The Kremlin File

A couple of things about her seemed odd. She didn’t speak like a moll. Her well-modulated voice held intelligence and breeding. And for a mere bag girl, her opinions appeared to carry weight among the Mafia. She was obviously something more than a carrier of unlawful money. She had even been told my true identity. That made me curious. I asked her how come. She gave me a Mona Lisa smile.

“When Chip got scared he could lose the casino, I called Davey and told him to shoot you down here for the rescue.”

Davey? Davey Hawk?

Hawk taking orders from this broad? It hit me right between the eyes. Was Mitzy Gardner an AXE agent? Was Hawk playing games, letting me dig it out by myself?

“Honey,” I said, “fun and games are fine, but who the hell are you?”

My question got a counter question. “Which one of my hats would you like me to put on?”

I damned her under my breath and leered to even the score. “I’d rather see you take them all off.”

She didn’t lose her cool. “You’re in luck. Were on our way”

We continued into open country with jungle growing thick down to the road on both sides. Then there were patches of sugar cane and small banana plantations. The girl talked about the changing economy of the place. Bananas brought more profit than sugar cane — green gold she called them. Mace, cloves, cinnamon, and the fragrant tonka beans were also becoming popular crops. She said she had a small plantation on the far side of the island. A nest egg for a rainy day I assumed.

The road was anything but straight. It followed the shore for awhile, then it bent toward the mountains that formed a spine down the middle of the island.

When the plantations were behind us, the ground roughened into swamp jungle on the sea side and wrinkled into hogbacks and canyons the other way, heavily timbered and tangled with vine. We were about twelve miles from town when Mitzy swung the heavy car away from the road into two sand ruts, wallowed a quarter of a mile down that and stopped where the trees did, at the back of a lagoon.

She killed the engine, kicked out of her sandals, and opened her door. I sat admiring the view. The shore cupped around deep blue water to a horn half a mile away. There the land rose abruptly to a high nose with the hint of an ancient fortification still visible.

The view in front of me was even better. Mitzy was out of the Caddy, running, shucking off jacket and pants, briefs, streaking for the water. She turned and flung an arm to wave at me. I didn’t need a second invitation. I dropped my own clothes and went after her, but she’d had a head start and hit the water well before I did.

There was only a low swell of lazy surf and the lagoon was warm as new drawn milk. The girl struck off with a strong, fluid stroke and was far from shore when I caught up with her. I couldn’t touch bottom but we treaded. Her skin was sleek under my hands. I reached for her hips to pull her to me. She flung herself backward, her body sinking and circled her legs around me. Neither of us was quite ready when she raised her head and gasped, using her arms in a stroke to drive herself on me.

In that deep water I had no leverage. I didn’t need it. She had enough for both of us. Her timing was great.

When it was over, she loosened her legs, and floated to the surface. I floated up beside her and we rested. In the warm stillness I went to sleep. I didn’t know it until my head went under and I swallowed lukewarm salt water.

The girl was gone. Sputtering, I looked around. She was lying on the beach on her stomach, brown against the white sand, her back unmarked by swimsuit patches. I swam in, stretched out beside her and went to sleep again. The next thing I knew her throaty voice was saying, “Rise and shine, Carter. You’re about to meet a friend.”

I clawed back to consciousness. The sun was low in the west. I couldn’t see anyone on the beach except the pair of us. Nothing moved but a few sluggish crabs. Then she pointed along the cove toward the headland. Something was advancing across the water, and it wasn’t a boat.

It looked like a human figure. I was groggy but not that groggy. I blinked, shook my head and looked again. It was still there. A thousand feet away and out at the depth where I hadn’t been able to find footing, a man was walking. Tall, blue-black, thin, in a long white robe that billowed out like dry cloth. He came toward us dignified but purposeful. It was unbelievable.

The girl stood up casually and waved, went to gather her clothes and got into them without hurry.

Was it voodoo? Or had she mainlined me with valium while I was out? I knew it was hallucination. I knew the cove water was salty. Floating on it was easy. I knew it felt like syrup. But even so it didn’t keep me from sinking when I fell asleep on it.

The man kept coming. About ten feet from the shore, he lifted his robe to his waist, above a twist of loincloth, sank slowly in the water to his thighs and rose again in a stride up the beach.