The Kremlin File

“Now,” she said, “I’ll take you up on that offer of a shower.”

On Grand LaClare you couldn’t take too many. We went to the bedroom to undress and she had the advantage over me. She peeled off the little dress and there were no clothes underneath. I got out of my stuff, watching her. She had a long, lithe, golden body.

She walked ahead of me to the shower, turned the water on full, a little warmer than tepid, and stepped in. The space measured about four by six feet. We could have waltzed there. She didn’t mind her hair getting wet, stood facing me, then moved to let the stream reach my body. I lathered my hands and soaped her, face, throat, body, feet.

I sudsed myself to a thick froth, and reached for her. She came against me, slippery, in a flow of movement.

Turning together to rinse off, I bent my head, found her mouth, kissed her, gently, slowly, and felt her respond.

I picked her up, snaring a large beach towel from the rack on my way to the bedroom. I smothered Tara in the towel, dropped it on the floor, then placed her gently on the king-sized bed. She was very ready when I lay down next to her. I entered her in one swift movement and she thrust up to meet me.

She was fantastic, anticipating me, joining me at every turn. I don’t know how long we stayed together, but I fell asleep almost as soon as we finished. She had simply worn me out.

Five

We breakfasted in bed, Tara on tropical fruits, me on oysters, two dozen of them. I was still lingering over my meal when she finished and left me for a shower and fresh clothes in her suite. I had the whole day to play.

I was in the shower myself when the faint ring of the phone came through the noise in the stall. I tried to ignore it, but the caller was insistent. Made me think of Hawk. I left the water running and dripped across to the instrument.

The whispery voice from the receiver sounded conspiritorial. “Good morning, Mr. Carter. This is Carib Jerome. May I call on you for a few minutes?”

Well, yes. I’d been warned about Jerome by AXE; he could be the Russians’ man on the island. Or it could be simply a protocol visit and I shouldn’t offend him.

“Give me ten to dress,” I said.

I called room service for hot coffee and another cup, turned off the shower, toweled down, strapped on the sheath with the stiletto, got into clean clothes and was buttoning the jacket over the holster when the Colonel and the coffee arrived. My mind had been reviewing what Hawk had given me on the man.

Jerome was thirty-six years old, a member of a prominent Out Island family. Educated at Oxford. With a special course at Sandhurst. Came home after school, joined the native constabulary and made a name as a law officer. When Randolph Fleming was first elected president and the British troops left, Parliament thought Grand LaClare needed an army of its own. The doctor had appointed the chief of police — Hammond — general of the new force and made Jerome chief of staff.

Hawk had said: “The Colonel surprised us. CIA. had him tabbed as politically ambitious and looked for a power grab by him when Hammond went down. Instead Jerome immediately asked Fleming to come back.”

The AXE think tank had speculated on his motives. Why did an ambitious man, who had the opportunity to put himself into power, call instead on the one opponent he had helped run off the island? Our experts thought Jerome was intelligent enough to recognize his own unpopularity, to realize that the Parliament would fight him. That he believed if he put Fleming in as president, he could make himself the strong man behind the throne.

I had asked Hawk if Jerome had any idea of my real identity. He didn’t. As far as he was concerned, I was only Thomas Sawyer s representative.

The Colonel came through the door ahead of the coffee boy and stood rigid, unsmiling, until we were alone. Only his dark eyes moved. They scurried. Through the open bedroom door. To the big bed with the covers on the floor. To the Scotch and glasses on the bureau. He made a long study of me as I brought him coffee, black. Still no smile.

I decided on caution. The door closed behind the boy. Jerome settled himself in a deep chair and tasted his brew.

“Nice quarters,” the husky voice said without inflection. But there was a question somewhere in it.

I should have thought of it when I first saw the suite. This was VIP country. What was a hotel cop doing here? I passed an admiring, envious look at the expensive furnishings and tried a short laugh.

“How the upper class suffer. I get one taste of it because the hotel’s full. They’ll have me in the basement soon.”

At that season, the place would be full and the Colonel would know it. In countries like Grand LaClare, hotels must file their guest lists with the police.