Black Heart, page 36
'How long will you be gone?' She spoke so softly that Tracy wondered if he had imagined the question.
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'Where are you
'I don't know.'
She looked up, shading her eyes again. 'Where are you
staying? I'll want to call.'
'I don't think that'd be a good idea."
There was nothing along the beach but the wind and the crash and suck of the surf, moving from left to right like writing on a page, endless and comforting. Wisps of her hair had come undone, fluttering now against the skin of her cheeks in the warm breeze.
'Maybe I'll be able to call you,' he added. But he knew it was far too little. She knew he could not mean it, not where he was going, not with what he had to do. She knew well the meaning
of concentration.
But Lauren was only thinking of him in an oblique fashion. Somehow his imminent departure had triggered in her intense memory flashes of Bobby. Of the last time she ever saw him alive, of that moment of seeing him leave the house out of the periphery of her vision while she was in the middle of her morning's ballet exercises. She had been too busy then, concentrating on what she must learn by the afternoon for the audition, to kiss him goodbye. She had not even said a word to him. Perhaps he had called out to her. She did not remember. And that moment was the first thing that popped into her mind, the afternoon she had accompanied her parents out to Dulles International to take possession of the earthly remains of Robert Arthur Marshall. He would have been nineteen in a week and
a half.
Concentration. It was what made her great. It was also what had doomed her that one cold grey day when Bobby had dropped out of her life like a stone.
'Tracy, I don't want you to go.' Her voice tightened up and she worked on ignoring the lump in her throat. 'I know I'm being terribly selfish but I don't care. I'm frightened that something awful will happen to you. I'm frightened that you'll get on the plane and I'll never ..." She put her hands up over her face. Her shoulders shook as she wept. 'Oh, God, I'm sorry. I'm just being weepy, I don't know why, I..."
He took her head in his hands, pushed himself towards her.
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He began to brush away her tears so he could see her beautiful eyes unclouded He thought of how much pleasure the sight gave him
They kissed long and deep, their tongues exploring as if for the first time He felt her body strong and supple against his, the ripple of her breathing, the warmth of her breasts and belly He touched her cheek, the side of her neck, the hollow of her collarbone, the flat planes of her shoulder He put his lips against her neck and her eyes closed
'You're in the darkness,' she whispered, 'and I'm in the light' Her arms came around him, her fingertips pressing at the contours of his muscles, moving slowly, methodically as if she were a blind woman learning the body of her new lover
In her mind, she saw his face dappled in moonlight, moving from shadow to shadow, the hero he said himself to be She believed every word that he said, knew that, if anything, he had underplayed his prowess She understood without him having to explain it to her that by the very nature of what he had once done - what she was now certain he was again engaged in - he could tell her only the bare outlines She was grateful for that intimacy while at the same time acknowledging her own yearning to know more
His flesh felt hot as it slid against hers and she whimpered He began to roll down the top of her maillot, his head lowering and she started to turn her head to see if the beach was still deserted But the instant his lips closed over nipples, she could think of nothing else
She cradled his head in her arms while veins of pleasure raced down into her groin She felt heat suffusing her pelvis and with it a wetness she revelled in
She cried out when she felt Tracy's long forefinger touch her along the centre crease of her vagina The outer lips were already swollen and parting and even through the second skin of the bathing suit she could feel him pressing inward The sensation of the fabric moving to the beat of his finger against her rising clitoris made her suck in her breath
His mouth was moving, leaving her nipples tingling Desire clotted her throat making speech next to impossible Guttural
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sounds emanated from her instead, a siren's song of lust and love, entwining passion with the emotional bond without which sex
soon sours.
Tracy had never been so aroused, even in his early encounter with her. He found that he could not catch his breath and when he panted his exhalations seemed fiery. He had been hard even before he had peeled back Lauren's bathing suit but now he was so large, his own brief suit could not contain him. And when Lauren's fingertips snaked down, enfolding his scrotum, the tip of his penis quivered and jerked as if he were about to come.
'Oh!' The exclamation forced out of her mouth as if with a blow. 'Tracy ...' A sigh like a cloud riding high on warm wind and sunlight as she traced his long length upward. She gasped again when she encompassed the naked head pushed up above the suit's waistband. 'It's so silky.' Her words a spur, heightening their pleasure.
For Tracy, Lauren's husky voice, deepened by lust, was enough for him to come erect. It was filled with hidden depths, promises of unsaid delights. At that moment he was convinced she could croon him to orgasm.
And no one loved to kiss as much as she did. Her breasts shook with her body's shivers as their lips crushed together. Her taste was like no other, as if it contained some spice unique to her.
She would not allow them to stop the kiss but still her arms moved down him until his bathing suit slipped off and he was naked. He pushed up against her and she cried out, frantic now for the union, the reunion in full, her nails tearing at her maillot, groaning in frustration until he helped her.
He wanted to enter her then but she shook her head, whispered, 'First, first', thickly so that he had no desire to do anything she did not ask.
Her head swooped down, sunlight shining on the hair, burnishing it, lightening it to the unearthly shade of a goddess's and her opened lips engulfed him slowly, slowly and so wetly and he groaned deep in his chest, the vibrations passing back and forth from one to the other. Her mouth rode him, an exquisite silkenness surrounding him, spirals of pleasure swirling with each swipe of her tongue around the head until he was tremb-
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ling, his buttocks clenched tightly as his hips strained off the blanket
Her lips lifted and she stared into his face, her eyes huge and liquid with lust 'Now,' she said to him 'Oh, now '
And Tracy, his penis quivering with tension, moved against her, probing and an instant later penetrated her in one long slow heated slide that brought tiny tears to the corners of her eyes
'Oh,' she sighed 'Oh, oh, ohhh ' And clenched his buttocks fiercely, rhythmically as she slid up against him and back
Neither of them ever wanted it to end but their desire was soaring, fluttering and unbound with release the only recourse Tracy stroked faster and faster, his arms around her strongly and tenderly as if he were afraid she might fly off him at any minute
Lauren had one hand on his buttocks, the other spread wide as a starfish, drinking in the play of muscles along his back Her open mouth sucked hungrily at the tightened cords of his neck and when she felt the peculiar singing come into his frame recalled from oh so long ago - like an airplane lifting off, she pushed one long forefinger through the moist crease of his buttocks, further and further, searching until she found the entrance Nearby, the pull and suck the friction building to unbearable heights
She found it and went slowly in, impaling him as he impaled her He felt his thickly muscled body give a warning shiver 'Oh, yes, baby,' she whispered hotly into the shell of his ear, That's right Come, baby Come Ohhh''
Lauren lost all sense of time and space, as if her orgasm had thrown her free, displaced and rushing with the wind The speed of a bullet, in the space of a heartbeat Travelling past She was aware of herself and Tracy only, linked by the rising pool of pleasure like ripples in a lake, spreading outward endlessly, the hot lick of the sun against their damp flesh
For Tracy, the aftermath was very hard He had the taste of ashes in his mouth as the spectre of Lauren's broken brother rode like a slave-driver, urging him on Their shared intimacy - that sparked moment when he felt closer to her than he had to anyone else in his life - only exacerbated his guilt until he could no longer bear the burden It was as if, once having known how
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close they could really become, he now experienced his withdrawal from her as something obscene, his secret at last too hideous a deformity.
'Lauren,' he whispered hoarsely. 'Lauren ...' Close to him, she saw the look on his face and was abruptly terrified. 'Darling, what is it?'
He clutched her to him as he told her all of it. Everything he had vomited up to Thwaite during that long drunken night in
Chinatown.
He felt with despair the spasm of her frame when he described the manner of Bobby's death; felt with deadening emotions her pulling away from him as he recounted his belief in his cornplicity in it.
'Bastard!' she spat out. 'Cold-hearted bastard to have done such an unthinking thing to him!' She had scrambled up on all fours as animals will do when they are surprised and frightened. 'He was a boy! Just a boy' Her body felt cold despite the heat of the sun on her; she was contracting into the same ball she had been in on that day at Dulles when they had wheeled out the wooden casket from the belly of the plane, the sun spinning crazily off the bevelled edges. She stared at Tracy now, shadowed by his own body as the light struck him from behind; he did not seem the same person who had driven out with her to this spot. Her heart felt swollen and old but the hot flame of righteousness burned beside it, imparting to it an unnatural glaze
of strength.
'If it hadn't been for you,' she cried wildly, 'he'd be alive
today!'
'Lauren, I only wanted to -'
'I don't care what you wanted!' She snatched at her clothes, began to retreat up the sloping bank of the face of the dune. 'I don't know how I ever could have cared!'
She stumbled, on her knees now, facing him, facing the creaming waves, the beautiful crescent shoreline, his beautiful face. But none of those things mattered to her; there was no longer any beauty left in the world. Only the ugliness of her brother's horrendous death, the vileness she found humped inside her like some leprous growth.
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He reached out towards her, beseeching. 'Lauren, I did what I could to make amends. 'I '
'I see! That's right! You killed again!' She was quite hysterical, her eyes opened so wide he could see the whites shining all around. 'No wonder you couldn't look at me when you got off the plane with Bobby's body! I don't blame you! But if you'd had any decency left in you, you'd've left me alone. But you didn't. You pursued me!' Her voice dropped to a harsh guttural sound. 'For the love of God why?'
'Because I loved you. The way I love you now.'
'Love?' Her laugh was chilling. 'What love?' She was mocking him now. 'You make love to me all the while knowing what you did to my poor Bobby!'
'Lauren, he was my friend. I cared about him.' His voice held a note of desperation he could not control; he could see the situation was already slipping by him. 'He relied on me; we relied on each other. How d'you think I felt when I saw what they'd done to him?'
'I don't think you felt anything*. You know that? I don't think you're capable of anything approaching human feeling. The war, the war. That's why you were there! That's all you thought about. Save the mission! Because war means killing, Tracy, and let me tell you something, you must like it an awful lot because that's what you did there! Kill, kill and then kill some more!'
He reached out again but the space between them seemed far too wide now. 'Give me a chance to explain, at least. Surely you owe me that much.'
She scrambled up, retreating now to the high snaking crest of the dune. Rivulets of sand dribbled down, hissing at his bare feet. 'I don't owe a murderer anything! Bastard! Just get me out of here!' She turned her back on him, disappearing towards the car while slowly, as if he were in the middle of a dream, he packed up all the detritus of their picnic.
Tracy held the unopened Hostess cupcakes package in his hand, cupping it tenderly. There were tear strains on it when he packed it away with the other debris.
The Shanghai night was too hot, despite the breeze blowing
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in through the taxi's open window. Macomber contorted himself in the back seat, taking off his jacket. Beneath, his white cotton shirt clung to his back like a clammy layer of halfpeeled skin.
'A pity the cab is not air-conditioned, eh, Mac-omber?' the Monk said. His head was not turned, the eyes slid sideways in their sockets. 'There, is that better?' 'Even the damn wind's hot.'
The Monk nodded. 'Summer's often difficult here. But one becomes used to such inhospitable circumstances.'
The cab had headed north, out of the old French quarter in which they had dined so sumptuously. Now they were in the northern part of the Old Chinese City.
Along Anren Street the cab screeched to a halt and the Monk handed the driver a handful of fen. Macomber did not think he had tipped the old man.
They debarked onto the kerbside. In front of them, beyond a white wall, loomed black trees.
'Yu Garden,' the Monk said. 'Come.' He took Macomber inside. It appeared deserted. 'I feel very conspicuous here.'
'Nonsense.' The Monk led him forward. 'This is the best time to come." He made a face. 'You would not care for it here during the day, Macomber. So filled with people. Impossible to enjoy the serene calm and beauty here.'
They went through a turning. A white curved wall confronted them. It was surmounted by a dragon's undulating body. The Monk guided them to the left where the wall ended in an intricately carved dragon's head.
'There are over thirty pavilions here,' the Monk said with a touch of pride. 'It was begun in 1537, during the Ming Dynasty.' He turned slowly around. 'Now where would it be best for us to disappear? There are many, many places.' His eyes lit up. 'Ah, there.' He pointed. 'The Bridge of Nine Turnings.' They began to walk. 'There is a famous tea house there but I regret that at this time of night it is closed.' He could not contain another giggle. 'Ah, well, it is the better for us, eh?'
They made themselves comfortable on the stones which were
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cool and refreshing to lean against. All around them, trees whispered, turning the city night to pitch.
The Monk scrabbled in the paper shopping bag, extracted a bottle of Stolichnaya, broke the seal. 'Ah, now,' he said. 'This was worth waiting for.' He poured into two waxed paper cups, handed one to Macomber who could see the Chinese had filled his own cup almost to the rim.
'Isn't this a bit premature?' Macomber said sardonically.
The Monk peered at him. 'My dear Mac-omber. You have flown halfway around the world to see me. You wish a consignment I alone can make available. Shall we both walk away from Yu Garden unfulfilled? I think not.' He raised his cup. 'Will you drink with me?'
Macomber was well aware that he had no choice. He sipped while the Monk drowned a third of the contents of his cup.
'Now to business.' The Monk rubbed his palms together as if in anticipation. 'For seven men - Islamic fanatics the price must be high. I'm certain you understand that.'
'Perfectly.'
'They have to be recruited, segregated and suitably indoctrinated.'
'All in their own language,' Macomber said. 'This is essential. No hint that a foreign power is involved can be leaked to them.'
The Monk nodded sagely. 'I understand. It shall be done ... for a price.' He dug his ample buttocks more comfortably against the cool stones of the bridge's sides. 'Let us say seven million; one for each man.'
'Out of the question.' Macomber twirled his waxed paper cup between his thumb and fingers. 'I am prepared to offer you two million dollars.'
The Monk looked as if Macomber had offended him mortally. An odd animal noise came from between his lips. 'Six million. That's as low as I can possibly go.'
'Three.'
'Five-and-a -half.'
'That's double what they're worth,' Macomber said.
The Monk shrugged, poured himself another cup of vodka.
'Go somewhere else then.'
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'I can't pay you more than four million.' 'If you pay me five, you'll have your consignment,' the Monk said. He began to drink.
Macomber thought about it. Five million was more than he had anticipated paying. But on the other hand he did not believe the Monk would go any lower. What other choice did he have? He needed the men ... he was working with a timetable that allowed him little leeway.
He nodded. 'Done. They're to be delivered in two lots - one and then six. You know the dates. August thirtieth and December twenty-third.'
'Done and done!' The Monk cried, downing the rest of his vodka. He immediately poured himself more. He eyed Macomber. Til tell you, I'm glad that's over. Frankly, I don't enjoy negotiating. I'm a doer; I like putting things together. There's the challenge.'
'War's the only real challenge,' Macomber said. 'Nothing's left of this country now.' He was half-fearful of offending the Chinese but the liquor he had consumed during the long evening allowed him to voice his real feelings. 'The place gives me the creeps. It's as if the country's just waiting for a war again. There're too many ghosts here.'
The Monk eyed Macomber and nodded his agreement. 'Yes,' he said. 'It's perfectly true. Too many friends are dead; too many families disappeared as if swallowed whole.' 'You've got it,' Macomber said. The Monk looked bewildered. 'Got what?' Macomber laughed. 'What I mean is, you're right. I was worried about you for a while.'
