had to fight to keep his hands from trembling. He had been close to a crack-up on a couple of occasions in the past, but never before had he felt so utterly, so completely finished.
The girl, of course, had been the turning point for him. He had tried every trick in the book, used every ounce of his charm to seduce her; and she had simply laughed in his face! The fact that Eva was clearly an exclusive lesbian did very little to soothe his ruffled pride. In the past, he had enjoyed the favors of several girls as perverted as Eva-had persuaded them to sample the pleasures of normal sex after everyone else had failed.
But Eva wasn't to be one of his conquests. And the fact hurt! It hurt like hell! Especially since this wouldn't have been an off-duty seduction, a brief Interlude between assignments. Far from it… Eva's seduction was to have been the very center of this mission.
Don's orders had been to make very careful inquiries about her, induce her to fall in love with him I and then persuade her to defect to the West. Now, they would have to call in a girl agent to finish the job. And he would melt into the background; taken off the case because he wasn't able to see it through.