So the Russians had enlisted U. S. support in preventing such an awful thing from happening. And my government, as appalled at the idea of China's stockpiling bombs as the Russkys were, had agreed to cooperate to the fullest. But both sides still being suspicious of each other, this agreement was only at the highest level, and only those directly concerned--like myself and Putnam-— knew what was happening on the American side, while on the Russian side even those concerned—-like Potemchenko—weren't told that the American government was helping the Soviets. Thus, to Potemchenko, I was an American who had defected. And I might be the same thing to any American agent whose path I chanced to cross.
The Russians had also arranged for cooperation from officials of the United Arab Republic. This was natural, since Egypt was Mustafa Ben-Narouz’s homeland. I would, however, doubt that Russia found it necessary to let the Nasser government in on the true facts of the case. They were quite capable of exerting enough pressure to secure the utmost cooperation without disclosing their motives. The Nasser regime might play footsie with the Chinese, might even wave a white flag invitingly toward the West, but in the final analysis, it was Russia they tugged the forelock to because it was Russia who was picking up the tab for the Aswan Dam and the remilitarisation of the Egyptian armed forces.
I guessed that the Egyptian police chief of Damascus had cooperated in getting myself and Teska to the American embassy because the Russians had told him to cooperate. This also may have been the reason behind the timely arrival of the police during my losing battle with the Arab street-boys. I guessed that the police, prodded by the Russians, who in turn had probably been prompted by the American embassy, had been watching over me ever since I arrived in Damascus. There was a reason why I was important to everybody concerned with finding Anna Kirkov.
This reason was the only clue the U.A.R. police in Cairo had been able to furnish the Russians; They had unearthed the fact that Mustafa’s closest boyhood friend had been the son of a Syrian sheikh sent to Cairo for schooling. This was Sheikh Taj-ed el Atassi, master of the harem in which Teska had been enlisted.
But he was more than that, and that's where I came in. Remember that at the time the government took an interest in me, I hadn't even met Teska yet. Yet I had become involved with Sheikh el Atassi without even knowing it.
He was the head of the syndicate behind virtually every brothel operating in Damascus. This was what Potemchenko had learned from the Egyptian police chief of Damascus. And more. Sheikh el Atassi was also one of the top men in a white slave ring which ran all the way from the Turkish coast through Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan and deep into India. As a sexologist out to investigate the brothels of this area, I might well turn out to be the sheikh's best customer—in terms of the number of visits made, anyway. It made me a natural choice to help in finding Anna Kirkov. If the Sheikh was indeed helping his boyhood chum Mustafa in smuggling Anna across Asia to Red China via the white slave trade route, I was the one man who could look for her without arousing his suspicions. Any check on me would reveal that I was a legitimate investigator of Eastern sex customs with a reputable foundation behind me.
In line with all this, my chance meeting with Teska had been a real stroke of luck. If Anna had indeed been taken to the sheikh’s harem, Teska might have seen her there. In any case, she could fill me in, on the sheikh’s life, and that might come in handy.
The same idea had occurred to Potemchenko. He knew all about Teska waiting for me in my hotel room. He knew all about my being a sex researcher. Not only did he know more about me than I did about him, but he seemed to know virtually everything about me except the fact that I wasn't really an American defector. I guessed that the dossier Putnam had on me had been made available to the Reds—with certain deletions as to my war record, probably.
Just before I left him, Potemchenko gave me a small photograph of Anna Kirkov. "She speaks English," he told me. "Most Russians do. They learn it in our schools. How many Americans speak Russian?"
"Very few," I admitted.
“That is just another example of our superiority," Potemchenko boasted.
"Of course,” I agreed, playing my role of traitor. "It is to be expected that capitalist education would be inferior to that in a socialist state. It is why I am dedicated to our cause."
“We shall see just how dedicated you are," he said ominously as I turned to leave.
My brain was spinning from all I'd learned as I walked back to my hotel. It took a rest when I entered my room and found Teska waiting for me with the love-light in her eyes and not a stitch of clothing on her body. She greeted me with a long kiss, during which she did her best to remove the clothes from my body.
I didn't put up much of a fight, and she soon succeeded. She flopped down on the bed and wriggled, urging me to hurry. Her nails raked my back as I joined her, and her tongue was flickering fire dancing over my body. A few moments of this was all I could stand. I took her fiercely then, only half pretending to feel the brutality she seemed so much to enjoy even when she protested against it.
“Allah be praised! Allah be praised!" Her voice rang out as it had done the night before.
And this time was every bit as good as the three previous times during that night had been. Once more now, I echoed her.
"Alum be praised!”
003
ONE or my hands held the reins, the other circled one of Teska's small, sharp breasts. The horse beneath us galloped swiftly, its heels kicking up small clouds of desert sand. The sky, moon-bright and star-cluttered, shed its night-light over us. I held Teska tightly, our bodies lending each other a bit of warmth against the evening chill of the desert.
I gave more than I got, since I was wrapped in Arab robes while Teska wore only a silken harim costume: halter-top, skin-tight pants and veil. She rode astride, in front of me, and as the steed raced into the desert breeze, she wriggled and pushed back against me, trying to get still more warmth. Still, her breast under my palm was hot, the tip grown long and quivering with its inner fire.
I pushed the robe aside so that she might wedge herself more snugly between my thighs. Her high, solid little buttocks were cold at first, but they quickly warmed to the friction of my leghold. Her long black hair streamed back into my face as the breeze developed into a strong wind.
“Oh! I am getting so much sand in my eyes!" she complained.
I slowed the horse to an easy trot. "That better?" I asked her.
“Yes. Much. Thank you."
We both began to post automatically now, our bodies rising and falling easily in time with the horse's rocking-chair gait. After a while, I noticed that Teska was coming down on the saddle much harder than seemed necessary. I puzzled over this to myself for a moment and then smiled as I realized the reason behind her extreme movements.
I remembered what she'd told me that morning when I bought her the outfit she was wearing in a little shop in the native quarter of Damascus. “Aren’t they awfully tight?" I’d asked when she tried them on for me.
"Yes." She giggled. "They are quite satisfyingly snug."
It seemed I'd been naive, and she went on to explain to me the complexities of the sirwal, or petticoat trousers frequently worn by Arab women. The garment had originated among the Bedawins, an offshoot nomad tribe of the more famous Bedouins. Their women wore baggy trouserlets to please their men. Traditionally, these were held up by a loose drawstring. The Bedawin men took pride in the "slackness of slacks" and “laxity in the trouser string" of their females. These Bedawin expressions I’ve quoted are more than just words to these Arabs. To them they mean that their women are always passionate and always prepared in what they wear to engage in love-making.