intensity lights on standards with wires trailing from them were deployed seemingly at random. Along one wall was a backdrop depicting a beach scene. In front of the flat was a metal beach chair in a sandbox.
'When you said photos in the nude, you didn't say it was a gang job!' the girl's voice spoke up again. I could see her now. She was a frosted blonde with flippy curls and tight waves that made up a short, bouncy hairdo topped with short bangs.
'Look, Marcia,' the younger-looking of the two men said. 'We're paying you forty an hour and we thought we were buying a pro. Now either strip or bug off. The door is right over there.'
The frosted blonde bit her lip. Her companions, a cynical-looking brunette and a chubby brownette, were already removing skirts and blouses. By the time the brunette peeled down a girdle and stood there rubbing at the red pressure marks on her slim flanks, the blonde was pulling her dress off over her head.
'That's better,' the man said.
The brownette stripped to garter belt and stockings, the blonde to canary-yellow bikini panties. The second man, the photographer, held a light meter against each of the girls' bare bodies in turn. 'That's a real nice piece of meat you've got there, Ginger,' he said to the brownette as he removed the meter from the vicinity of her broad, nude buttocks. 'Okay, Edna,' he addressed the brunette, 'get into the beach chair. I can't shoot your tail till those girdle marks fade out.'
The brunette sauntered to the sandbox with an exaggerated hip flourish, tested the sand delicately with a toe, then sank down into the chair. Immediately she bridged with shoulders and heels, thrusting her stomach upward. 'Goddammit, that's
'Here's a blanket,' the younger man said soothingly. He arranged it beneath her arched form and the brunette relaxed again. The man patted her bare belly. 'That's the girl, Edna.'
'Pants off, baby,' the photographer said to the blonde. 'We're all girls together here.' He waited while the canary-yellow panties were removed. 'A real blonde, hmm? When we do the black-and-whites, we'll have to touch up your bush with a little lampblack or there won't be enough contrast. That pale fleece of yours'll come through good in color, though. Now-'
'You're not going to put any dirty old lampblack on my-on me,' the girl said indignantly. 'I didn't come here to-'
'Oh, shut up, will you?' the younger man said wearily. 'Get them posed, Ted. This is running into money.'
'Stand behind the beach chair so your tits are aimed right at the camera over the top of Edna's head, Marcia,' the photographer instructed the blonde. 'Ginger, you squat down at the dividing line-no, make it at the foot of the chair with your butt aimed right at me and your-'
The sound of a warning buzzer jerked me to attention. I closed the door reluctantly and threw the bolt over quietly. When I turned around to look at the television monitors, a green light on the side of them had turned red. I went to the padded stool and sat down.
Erikson was admitting two men into the outer office. As they crossed the threshold into the larger office, one of the fluorescent tubes above my head flickered momentarily. At first glance both men looked more like insurance agents than Israeli counter-intelligence agents. The older man was stocky, with a dignified bearing and thinning gray hair. He had a wide mouth but thin lips, and his deep-set eyes appeared to lack warmth.
His companion was younger, taller, and muscularly lean. His small eyes were close set, like two rivets holding in place an elongated nose that was almost sharp at its end. His sandy hair had a reddish tint which was more pronounced in his thin, straight eyebrows. His entire face had a foxy, streamlined appearance.
Erikson thrust out his huge hand in welcome. The older man took it, but the younger one merely nodded. He turned and walked into the outer office again. When he disappeared from the left-hand television screen, I knew he was reconnoitering the corridor outside Erikson's office. He came into view again on the monitor almost at once.
'Sit down, gentlemen,' Erikson invited the pair. The gray-haired man nodded and sat down so erectly his back didn't touch the metal of the chair. The younger man folded his arms and remained standing. 'What can I do for you, Mr. Bergman?' Erikson continued.
'What I have to say, Mr. Erikson,' Bergman began in a resonant voice, 'will take as little of your time as possible because I'm convinced you have little time left. We appreciate that you are forced to work under what we consider to be unnecessary restrictions, and we will curb our impatience a little longer. We have, after all, agreed to cooperate to the fullest degree. We sacrifice this important element of time, however, only to urge you to act without delay.'
Bergman spoke with a clipped, British accent which reminded me of Ronald Colman in his heyday on the screen.
'Act?' Erikson responded blandly. 'I'm not sure I know what you mean.'
'Must we always play cat and mouse?' Bergman's tone had an undercurrent of harshness. 'You know to what I refer. It's the matter of the airliner forced down by fedayeen commandos in Nevada.'
He paused to gauge Erikson's reaction. 'I see that you are not surprised that we know about this bold attack against your airplane,' he went on. 'We have ways and means of looking after our interests even in your country. It should suggest to you that if correct response on your part is lacking, we have all the information necessary to react in our own defense.'
'The investigation isn't complete at this time,' Erikson answered. 'So it's impossible to verify your suspicion that foreign elements diverted the aircraft. At this time no one can officially name the saboteurs.'
The younger man took a quick step forward but was stopped by a motion from Bergman in his chair. 'Your government may choose to be as blind as it wishes, sir,' Bergman replied. 'We know that a quarter million dollars was acquired by Palestinian raiders from the passengers of the aircraft, and we know that this money will most certainly be used for purposes detrimental to the security of the state of Israel.'
'That's quite a presumption,' Erikson said.
'I know of what I speak,' Bergman said firmly. 'The same pattern has been practiced in the past. There is nothing new in this piracy of aircraft. This time it involves the cold-blooded murders of members of the Jewish faith. We have every reason to believe that this money will find its way to the El Fatah to reappear in the form of arms to be used against the defenders of the homeland.'
'I don't mean to belittle your beliefs, Mr. Bergman,' Erikson began, 'but on today's underworld market even the sum of money you say was taken would buy few significant illicit weapons.'
'Every bullet and every grenade is a threat to my people, sir, but that is not the point. You misjudge the situation, Mr. Erikson. The Palestinians will use this money as working capital to finance a more insidious operation. They will purchase drugs smuggled into your country and dispose of them right here in Harlem at a tremendous profit. It is happening every day, and I can only conclude that your government is blind to the fact or is deliberately averting its eyes from it, for whatever reasons I cannot understand. Why do you refuse to act when these facts are so plain?'
'I can understand your concern, but I'm one man with limited resources,' Erikson said. I judged that his tone was intended to be placating. 'And my task is primarily investigative. If the evidence warrants it, of course, I can call upon other agencies who will be happy to cooperate. In the meantime I must remind you that the U.S. government cannot willfully jeopardize delicate relationships with other major world powers who have an interest in the Middle East.'
Even on the monitor screen I could see the sneer on the face of the younger man. 'If you are as concerned as you say, why don't you put a stop to the recruiting of Americans by fedayeen?' The harsh question was bulleted directly at Erikson.
'Quiet, Ravish,' Bergman said curtly. He made a gesture of apology to Erikson. 'Like many of our young warriors who fought so well in the Six-Day War, Ravish is impetuous. I apologize for his outburst.'
'You have proof of the recruiting of Americans by the fedayeen?' Erikson asked Ravish.
'We have,' Ravish snapped. 'There are seven documented cases in which discharged members of the United States Army, principally Green Beret officers, men qualified as instructors in infiltration and sabotage techniques, have become mercenaries for the fedayeen. All are in training camps in Syria.'
'I will ask for details later,' Erikson said.
'It's of small importance, actually,' Bergman said mildly. 'Such a meager effort in view of our own strength is like a man who throws a handful of sand at the desert. Since we pursue this line of thought, however, what about
