The Russian hit her again, not as hard this time but on her already bruised and reddened face it landed with even greater pain and the girl screamed again.
“You lie,” the Russian said. “We have been watching the apartment. We saw the newcomer arrive and stay there. We’ll get to him soon enough. It seems he also seeks Karminian and calls himself an artist.”
The information one can pick up at keyholes, figuratively speaking, I said to myself. It was more than a little interesting to find out that the Russians were as anxious to get hold of Karminian as we were.
That meant one thing, anyway. If he were dead, they hadn’t been the ones to put him out of business. And if he were only in hiding, was he hiding from the Russians or someone else? Karminian was taking on more intriguing aspects with every passing moment.
Marina’s scream, ear-splitting and curdled with pain, stopped my musings and I looked down to see the Russian had thrust the cattle prod into her navel. He was getting more sadistic in his efforts to get information which Marina didn’t have to give.
We artists hate to see beauty desecrated, I reminded myself, taking one of the two tubes of paint out of my pants pocket.
The balcony led to a narrow flight of stone steps at the far corner of the four-sided overhanging ledge. I unscrewed the cap of the tube and began to squeeze the paint, cerulean blue, along the balcony floor, next to the low side wall.
I worked my way back to the narrow stone steps until I had a long, thin trail of blue paint along one wall of the balcony. The paint was legitimate, acrylic-based colors that any artist could paint with, but Special Effects had also invested them with a secret ingredient.
I moved down onto the first few steps, took out my lighter and ignited one end of the long trail of paint. It began to sputter. It would flare for an instant and then explode. Because of the length of the trail, the explosion wouldn’t be concentrated but still would be strong enough to do what I wanted, which was mainly to create an uproar.
I was at the bottom of the steps, diving into the corner of an L-shaped hallway, out of sight just beyond the door leading to the room where they were with Marina.
The paint exploded and I heard the crash of tile and stones as it did a good enough job apparently of jarring one side of the balcony loose.
The Russians came charging out of the room, shouting instructions at each other. Two of them went dashing into the house, a third started up the stairway. The fourth, the crew-cut one, halted and glanced around suspiciously. A pall of smoke and dust was beginning to roll down from the stairway to the balcony.
I came out of my corner full speed, Hugo in my hand.
The Russian saw me, saw the stiletto in my hand and kicked out with a speed and accuracy that caught me by surprise. His shoe hit my forearm, sending numbing waves of pain up to my shoulder.
I felt Hugo drop from my fingers.
The Russian made his mistake then. He dived for the stiletto. My own foot caught him at the side of the neck. I saw him grab at his neck, fall forward and grow red as he gasped for breath. I could have given him another that would have killed him but every second counted. He’d be more than minutes just trying to find enough breath for action.
I scooped up Hugo, my arm still numb, and ran into the room. Using the blade with my left hand, I shredded the wrist ropes and saw the utter astonishment in Marina’s eyes.
“Grab your dress,” I said.
She reached down and picked it up from the floor. Holding her hand, I headed for the doorway. I heard shouts. The others would be coming down from the balcony in moments. A window had shattered and using my foot to open up a larger hole, we leaped through it and out into the street.
Marina was struggling into her dress on the run. She had just got it on when I yanked her down. “Stay low,” I hissed. We crawled forward along a low stone parapet behind a wall until we reached the corner.
I heard the shouts from the building, heard the sounds of running footsteps. By now they had discovered Marina was gone and were out beating the bushes.
I dropped from the parapet at the corner and reached up to help Marina down when the spotlight turned on, sweeping quickly over the street. It would be on us in minutes and I saw it was a hand-operated job, held by someone standing atop the same parapet we had crawled along.
I couldn’t see the figure behind the glare of the battery powered light but I drew a bead on the spot and fired. It went dark in a clinking of shattered glass.
The old taxi was still there, and we ran for it.
“Get inside,” I told Marina. “I’m chauffeur.” I backed the cab around and sped off. I knew the big, black Mercedes would be coming out searching in minutes, but we’d be safely away by then.
“Where to, lady?” I said cheerily.
“I... I don’t know,” she said. “I’m still shaking.”
“I’d go back to your friend Karminian’s place but I’m almost certain they’ll come looking for us there. Do you think they know where you live?”
“No,” she answered. “They were watching Karminian’s apartment, not mine.”
“Then it’s 9 Avenue Hassan Souktany,” I said.
We were there in no time and I parked the taxi a few blocks from her building. It, too, was a walk-up, but more graceful and larger than Karminian’s and a palace compared to where Aggie Foster lived.
Marina opened the door, and I walked into a living room richly draped in gold and black. A long curved sofa curled around one end of the room, and its black fabric contrasted with the plethora of brightly colored pillows of all sizes and shapes. I looked down to see Marina beside me, gazing up at me.
“Thank you for what you did,” she said. “Excuse me for a moment, and then we can talk about it. I feel dirty and unclean. Make yourself comfortable. In the cabinet there is liquor. Please help yourself.”
She disappeared into an adjoining room, and in moments I heard the sounds of running water.
I fixed a bourbon on the rocks for myself and a Scotch for her and sat down amongst the luxurious, bright pillows. I was sipping my drink when I looked up to see her standing in the doorway, a deep gold robe of silk reaching in a straight line to the floor, dropping from the high points of her breasts. Her hair hung loose below her shoulders and as she walked toward me, I saw her full, upturned breasts move easily and freely beneath the silk robe.
Marina turned down the large overhead light and the softer glow enveloped her delicate, high cheekbones in deepened shadows, heightening the regal, aristocratic bearing of her face. She picked up her Scotch, took a deep pull of it as she stood before me, and then folded herself alongside me, sinking into a pile of cushions.
Somehow, the silk robe never came open, never shifted to show an inch of her body. Only the loose movement of her breasts revealed that she wore nothing beneath the silk.
“Who were those men?” she asked quietly. “They were Russian, I know. Why did they want Anton?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Maybe he owes them money too.”
She smiled.
“Glen,” she said, “that is your story, but I do not believe it. Now I know something else is involved. I wish I knew more. Perhaps then I could help you. And Anton.”
“And Anton,” I said. “Let’s not forget Anton. You just tell me where you think I might find him and you’ll be helping us both.”
She said nothing but her dark, deep orbs studied me. She watched as my gaze traveled around the opulence, the soft sensuality of the room and then paused to linger on her.
“So this is where you had intellectual evenings with Anton?” I mused aloud. I caught the slow smile that played about her lips.
“A waste, to your way of thinking, right?” she smiled. “Why? Lovely surroundings are just as important in the enjoyment of intellectual pursuits.”