“In Kabul?“
"Sure." I shrugged. If I'd lied about where I was going he wouldn't have believed me anyway.
“You know I'll follow you as soon as I get loose."
"Can't be helped." I replaced the gag and yanked it tight. “I'll buy you a drink in Kabul," I told him. His eyes followed me, perplexed, as I left the room.
Down in the lobby I checked with the clerk on possible transportation to Kabul. There were no planes leaving for there from Baghdad for three days. But there was one train, an early morning one, that ran over the rickety line through the Zagros Mountains and across the deserts of Iran to Afghanistan. If I hurried, the clerk said, I might just make it.
I made it with enough time left over to buy a ticket entitling me to a semi-private compartment. The few private ones were already taken, but sharing a compartment with one other person beat riding tourist class with the peasants the railroad crowded in like so many cattle. It particularly beat it when I got a look at the passenger I was sharing the compartment with as the train got under way.
She was a type, a redhead, beautiful, but cold-looking. Her features were classic and aristocratically English. Her body, despite the travelling suit she wore, gave an impression of genteel voluptuousness. Her nose tilted towards the ceiling as I entered the compartment and her eyes continued staring at it through rimless glasses as I settled myself.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" I asked after a short period of frigid silence.
“I'd rather you wouldn’t."
"Sorry." I put my cigarettes back in my pocket and played ‘Church-and-Steeple’ with my hands. Any smoker will appreciate the fact that I wanted a cigarette tenfold now that I'd been denied the privilege. “Uh,” I said after a while, “is your objection on moral, sanitary, or personal grounds?"
"1 beg your pardon?" The words were frost chipping off her lips.
“To my smoking,"*I explained.
“Oh. All three. It is a filthy habit. It is an unhealthy habit. It is a habit which I find personally annoying."
“I see. Well then, I guess I won't smoke."
“I'd rather you wouldn't.”
“Been in Iraq long?" I asked after another long pause.
“Just passing through.” She continued to look at the ceiling.
“Oh? Where are you bound for?"
“India.”
“Really? I may be going there myself soon. Pleasure trip?"
“Business." The word was an icicle designed to slice off the conversation.
I ignored the tone. “Business, hey? What's your line?”
“I'm an archeo1ogist."
“Really? That must be fascinating. I'm sort of in a related field myself. Sociology, in a way."
“What sort of sociology?" It was the merest hint of a thaw, but I found it encouraging.
“Sex customs of the East. I'm from O.R.G.Y." I told her.
“Oh!” She looked shocked.
“It's really quite interesting."
“From what I've seen, it's just disgusting. These people behave like animals. I realize it's not their fault. It's the poverty and filth they live in. Nevertheless, it's beastly."
“I don't know that I agree. The way I look at it, it's just different from the kind of sex we know."
“I wouldn't know about that. I'm English," she added with what struck me as a comical sort of association.
“Don’t they have any sex in England?" I asked innocently.
“Of course we do. But not the sort of uninhibited sex they have in your country.”
“Ah, you've guessed that I'm an American."
“That wasn't hard to guess."
“Then let me tell you my name too. I'm Steve Victor. And you’re—?"
“Vickie—Victoria Winters.” Her voice was still reluctant.
“Well, Vickie, just what is it that you find so repulsive about the sex habits of the Arabs?"
“I don't know that I care to discuss it!"’
“That's hardly fair. You've maligned a proud people. The least you can do is explain your attitude."
“Very well, it's the way they do everything right out in public where anybody that's passing by can see them."
“Some people might find that exciting." I stared her down.
She blushed. “Well, I don't," she said, but the tremor in her voice gave the words the lie.
“Personally, I find it quite erotically stimulating,” I told her blandly.
She lowered her eyes to her hands in her lap. They'd been moving ever so slightly over her legs. She turned even redder and clasped them together firmly.
“It's hard to admit your own desires to yourself, isn't it?" I said very softly.
“I beg your pardon?"
I knew damn well that she'd heard me. "Nothing," I said. “If you'll excuse me, I'm going for a smoke."
“Will you please knock before you come back in, Mr. Victor? I'm going to change into my nightgown and get into bed. I wouldn't want you to suffer the embarrassment of catching me half-dressed."
I'll just bet you wouldn't, I thought to myself. “Of course I'll knock," I said aloud.
But of course I didn't. And for the same reason that I cut my smoke short and came back to the compartment sooner than she could have expected. There was something about Vickie Winters that said there was a volcano smouldering beneath that glacial exterior.
The door slid open easily and I stood in the doorway for a few seconds before she realized I was there. I almost burst out laughing at what I saw. On the other hand, it was damned exciting.
Vickie Winters was sitting on the edge of her bunk in a semi-transparent nightgown. Her hair, which had been pushed back into a bun before, now hung loosely around her shoulders. These shoulders were arched back and her large, proud breasts thrust out against the flimsy night-gown in detail. Her green eyes were closed and the gown had been pulled up over her hips. Her hand was very busy at the juncture of her legs.
She half-rose from the bed with a little moan, and then her eyes opened. They focused on me. She stared in a welter of embarrassment and confusion.
“A man is better," I told her softly, sympathetically.
“Yes. I would think that was so. But you see, Mr. Victor, I've never had a man.”
“There's always a first time." I crossed over to her and her burning lips parted to my kiss. Her hands ran over my body until they found what they sought, and then she gave a little murmur of appreciation. My hand closed over her breast and I started to push her back on the narrow bunk.
“No. Wait a minute," she said. “Please. You see, it isn't just that I've never had a man before. I've never even seen a man naked before."
“Really? Where have you been hiding?"
"I was brought up in Albion. That's a very prim and proper part of England. Back there people are still living in the Victorian era. Please, Steve, before we do anything, I want to look at your naked body. Take off your clothes. All of them. Please.”
Looking into those hot, greedy green eyes, no man could have resisted her request. Least of all me. I stripped off my clothes and stood before her naked.
“Oh, you're beautiful,” she said. “Just beautiful.”
“When you're through admiring me, we've got things to do," I told her, beginning to feel embarrassed at the flattery she was pouring over me.
"In a moment, my darling. First I want to get something from my suitcase."
“What—?" I started to ask, but she was already rummaging in her luggage.
"Ah, here it is,” she said at last. She straightened up and turned to face me. Her face was all smiles as she pointed a great big Luger straight at my groin.
“Oh, no!” I said, sinking to the edge of the bunk.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Victor," she said sweetly. “Now, if you'll be so good as to gather up all your clothes. That’s right. Now, open the window and throw them out.”