“It’s the remnants of a Pigmy tribe which was almost wiped out in an earthquake. It consists of five young females. All pregnant at the present time, I believe.”
“I’m warning you, Mr. Victor!”
“It’s the absolute truth! Boy Scout’s honor!”
“Do you seriously expect me to believe that the British government would concern itself with the representative of some small, decimated, savage Pigmy tribe? Am I supposed to swallow that such a personage as you describe could affect military policy?”
“Not at all,” I assured him. “He did no such thing. There were no conferences with the government. He is not a Prince-—at least not in the sense you seem to take it. What he is, actually, is a spy!”
“A spy? An African Pigmy spying for the British in Malta! You will regret playing cat-and-mouse with me like this, Mr. Victor. We have ways of making people talk, as you shall see!”
From then on we marched in grim silence. The idea, I suppose, was to allow my mind to dwell on some of those “ways of making people talk.” But just in case my imagination failed me, I was reminded of one of them the moment we were back inside the farmhouse-—or brothel-- or whatever it was.
Madam Renado was waiting for us in a private room. Her eyes surveyed me coldly as we entered; She was holding the goose feather in one hand and stroking the palm of the other hand with it. Oh, no! Not again! I thought. I had to stop myself from giggling hysterically — just from anticipation.
“So you managed to recapture him,” she greeted Major Worthby.
“Yes. But unfortunately the Prince got away.”
“If you mean that Pigmy,” the Madam told him, “he is not a Prince. We have learned that he is a Rhodesian native in the employ of the British Intelligence Service.”
“I told you so!” I couldn’t resist saying.
Major Worthby shot me a cold glance. “You have an unfortunate tendency to remind me of my wife,” he informed me. “For that reason, watching you being tortured will give me double pleasure, Mr. Victor.”
“And he is not Steve Victor,” the Madam interrupted. “Steve Victor is in Manila. This man is an impostor.”
“But if he’s not Steve Victor, then who is he?”
“That’s what we have to find out.” Madam Renado twirled the goose feather meaningfully. “But perhaps he will tell us of his own free will.”
Well, why not? I’d had a chance to rehearse my story once. It figured to be really polished by now. “Put your feather back in its holster,” I told her. “I’ll talk. I can’t stand any more of that. I know when I’ve had enough.”
“Very well. Talk. Who are you and what are you after?”
“I’m a Russian agent. My name is Boris Karenkov. My mission is to expose S.M.U.T. to the world as a tool of British-American imperialism.”
“Haw-haw-haw-haw!” What I’d said was evidently a real thigh-slapper to Major Dwight Worthby, so he slapped his thigh. “Now isn’t that just like the bloody Bolsheviks? Here the Western powers are after our scalp, and they come up with a plot to prove we’re allies. You have to hand it to them. They’re ingenious!”
“Then you believe him?” Madam Renado asked. “Yes. It’s just the sort of convoluted thing the Russkies would cook up. Don’t you think so? ”
“I’m not sure,” Madam Renado said cautiously. “But we’ll have to keep him alive until we can check it out, I suppose.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I interjected.
Madam Renado ignored me. “I’ll have him locked in the cellar,” she told Worthby.
And so, a short while later, I found myself locked in a cell which looked like it had once been a coal bin. It was a small cubicle with cement walls on three sides and a stout wooden door which was barred and locked on the fourth. There was no furniture at all in this makeshift cell. High up in the wall opposite the wooden door, there was a small window. It was barred. Outside of it, the shadow of the lower part of shapely female legs was visible. I guessed that one of the S.M.U.T. girls must have been posted as a sentry there.
There was nothing else to do, so I curled up on the cold cement floor and tried to get some shuteye. It was no bed of roses, but it had been a long day and I was tired, so despite my back-breaking mattress I managed to doze off. I don’t know how much time passed before I was awakened.
What woke me up was a hissing sound coming from the window. I opened my eyes and saw a narrow flashlight beam shining into the cell from between the bars. The angle was difficult, and the beam was purposely low-powered, so it only cut through the air at about the height of a standing man and didn’t reach the floor or catch me in its glare. The hissing sound was repeated.
“Yeah?” I responded.
“Comrade Karenkov?” It was a female whisper.
“Yeah.”
There was a torrent of whispered words, none of which I recognized. I guessed she was talking Russian.
“Do you want to give us away?” I thought fast. “Speak English.”
“Da. I’m sorry. But nobody can hear us.”
“Then why are you whispering? ”
“Well, just in case—”
“Exactly. And if they should hear the sound of Russian, even if they can’t make out the words, it will alert them more quickly than the murmur of English. Now, who are you?”
“My name is Tanya. I am a Russian agent like yourself. I am here to help you escape.”
Well, whaddaya know? It looked like at long last my Russian spy story might pay off some worthwhile dividends. And just when I’d about made up my mind that the fabrication was strictly an out-of-the-frying-pan into-the-fire gambit. “Okay,” I told Tanya. “How do we work it?”
“Come closer to the window so I can whisper in your ear.”
I stood up and stretched so that my face was directly in front of the bars.
“You are really a Russian agent?” she asked, shining the flashlight straight into my eyes.
“I am. And stop pointing that thing at me like that, will you? ”
She angled the flashlight slightly and I saw that in her other hand she was holding a double-barreled shotgun. Almost casually, as if she wasn’t thinking of what she was doing, Tanya pointed it at me. “You are a Russian agent and you have told them everything about your mission, she said, her voice peculiar in that it lacked any inflection at all.
“Hey, what are you -?”
“Your are a traitor!” she said, poking the cold twin muzzles of the shotgun against my forehead. “And now you must die! ”
From the corner of my eye, I saw her finger span both triggers and tighten. . . .
chapter four
IT STARTED with a kiss. That was the only way I could keep Tanya’s mouth shut. And if I didn’t keep it shut, I’d be one dead knight -- armor or no armor.
Outside the suit of armor, S.M.U.T. hirelings were running to and fro with blood in their eye. They were looking for the escaped prisoner—-me——and their orders were to shoot on sight and shoot to kill. The hunt was on, and I was the quarry.
Inside the suit of armor, things were more than a bit crowded. If I stood on tiptoe, I could see through the visor of the helmet and watch the activity outside. But I couldn’t take the chance of standing on my toes. Instead, I had to crouch to kiss Tanya. It wasn’t passion -- at first. It was necessity. If I didn’t cover her mouth with mine, she was all too eager to scream and give away our hiding- lace.
I couldn’t stop her with my hands, or any other way, because of the awkward position the confines of the armor imposed on me. It was awkward as hell! My arms were held rigid by the steel-plated arms of the suit of armor. My legs were held equally rigid. I was facing front. Tanya was standing on my feet facing me, circumstances keeping her almost but not quite as immobile as I was.