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We had a light supper in the nearly deserted dining salon, then walked once around the deck and back to our cabin. Inside the door Rona turned to look up at me, and I took her in my arms and kissed her. It began as Just an easy, friendly after-dinner kiss. But then I felt the tip of her tongue lightly, almost shyly, touch my lips, and I had a hunch that the “honeymoon” would be no charade. I had more than a hunch when her sweet little hand slipped under the wasteband of my trousers and groped playfully downward, lingering for an affectionate caress that promised a long night of erotic acrobatics.

She stepped back and, moving with the sensuality that is born in all women but used effectively by only a few, took off her clothes. She did it slowly — from the first button of her blouse to the final shrug of her hips that sent her panties sliding to the floor, revealing her tanned, velvet-smooth skin. Two narrow strips of white traced the outline of the bikini she had worn while sun-bathing. The white borders framed a fluffy-soft triangle that was only a shade darker than her blonde head.

During our frenzied lovemaking in the house at Malibu, I had not had a real chance to appreciate Ronas incredible body. The greyhound leanness she seemed to possess when clothed was deceiving. Although there was not an extra ounce on her anywhere, there were no sharp angles either.

She posed in front of me, enjoying my admiration. “You don’t think I’m too skinny?” she said, her face expressing not the least doubt.

I stroked my chin and tried to look critical “Well, now that you mention it…”

She placed her fingers lightly on my lips. “I get the message. It’s time for me to quit fishing for compliments.”

I closed my arm about her waist and pulled her toward me, kissed the soft little mound of her tummy.

Rona squirmed against me, made whimpering sounds of pleasure as now I explored her belly with my tongue in a slow circle, ever-descending.

I released her and she fell against me, her mouth searching wildly. I lifted her in my arms, and carried her to the bed. There I let her down gently on the satin spread.

Rona caught her lower lip between her teeth and watched with hungry eyes as I slipped out of my clothes.

It is true that we were not really the carefree newlyweds we pretended to be. But I doubt that any legitimate pair of honeymooners ever had a more fulfilling wedding night than ours. Before we finally slept, the first gray light of dawn had smudged the eastern horizon.

Eight

We were up, dressed, and on the good side of breakfast by the time the Gaviota sailed into Martinique. Rona wanted to visit the colorful boutiques that lined the waterfront of Fort-de-France, but I told her I had to stay where I could watch who and what came aboard. I sent her off alone, but she was back in less than an hour, saying it was no fun by herself.

As it turned out, I might as well have gone with her for all the good it did watching the gangplank. We spent four hours at Martinique, during which several honeymooners trooped ashore and returned with shaggy straw hats and other junk from the souvenir stores. The crew stayed aboard for the most part No suspicious suitcases were brought on. No heavy, bear-like Russians. No thin Russians with white hair.

That night Rona and I again made the circuit of the promenade deck. Activity aboard the Gaviota was, as usual, minimal. We retired early to our own stateroom, where the action accelerated considerably.

Our next stop was La Guaira, the seaport for Caracas. Since the Gaviota was registered in Venezuela, I was hopeful that something might happen at the glittering capital of that country.

Again I was disappointed.

That night I began to worry about our mission, though I didn’t confess my doubts to Rona. We had, after all, no solid reason to believe that Zhizov and his crew had not previously planted all the suitcase bombs for the fatal hour. The major cities of America might already be mined and ready to go up in a nuclear cloud as soon as the right button was pushed at some unknown location. If Juan Escobar had told the truth, at least six of the bombs had been sent out with crew members of the Gaviota. For all we knew, there might be other ways of distributing them too.

And in just five more days the first bomb was scheduled to go off in New York. With the uncertain mood of the American public these days, the destruction of our largest city might be all it would take to start a clamor for negotiation. Of course, there’s no negotiating with people like Anton Zhizov.

We had only two choices — surrender or fight-Chances were that, after a little democratic debate, the government would choose to fight. But that would be ridiculous, since there wasn’t a visible enemy. Hidden bombs triggered by radio signals from an unknown location don’t provide much of a target. When the second and third cities blew up, the people’s will to fight might crumple. Even if it didn’t, the destruction of the nation’s major cities would leave the people with no power to resist.

So the Gaviota was really the only gamble we had. The alert customs man who had detained Juan Escobar had provided us with the one tiny chink in the enemy’s armor. My job was to get through that chink and deliver a killing blow before he had time to strike.

Five more days.

That night our lovemaking lacked its former spontaneity, on my part at least Of course Rona sensed that something was wrong.

“What is it, Nick? Are you worried about the mission?”

“We should’ve had some action by now,” I said. “Tomorrow we hit Curasao, and if nothing develops there, we’re in trouble.”

“Would you rather I moved over to my half of the bed and let you sleep?” she asked seriously.

I grabbed her and locked her naked body against mine. “Sweetheart, if we have only five more days before the world starts blowing up, I intend to spend as little of them sleeping as possible.”

With a little purr of pleasure Rona wrapped her legs around mine. And for awhile I didn’t think about nuclear bombs in the guise of suitcases, I didn’t think about the death’s-head.

At Curasao Fyodor Gorodin came aboard the Gaviota. I was so glad to see the scowling, broad-shouldered Russian that I could have kissed him. Curasao is an international free port with some of the best shopping in the Caribbean. Most of the passengers left the ship in the morning to hunt bargains, and when they came straggling back in the afternoon, the burly Gorodin was among them, trying vainly in a Palm Beach suit to look like a typical cruise passenger, whatever that might be. I spotted him right away and kept him in sight while he made a brief pretense of wandering the deck before sneaking into the officers’ quarters.

I was a little disappointed that he didn’t bring one of the trick suitcases on board with him. But since Curasao is a historic headquarters for smugglers, I had a hunch that the time had come. It would make my job a lot simpler if one of the bombs showed up, so I could attempt to trace it But if not, I could always put the squeeze on Gorodin.

After I found out what cabin the big man was nesting in, I joined Rona at the bar in the observation lounge.

“Gorodin’s on board,” I told her.

Her blue eyes widened with excitement. “Oh Nick, that means you’ll be able to track the bombs through him.”

“That or blow my skull. Because so far it’s been a bust.”

I saw the brief look of hurt and reached across to take her hand. “Don’t misunderstand. In a way, these have been three of the best days of my life. But the job is first, and you might say without much exaggeration, that the whole goddamn world is on my shoulders.”