'You are leaving the Matses?'
'I am in love with books. We do not have any. The an thropologist is just now getting our language in written form.'
Michael was getting a whole new picture of this young woman. 'If you have children, they will not be Matses.'
'I know. Maybe there will be a new Matses.'
Michael thought about that and the wreck that the civilized world was making of their culture. But who could say that the young woman should not have her books? Or that she should not explore Western culture?
'I want to kiss you,' she said. 'Like in America,' she added, and leaned toward him. He met her lips halfway and kissed her gently. 'Is that how you do it?' she asked.
'That's one way.'
'Show me another way.'
This time he used his tongue and she giggled.
'I like this more. This is how I do it too.'
With the next kiss, his hand moved to her waist of its own accord, as if detached from his will.
'You are sure?' he said.
Her answer was to kiss him long and deep.
Under her shirt her skin was moist and hot and it was a magnet to his fingers. She kissed him again, thrusting her tongue against his, while she flattened herself against him. His hand finally found her breast full and firm and his fingers began playing at her nipples. They hardened and he moved one hand to her leg, letting his fingers drift. When they reached her inner thigh, she began to quiver and to cling to him. For a second he paused, trying to fight his desire, to think about their mission and her relative innocence and the myth of the pink dolphin, but he couldn't. He knew that his willpower had fled. In the morning he would have to sort out what it all meant- assuming they survived.
Outside the holding area Baptiste told the guard that he needed the keys to Benoit Moreau's shackles.
'That would be highly irregular.'
'I know. But we are under something of an urgent time constraint. You can call the colonel or even the admiral if that makes you feel better.'
The man withdrew the key. He had been tipped off or was smart enough to know that this was no ordinary situation.
Once again Benoit waited in the office, only this time he had instructed the guards to put her in the chair facing the desk, reserving the chair behind the desk for himself. It was not a subtle message.
When he entered, she looked at him pleasantly, showing no sign of fear, relief, or the false adoration of a sycophant. The woman could give lessons to Machiavelli.
'I thought I would take a few minutes to see if you are ready to discuss our conditions before I have you thrown in the hole.'
'How would you justify throwing me in the hole?'
'I don't need justification.'
'Well, then I am ready to go in the hole.'
'You know what it is like in the hole?'
'Don't waste your valuable time telling me. You need to spend your time learning about Chaperone for the glory of France. I am sure I will be there until your admiral pulls me out, makes love to me on a soft bed somewhere, and hears all my secrets.'
'He can't take you to a soft bed.'
'With the glory of France at stake, of course he can. The guards will be just outside and I will make a great furor dur ing my orgasm to let them know that the admiral has the power of a bull and the finesse of Michelangelo. Then he will quietly brag that I just needed a man to get headed on the straight and narrow, a real man, and he will have the se crets to prove it. And no one will reprove him, absolutely no one, because this is France and, after all, her glory is fading, and to reclaim it, well, it is a small price to pay. They will nearly give him a medal for being the greatest cocksman in all of Paris. And you, of course, will appear… Well, actu ally you won't appear… You'll just be shuffled off to an other job.'
Baptiste rose from behind the desk, walked over to her, took out the key to the cuffs, handed them to her, and told her to unlock them.
She did so, but for the first time looked slightly uncertain.
He drew out his Manurin 9mm service revolver, got down on one knee, and pointed it at her throat, the muzzle only a foot from her chin.
'Here is what I am going to do. I am going to call the ad miral and tell him that you have tried repeatedly to seduce me. That you've claimed you could seduce him as well. You have also claimed to me that members of le Senat are under your control, that you are blackmailing them because they had illicit sex with you. Although I regret it, I will have to file a report on all of these matters. The report will reach the parliament, and I will ensure that it is copied to the media. True, my mission will have been a failure. But what do I re ally lose? I will get my pension and maybe an early discharge. You, though… will be a pariah. They will never leave you alone with any man, especially the admiral. You will never get a deal. You will lose all your contacts and your leverage in le Senat. I will do this. I swear it.'
He stepped back to the phone and began dialing.
'Perhaps my boss will tell me to shoot you and claim that we fought over the gun. On the other hand, that would probably be too easy.'
He put the receiver to his ear.
'Wait,' she said.
Yes, he definitely saw a crack in her affected noncha lance.
'Look,' she said. 'I will trust you where I could not trust others. I will not use my lawyer and I will tell you all my se crets. I shall be at the laboratory at your suffrage. I will put myself in your hands. But I must have one thing from a man such as yourself. I must have you. I want to feel you inside me.'
Baptiste was within microns of complete victory. Or was he? She could flit like a bird and be off, call his bluff. Would sleeping with her to make her happy be unpardonable? Many agents would do it and brag about it. What was stopping him?
He set the phone down. 'All right. We have a deal. You re port to the lab in the morning. I will find a soft bed. But I want to know-why do they call it Chaperone?'
'After the soft bed that you promised.'
Devan Gaudet did not like the jungle, but he understood it. Here the strong ate the weak, the large ate the small, and no one paid attention. There were no eulogies, no tears, not even remembrances-only birth, death, and more death. For Gaudet, there was something warm and familiar about death. He had killed many and knew he would kill more, so it wasn't the dying that offended his sensibilities. Other than death, the jungle offered torture, his own, and he didn't care for pain unless the suffering was someone else's.
There were six of them seated around the fire. Except for Gaudet, who at all times retained the appearance and air of civility, they were a ragged group with dirtied shirts, mud-caked blue jeans, and partial beards. They stank. And now that they were through dining, they belched and farted with abandon.
The five members of his group spoke French, English, and Arabic. The local guide spoke Spanish, English after a fashion, and a smattering of Portuguese, which did none of them any good. The local was Carlos, the other hires found by Trotsky and imported from France. Gaudet had no regu lars and never worked repeatedly with anyone. Whenever possible, he worked alone, and if he needed men, he directed things from a distance. This group scene was not his cup of tea. All of this crowd, but the guide, were unused to the humidity, the bugs, and the heat.
'It's hotter than a whore's cunt,' Cy said, not for the first time.
'Wetter too,' John said, giving the obligatory response.
'Right now I'd like more of what we had back at the huts.'
This was becoming tiresome. 'That was a distraction. We'll waste no more time,' said Gaudet.
'She was a tight little spinner,' John said.
