As they left the restaurant, he asked, “What now? Shall we take a walk?”
She wrapped her arm in his and pulled him down closer to her lips, then whispered, “No. Take me to your room.”
“Why, I’m shocked! Positively shocked!”
A dim golden light seeped in from the bedroom window and splashed across the bed. She let the cocktail dress slip off her shoulders to reveal a pink, scalloped daisy lace underwired bra and thong. She gingerly undressed him and removed the rib harness, and gently pushed him back on the bed. She straddled him, then leaned over to kiss him.
Her agile tongue darted around inside his mouth. Considering that she was able to perform tricks with a toothpick, Bond wasn’t surprised. He sucked it and probed her mouth with his own.
She sat back up and slipped the bra off. Her breasts were full and firm, the nipples erect and hard. He reached up and touched them, rubbing the tips lightly in the palms of his hands. She moaned softly and closed her eyes. She moved back a little so that she could touch him. Bond let her manipulate him until he was as hard as stone. Gina removed her thong and slid her wetness down over him. She rocked back and forth on his body, slowly and purposefully at first, then faster and faster in wild abandon as their passion increased. Her tight, compact body writhed and wiggled over him, sending spasms of pleasure to the very depths of their souls.
“Oh, James,” she cried as she approached climax. “It’s perfect. . . perfect . . .”
He could feel her spasms around him, triggering his own release. For those few moments, they were both lost in each other, melding into one living being with fire for a heart and electricity for a soul.
Perfect indeed.
NINE
COVERING TRACKS
AT PRECISELY EIGHT-THIRTY A.M., the Belgian police removed Hendrik Lindenbeek from his cell in Police Headquarters and prepared to take him to the Palais de Justice for a preliminary hearing. It was standard operating procedure for the police to transfer all the prisoners who were arrested during the night to the massive ornate building dating from 1883.
Bond had suggested that they transport Lindenbeek under cover, for the Union might very well attempt to assassinate him if they could get a clean shot. Inspector Opsomer, an efficient but impetuous officer, humored the British agent and assured him that they would take every precaution.
Nevertheless, Opsomer was not present in the morning. He was called away on another matter and left the transfer of prisoners to his assistant, Sergeant Poelaert.
Poelaert, who hadn’t been apprised of the seriousness of Lindenbeck’s crime and his importance to an ongoing investigation, put the doctor and two other prisoners in an ordinary police van. Under special circumstances, armored cars were used, but this didn’t seem necessary to Poelaert, as it would have required more time and manpower.
Lindenbeek, handcuffed and in leg chains, was escorted to the garage by two gendarmes. The two other prisoners had been arrested for mugging a tourist and were already inside the olive green Mercedes van. Lindenbeek climbed in the back and sat down, nervous and frightened since his arrest. He wasn’t accustomed to this kind of treatment. He was a medical doctor! He had a respectable list of patients! He hoped that all this could be sorted out quickly and that he would be sent to a safe hiding place. His lawyer was confident that everything would turn out for the best, but Lindenbeek wondered if he would ever practice medicine again.
Sergeant Poelaert locked the back of the van and got in the passenger side. He gave the signal to open the garage door.
A small seventy-year-old chapel stood less than a half block away from the police station. A window in the steeple was conveniently placed so that anyone crouched inside could see the entire street.
Dr. Steven Harding sat at the window, his eyes locked on police headquarters. He held a CSS 300 VHF/UHF radio transceiver to his face.
“Stand by,” he said.
The garage door opened.
“Okay, they’re coming out,” he said. “Send in the bird.”
“Roger that,” came a voice at the other end.
The van pulled out of the garage to begin its ten-minute journey to the Justice Palace.
“It’s a green van,” Harding reported. “Two men in the front. Looks like there are others in the back with Lindenbeek. I can’t tell how many.”
“Does it matter?” came the other voice.
Harding snickered. “Not at all. A prisoner is a prisoner, right?”
The van inched along the narrow road in traffic. Aside from the normal rush hour congestion, the transfer was on schedule. Poelaert saw nothing out of the ordinary on the streets. It was going to be an easy delivery.
As Brussels is a large metropolitan city, the presence of helicopters in the air is never a cause for alarm. The Soviet-made Mi-24 Hind assault chopper had been painted white so that it wouldn’t be conspicuous; in fact, it was completely ignored when it appeared in the sky over the heart of the city.
The van turned down Rue des Minimes, a wider artery, and headed southwest toward the Palace.
Harding said, “I see the bird. It’s all yours now. Over and out.” He pushed in the antenna and got up from his cramped position in the steeple. He quickly climbed down the steps and slipped out the back, where he had left a rented dark blue Mercedes 500 SEL. Lee Ming was in the passenger seat, his eyes closed.
Harding got in the car and pulled away from the chapel. Lee woke up and asked, “How did it go?”
“We’ll know in a few minutes. Let’s get out of here,” Harding said.
The van progressed slowly down the large, crowded street. The helicopter hovered overhead. Armed with thirty-two 57mm projectiles in rocket pods located on the stub wings, the Hind is particu-larly adept at hitting small targets with precision.
When the van stopped at a red light, the driver heard the chopper and looked out the window. He pointed it out to Poelaert. The sergeant peered at the sky, but the sun was in his eyes. All he could see was the silhouette of the helicopter and that it was white.
“It’s from a TV news channel,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
The driver laughed. “ ‘Don’t worry about it’ is at the top of the list of best famous last words.”
The light turned green and the van moved out into the intersection.
Up above, the Union member with his hand on the trigger saw that the van was clear of most of the other traffic. The timing was perfect.
Two rockets shot out from underneath the helicopter and zoomed down to the van so quickly that witnesses were not sure what had really happened. All they knew was that the van exploded with powerful force. Pedestrians screamed. Other vehicles skidded and slammed into each other in an effort to avoid the blast. For several minutes there was utter chaos on the street. When the smoke finally cleared, the only thing left of the van was a burning chassis with five charred corpses.
The Hind pulled away and sped to the south. By the time the authorities determined that the van had been shot at from the sky, the helicopter was long gone.
Meanwhile, the Mercedes SEL made it to “the Ring,” and headed toward the E19 exit.
“How long to Paris?” Lee asked.
“I don’t know,” Harding said. “Just sit back and enjoy the scenery. I’ll get you to your plane on time.”
“My superiors are not happy with the change of plans.” Over the past couple of days, Harding had been holed up with the Chinese man and found him to be cantankerous and annoying.
“Look, we can’t help it if Lindenbeek got caught. I had to see that he was eliminated. We couldn’t have him identifying us. The Union had to make last-minute changes, all right? The original plan with you flying out of Brussels to Beijing just wouldn’t have worked. They’ve probably got both of our faces plastered on every Immigration desk in Belgium. You would have been arrested before stepping on the plane.”