'Comrade General, I shall meet you—'
'On the beach in fifteen minutes— just beyond the veranda. That gives you sufficient time?'
'Yes,' she smiled. Miklov moved her chair back as she walked past the table, saying to her, 'Good night, Comrade Major.'
She turned, her eyes focused on his. 'Yes, Comrade Colonel.' And then, as she passed Santiago, his hand was out, as if to help her. She touched her left hand to it and dipped her eyes slightly. He was shorter than she was, and she didn't wish him to become too aware of it.
'I shall be with you, then,' she said, softly, noncommittally. It was a game she had played before, and sincerely wished she would not have to play to the ending.
She walked away from the table, through the dining room and to the double oak doors. She stopped, turning around, noticing Santiago's eyes on her— and Miklov's as well. She did nothing, standing there a moment, as if hesitant, then turned and walked through the open door and toward the circular staircase. Santiago could perhaps still see her, she thought. She stopped at the base of the stairs, her left hand catching up the ankle-length skirt of her black dress just above the knee, raising it to help her walk the stairs, her right hand touching lightly at the railing of the banister. She ascended the stairs, hoping Santiago were watching; she wanted him to have a good show.
She looked down behind her a moment, then continued her ascent to the upper landing, dropping her skirt as she walked toward her room.
There was no need for a key, and none had been provided for her. She turned the knob on the door and entered the room. She had determined earlier it was not video-monitored and assumed nothing had been added to it since her absence. She closed the door behind her and leaned hard against it, staring down at the blue carpet beneath her black shoes, sighing, breathing hard. 'Pig,' she muttered, but so that only she could hear it, in case there were indeed microphones hidden in the room which she had not detected.
Natalia closed the deadbolt from the inside and walked across the room, tossing her black purse with the COP derringer on the bed.
She stopped in front of the full length mirror. 'A midnight swim,' she muttered.
She stood in front of the mirror. Behind it, she thought, there might be a camera, so she began to undress as if for some unseen audience. She raised her hands to her hair, pulling the pins that bound it up at the nape of her neck, letting it fall, then shaking it to her shoulders and past that. She hunched her shoulders forward, her arms behind her as she fumbled for the zipper at the back of the black dress, getting the hook and eye closure open.
She pulled the zipper all the way past her waist, then hunched her shoulders again as she slipped the strap that had held the dress up around her neck over her head, letting the front of the dress drop forward, dropping the dress to the floor. She wore no bra, and as the dress fell, she moved her hands up, cupping her breasts in them, then shifting her body to let the dress fall around her ankles. She pushed the slit, lace-trimmed black slip down from her waist, past her hips, and down her thighs to around her ankles. She stared at herself in the mirror. She wore black, lace-trimmed bikini panties, and these she pushed down with her thumbs, after removing the knife on the garter. She bent over, her thumbs hooked on each side of the stocking on her right leg.
She pushed the left stocking down to her ankle, then the right, then stepped out of the dress, the slip, and the panties and pulled her left leg up, rolling the dark nylon from her feet. She stood in front of the mirror, as if surveying herself, turning, looking at her legs, cupping her hands under her breasts.
Natalia decided enough was enough. She turned abruptly away from the mirror, then walked into the bathroom. She assumed that if anything were fixed to provide a picture— short of fiber optics, evidence of which she had seen none— it was the mirror. She sat on the toilet, feeling relatively safe.
Finished, she did what she normally would, then stood, walking back into the bedroom, to her suitcase. There were two bathing suits there— both one-piece. She picked the black one rather than the tan, flesh-colored one. She walked back toward the mirror, holding the suit up in front of her. She turned, flashing her rear end toward the mirror, then walked back toward the bed, sitting on its edge. She put the suit on ducking her head under the strap which would support the front of the suit from her neck.
She walked back to the mirror, adjusting the suit, intentionally cupping her hands under her breasts as she fitted the suit to her body. She did a full turn in the mirror, then walked away from it, again feeling enough was enough.
She took a white, hip-length beach jacket from her suitcase— she hadn't had the time to unpack. Slipping it on, she belted it too tightly about her waist. There was a pair of black, high-heeled sandals in the other suitcase; and, barefoot, she walked across the carpet, found the shoes and put them on.
She walked back to the mirror again. She pulled the earrings off, unclasped the necklace, then looked at the gold Rolex on her wrist. Her timing was perfect— five minutes late.
As she started across the room, she stopped, pausing beside the dresser, taking up a bottle of Chanel No. 9. She used it on her neck and behind her left ear, then picked up the black bag she had tossed on the bed. She opened the bag, took the COP pistol and broke it open, checking the four, 125-grain jacketed hollow points there, then closed the pistol. She replaced it in the bag, then clutched the bag to herself as she started toward the doorway. She sighed. It promised to be a long night, she thought.
Chapter 21
Sarah Rourke slipped down from the rough wooden pier and into the icy water. She pushed her dark hair back from her eyes, looking around her, listening for sounds other than the lapping of the water against the pylons supporting the wooden walkway above.
She'd considered carrying the boning knife in her teeth— aside from pirates in movies, she'd seen John do that once, years ago. They'd been swimming with friends, and a child's foot had gotten entangled in something below the surface. John Rourke, seemingly without considering what to do at all, had simply snatched a knife from somewhere, clamped it between his teeth, and jumped overboard, moments later surfacing with the child— saving the little boy's life.
But she decided against carrying the knife in her teeth, reasoning that if she accidentally dropped it, the knife would fall to the bottom and be lost.
She began to swim, having treaded water sufficiently long enough to get her body accustomed to the cold. She'd swum in high school and kept it up as a sport over the years until she could almost outswim John. As she moved as soundlessly as possible through the water, she thought about that. She could almost do it as well as John, her husband. Was that the problem?
She'd once been sitting in her studio at the farm house, John drinking coffee, watching her work. She'd asked
