The Hidden Journal, Copyright
© 1999, Kellis
File
D9104172.ZEN
Sunday, September 24, 1972
Who hasn’t dreamed of a warm pool full of naked girls? I played in one today and must testify that the dreams don’t do it justice! Nothing compares to pliant, slick forms all around you, pressing close, teasing, vying to linger longest on your dick. I had the only one of those among a dozen bodies, and it was the center of attention for hands and mouths, even under water.
I broke the Meshir rule, which was the cause of my only disappointment — not that I complained! With all the splashing, shouting and good-natured fumbling, no one guessed it was about to happen. The girl who tasted the first squirt recognized it — how, is a good question, given their rule! — popped her head up and pushed the others away from me. I was left to string my seed freely into the water, which is a most unsatisfactory conclusion; a dick expects gentle pressure at such a moment. So many hands were holding my hands that the best I could do, pressure wise, was to thrust against the slick bodies.
Which is an interesting point that I missed in the excitement but can contemplate with cool head here at my camp desk. That water, supplied according to Constance from natural hot springs, was damn close to body temperature. Presumably spermatozoa might live several minutes in that environment, and hairy little cunts were pressing close all around me. These girls were nubile, all but Estri — at least they had some tit and pubic hair. The interesting point is this: was a pool full of dilute semen their whole objective? The girl who almost won the prize had shouted something that shut them all up momentarily. They stood almost still for several seconds, pressing close all around me, smiling at each other. I wish I could remember whether or not their hands were all under water. If so they were likely holding cunt lips apart. I wouldn’t put it past them.
That idea is for sure the most flattering one I ever had!
But what if I fathered a dozen babies this afternoon?
Never happen!
Sure, I’ve heard that girls can be caught while using their mother’s bath water. And laughed because it’s a lot easier to believe they got slipped a concentrated dose when the mothers weren’t looking. Good excuse, though.
Still …
* * * *
I was late because somebody else beat me to the unlogged jeep. Stupidly I never considered that! Fortunately he returned it in midafternoon. Downs grinned at the retreating back and winked at me. “Had her rag on.” In this place it’s probably the literal truth.
Wasn’t too surprised that no one greeted me when I parked the jeep under the overhang. Was tempted to blow its horn. Instead I started walking slowly into the cave, following as best I remembered the twisty route of yesterday. The light was almost gone, along with my confidence, when I heard the slap of feet running toward me. A small naked figure rounded the next bend. She and her sisters know these passages from a lifetime’s use, obviously, to run them in the dark.
She leapt upon me, enwrapping me with arms and legs, breathing, “Hah-ree!”
It was Estri, of course. She kissed me with open mouth, squeezing me with all her strength. I guess it’s improper to kiss a virgin tongue-to-tongue, even if she is your “wife.” To the best of my knowledge I’ve never done it to another. Well, maybe Beth Toller, when I was fifteen, but beg to doubt she was virgin. She knew only too well where to find a dick!
When we broke, Estri said between pants, “I lovv you, Hah-ree.”
“I love you, too, Sweetness. No one will ever top that welcome!”
We kissed again. Then she got down from me, backed up a step and said something in ritualistic Meshir sing-song, probably the same words she and Melki had rendered in like circumstances yesterday.
“I’m glad to come back,” I told her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Have you been studying English?”
Her chin came up at the last word and she smiled brightly, words spilling in a soprano rush, “One, two, thdree, fodr, fivve, sevvven, eight, six, ten. How you do! Whedre is loo? When can eat? Take you seat.”
I had to smile. “Sounds like a good start.”
“I lovv you, Hah-ree, all yearss that come.”
Why hadn’t Constance taught her to say “forever?” More charm? A literal translation?
I asked distinctly, “Where is Melki?”
“Melki no come.”
That news was unsurprisingly tolerable. “Constance?”
She clasped my hand. “Take Constanssse.”
Two turns later we were in pitch darkness but she led me onward without hesitation. I observed dryly, “You must be part cat.”
“Padr’ cat?”
“To see in the dark.”
“Dardk?” She trilled most Rs, could probably sound like a Scotsman without trying.
“Dark is no light.”
“No light,” she repeated. “Soon light.”
This was after four days of instruction, probably only minutes in fact, plus listening to my conversations with Constance. This is a brilliant child. Even in the dark.
Another turn revealed a dim glow in the passage ahead, stronger after a second turn. Here we came to another recessed alcove, a “bed cave,” interior concealed behind a hanging curtain.
Estri stopped with her knee on the sill and regarded me over her shoulder. “Wait hedre. Constanssse come.”
Already her English skill was approaching Rejik’s. She was motionless, awaiting my response. Long hair curled around her beautiful little face, reflecting the distant light. I gestured for her to proceed and followed her inside, confident of finding candles.
They were present on a back ledge, just as my first bed cave, along with thick padding and numerous blankets, all smelling of wool that has been wet before and not dry cleaned since — probably true of most woolens in the Mideast!
When I had fixed the lit candle to the ledge, the child grasped the lapels of my field jacket. “Too hot, huss-ban’,” she declared.
“Too hot,” I agreed. Off came the jacket, the fatigue shirt and even the T-shirt, but when she reached my belt I caught her hand.
“What is this?” I asked, pointing to her hand with my other one.
She cocked an eyebrow at me and answered uncertainly, “Hand?”
I took hold of a finger. “And this?”
“Fingedr.”
“Very good.” We went on to name other body parts. Constance had done well. Estri missed only the navel, which I found a bit odd; hers was always exposed! And she confused knee and elbow. She knew “trock,” when I put my hand on the wall, but not “wall.” We practiced other nouns: blanket, cave, ledge, candle, fire — which last led to adjectives such as hot, opposite, cold. She listened intently, her attention span at least as long as mine, her memory excellent. We made sentences. She verified the names of all my articles of clothing and then demanded clearly for me to take them all off.
I stared at her, reluctant to comply. Alone with an eleven year old! I had thoroughly fucked a probable eleven year old in Vietnam when the madam palmed her off as older, and let Daisy’s twelve year-old niece blow me when I awoke to find her well started. Estri was eager as they had been. Obviously the three girls had a big chunk of common experience despite the wild disparity of environments. They had all been exposed to unrestrained sexuality, where womanhood in Estri’s and the Vietnamese case was demonstrated by seducing men. Daisy’s niece was probably just curious.
The fact is that Estri is a bright and lovely child, oddly innocent despite her thorough exposure to male anatomy, and as I had again verified only yesterday, still very much virgo intacta. If she had not been virgin, well … The Vietnamese child was not, and I fucked her until she squeaked. But I won’t be the one who “ruins” Estri.
Which brings up the $64,000 question. Do I want somebody else to do it?
No, I can’t agree to that, either. Estri deserves me! But the largest issue of her life must somehow be made greater than the choice of instrument to take her virginity.
In the meantime she removed my boots and socks and opened my britches. She snapped me back to immediacy by fishing out my shriveled dick, grinning up at me in satisfaction and declaring, “My penisss!”
A contralto chuckle sounded to my left. “How charming!”
“Hello, Constance,” I responded to the face grinning past the lifted curtain.
“A bright afternoon to you, Harry.”
“Bright is right!” I disengaged myself, swinging the girl to my side. “This young lady can speak English.”
“She’s made a beginning,” the woman admitted.
“And Latin. You’ve named the genitals in Latin. ‘Pudendum,’ indeed! Why didn’t you teach her ulna for elbow?”
“It wouldn’t help. She confuses elbow and knee, because in Meshir the word for elbow is one syllable whilst knee is two. I had the same problem when I was young.” Her grin widened. “Latin or not, she had her objective in hand.”
“She surprised me,” I grumbled. “Well, come on in. Join the party. Where’s Melki, as if I didn’t know?”
“She waited, Harry, but you didn’t come.”
“Impatient youth, eh?”
“As you surmise, impatient visitors. You can change that with just a few words, you know.”
“I know. That is, I guess. I don’t utter such words lightly.”
“As you wish. In the meantime I have a proposition for you.”
“Instead of a proposal?” I countered.
“What’s that, American humor?”
“Weren’t we just discussing — Skip it. You’re right. What’s your proposition?”
“Finish undressing. Leave your stuff here, even your wristwatch this time. Let’s go have a bath.”
“I had one — a shower, that is — just before I came up here.”
“Did you! But did you have company?”
“Company in a shower? Or does that mean something else in British?”
“I mean a bath with friends — very close friends.”
“Madam, I would be honored to bathe with my honorary wives.”
“Harrying again, Harry? In this case I offer you a bath with a dozen eager girls who appreciate your gifts to the Meshir.”
“A dozen —”
“In a pool lit by a box of your candles and warmed by Ahriman’s hot springs.”
I grinned crookedly at her. “How could a man refuse?”
She nodded, grinning smugly. “Was there ever a chance you might?”
Friday, September 29, 1972
The events described now happened yesterday, the 28th. I’m finally calm enough to write them legibly.
The cosine function update tested clean at Fellavi and needed to be installed at Advance Camp Two. I told Shelton I’d do it. He looked at me quizzically. “You’ve sure changed!”
“Changed? How?”
“The first two weeks you never budged from this Quonset. Now … What is it that pulls you out of Fellavi so much lately?”
“Great scenery,” I said, shrugging.
He grunted enviously. “Yeah. Hills and cleavage.”
“You mean valleys. I’ll be back before dark, unless there’s a problem.”
It was then 08:00. I intended to dash over the pass, make a quick installation and perfunctory test, and climb back up to Meshir before noon, confident that Constance would feed me, among other things. A two or three hour afternoon interlude would be very pleasant, especially since I hadn’t seen my “wives” since Sunday. This time I could even use a logged jeep. In Vietnam I had learned how to fudge timestamps plausibly on vehicle logs. By now it was second nature.
At 09:30 I rolled through the gate at AC2. The update had passed all the test cases by 10:30. The major who runs AC2 is a nut for Western novels: cowboys, rustlers and Indians. He has a Quonset stuffed with nearly every Western paperback since Zane Grey. I let the signals duty sergeant believe I was going to spend an hour or two in the major’s library, which I have done before, and headed off the reservation through the unmanned back gate. Its barrier would stop a vehicle only when backed by men with machine guns. Curious that the Air Force doesn’t guard it better, but thievery is not a problem, which speaks well for the basic honesty of the Iranian people. All I had to do was lift the long striped poll down from its hook, drive through and put the poll back in place. Half a mile along, the ditch that passes for a path merges with the road to Fellavi.
That road rides the tops of ridges for the first few miles, often switching back and forth but always climbing higher. At the true mountainside it becomes most often a ledge blasted from the slope. Some of the curves are so narrow that two jeeps can’t pass. If they could, the curves are so sharp that drivers can’t see each other until they close within fifty feet.
You negotiate such a curve a ten m.p.h. in low or second gear. Slowly rounding one, I came suddenly upon a row of large stones, each about twice the size of a man’s head, set across the road, too close together for the jeep to pass. Needless to say, this impediment had been absent earlier. A chill went through me.
A jeep has high clearance. It seemed to me that it might ride over the smallest stone, if I could approach it such that it lay between wheel and differential. I eased forward toward it, further rounding the curve.
Two men dashed in front of me, appearing from behind a rock projection. A third ran between me and the hillside, covering my retreat. All three were armed with Soviet AK-47s, only too familiar from Vietnam, which they leveled upon me. Curved ammunition clips dangled from all three weapons. I could see that the nearer one had been switched to full automatic mode.
A pistol was in the holster behind the seat, but to go for it would obviously be suicide.
I’ve often thought that the time to foil a kidnapping is during the assault phase. The fallacy of that idea was suddenly apparent. My enemy had planned this event. I was caught unprepared. At that moment it seemed smarter and braver to surrender and hope to manufacture an escape at a time when he was less well prepared.
I stopped the jeep, shifted into neutral and pulled up the emergency brake. Then I raised my hands.
The two in front came around to the driver’s side, motioning with their weapons for me to get out. I did so, stepping back when I reached the ground, hoping they meant only to steal the jeep. But, no, they meant to steal me, also. While one covered me beyond leaping range, the other slung his weapon, pulled my hands one at the time behind my back and tied my wrists with a fabric cord, jerking the bindings tight.
He shoved me back into the jeep, nearly tripping me up, this time into a back seat. He followed me into the adjacent seat, the muzzle of his weapon against my side. The other two delayed long enough to roll their stones off the roadway before swarming into the front seats. The new driver ground the gears, released the clutch and lurched forward, on around the curve.
My companion noticed the pistol hanging in its holster on the back of the driver’s seat. He grinned and spoke gutturally. A responding bark from the right front seat caused his eyes to widen and lip to curl in disappointment. Obviously command rode in the right front.
At the first spot wide enough the driver turned the jeep around with a lot of backing and filing and charged back down the road. He drove maniacally, skidding on many of the curves, in one case with rear wheel right on the edge of the cliff, a thousand foot drop to the winding river visible below my right shoulder.
Involuntarily I screamed, “Slow down, you damned fool!”
My rear seat companion immediately sank the stock of his rifle into my belly. I saw it coming in time to brace. I kept my wind but I was certain of large bruise. Not so large as the one I’d get if we went off the cliff. But that was only probable; the rifle butt was certain. I obeyed the implied order.
The commander often craned his neck to look under the windshield edge, encouraging me to hope for the thing he seemed to fear, a reconnaissance aircraft in the sky. But a glance behind us dashed my hopes. The rains had long since scoured the rocks of the dust particles with which our speed would otherwise have beclouded the air.
We soon reached a fork I’d never taken. Off we went into unknown territory, swinging further around the mountain away from the river. Twice more we turned left. Suddenly the road plunged into a … tunnel, I thought at first, except that the jeep slowed rapidly. It was another cave, very like the one I’d recently studied near the mountaintop. We pulled up and stopped behind another vehicle, painted a rich brown color now streaked with dust but still strikingly different from Air Force blue. A small red star was prominent on the rear panel. It had to be a Soviet jeep. My existing chill was suddenly chillier.
The commander barked again and my three captors got out of the vehicle. He stood beside his open door for a moment, looking at me thoughtfully as he slung rifle on shoulder. I stared into blue eyes under light brown hair stuffed into a tan fatigue hat. His field jacket, britches and boots were the same color but free of markings. He was clean shaven, about my height and build, with a holstered pistol at his belt. This, I decided, was a Russian soldier.
“Why are you out of uniform?” he asked curiously. His accent was East European. Of course.
I raised my eyebrows. “Why are you?”
He grinned humorlessly. “Because I’m a spy. You, too?”
“We don’t wear uniforms off base,” I explained, realizing I’d already made my first mistake.
“Don’t you!” His grin vanished. “Name, rank and serial number.”
“Harry Stone, Major.” Major is the nominal rank — I should say courtesy rank — of a civilian contractor. I tacked on my army serial number minus the alphabetic prefix that would’ve shown I was no officer, if he knew some things.
He took a notebook from his pocket and flipped several pages. His eyes lit. “Harry Stone!” he repeated. He grinned. “But hardly a major.” So he knew some other things.
“Mr. Harrison Stone, you are my prisoner. Get out of the jeep.”
As I clambered over the side, a surprisingly hard task without hands, I asked, “Who’s prisoner am I?”
He cocked an ironic eyebrow. “I’m sure you know that already, Mr. Stone. Go with Thevik. He has accommodations prepared for you. We’ll talk again later.”
He snapped an order. One of the other two, presumably Thevik, clutched my elbow and shoved me toward the back of the cave. The corridor bent to the right, where it formed a narrow cavern beyond which the walls closed in impenetrably. Large boulders studded the floor. One of them formed a tapering pillar about a foot wide at its waist high top. Thevik turned me about and backed me up to that one while forcing my bound hands high behind me. I didn’t know what he intended. I didn’t care. Applying the tactic of aiding the enemy’s thrust, I bent forward, raising even further the wrists gripped in his hands, and lashed out with the heel of my boot. I had kicked blindly and only approximately, but the boot caught his hip a solid blow. I went over on my shoulder in reaction. Against the wall he slammed, mouth open in shock. He slid down the smooth rock while I scrambled back to my feet.
Ba-Ba-Bam! A three-shot burst flashed in the gloom, deafening me. Rock chips stung my cheek. The commander stood in the bend, his AK-47 swinging to level on me, gray smoke swirling from its muzzle, clearly visible in the backlighting. I froze.
Motion in the corner of my eye turned my head to let me see the fallen man recover his footing, grimacing, one hand pressing his hip. He leaned toward me, fist cocked.
Ba-Bam! The commander’s rifle spoke again. Didn’t the man believe in ricochets? Streaks of flame passed between me and my would-be assailant. Thevik turned his head, eyes wide, to the shooter. The cocked fist relaxed.
The commander gestured impatiently with his weapon. The subordinate recaptured my hands and again forced me backward to the waist-high pillar. Under the commander’s rifle my resistance was finished. I let Thevik trip me up while holding my hands high. I fell heavily into a seated position, back against the pillar, arms around it behind me.
I was pinned in place but … Soon as my captors turned their backs it would be trivially easy to work my feet under me, rise off the pillar and possibly run away, even if my wrists were still bound. Thevik had thought of that, too, I soon discovered. He took up a coil of rope, tied my boots together and ran the line around another boulder in front of me, stretching my legs out straight. No footwork would be allowed.
He took a moment to sneer at me, then bent behind to inspect my wrists. My hands were growing numb, but I felt him twist them, presumably to find slack in the bindings. He rose, looked at the commander and said something. I’m sure no one heard his words, not even himself. My ears were singing a high note of protest; so must have been the others. Gunfire in a small cavern is about as noisy as it can get. The commander gestured with his rifle, and the two of them went out around the bend, leaving me to enjoy the monotone.
The pillar tapered, meaning that my arms were forced apart around it. To distract me from the pain in ears, wrists and shoulders — try that position a few minutes if you think shoulders won’t complain! — I reviewed what I’d noticed about my captors. The commander wore a uniform from which all insignia had been removed. Even the buttons were plain brown plastic. Not so the other two. They sported Iranian common: dirty gray jackets, smudged black britches and typical waxed felt slippers. They were both heavily bearded. Both had coal black hair and the typical watery brown eyes. One, Thevik, was tall and lean; the other was short and pudgy. Thevik! How like Rejik’s name: the same suffix. I concluded that these two were locals, native Iranians at least, in the hire of a KGB officer who as good as admitted it. The notebook in which he’d found my name implied a leak in U.S. Air Force information security. And why not? If I could bribe any enlisted man, why not the KGB with a superpower’s resources?
Captain Smith had warned us how quickly and permanently we might be snatched over the Soviet border, only fifty miles away, if the Russians learned we were here. It seemed pretty obvious that I had foolishly exposed myself and was now caught in those exact circumstances. I cursed myself mentally for a pussy-blinded fool — then came up short. If I’d never left the installer’s Quonset, as Shelton had implied, I would have avoided exposure but also never met Estri and Constance, never learned the Meshir setup, never flown balloons above the sacred flame, never sported in a pool of superwilling girls. The man who always plays it safe may live a long time. But what does he live for?
And this game wasn’t over yet.
Arms and shoulders were growing numb, too. It seemed an hour since I’d felt my hands, long enough at least for the ringing in my ears to cease. The light filtering around the bend had gradually grown brighter. Suddenly it darkened in the shadow of the commander. He strolled into the cavern, leaned his rifle against the wall and bent to inspect my bindings.
I pointed out, “I’ll be a lot less valuable to your bosses with no hands.”
He did something behind me. He could’ve cut one off without me knowing. He reappeared and sat on a boulder nearby, commenting, “You made a mistake, you know.”
“I’ve made many mistakes,” I admitted.
“In particular when you kicked Thevik. I saw the nature of it. That was savate. A man with your training must remain tightly bound.”
“Savate?” I repeated.
He shrugged. “You may have another name for it. By whatever name it is just as deadly.” He smiled in his humorless way. “Isn’t there an English poem, how a rose by any other name would smell as sweet?”
“So I’m the prisoner of an educated man,” I admitted. “Then you probably know: how long can tissue remain bloodless and still survive?”
He studied me expressionlessly, at last remarking, “Longer at lower temperature. Your hands are quite cold.”
“Will you at least say how long we’ll stay here? What are you waiting for?”
“Darkness.”
“Which is several hours away.”
“Yes. Have you been circumcised?”
I stared at him. He shrugged. “I can find out easily enough.”
I took a breath. “No.”
“Good. So many Westerners have been.”
“It’s not practiced in the Soviet Union?”
“Only by Jews. Thevik claims you’re a Jew. That is the other effect of your mistake.”
“I’m not religious at all.”
“Indeed! A rich American who agrees with Karl Marx?”
“Hardly.”
“Would you care to debate with me? It might distract you from your dying hands.”
For the first time I saw a twinkle in his eyes. What I wanted to debate was the quality of his ancestry. Do such insults carry the same weight with Russians? I closed my eyes to prevent him seeing the success of his ploy.
He said, “I have a radio schedule to meet. It’s difficult because of the extreme low power I must use here under the ear of your oh-so-sensitive cryogenic receivers. Thevik and Ork will attend you for the next hour. You should understand that they are only mercenaries: escaped thieves due to lose their forearms, men of no honor. I’ve told them that if they kill you, I’ll do the same to them, but Ork has made butt of Thevik, claiming an American Jew has induced him to waddle like a woman. So Thevik wants to kill you anyway. Perhaps he won’t if you don’t provoke him. I hope you aren’t lying about circumcision.”
I raised my head. “Will you tell your bosses of my capture?”
“If Thevik doesn’t kill you first.” He grinned. “It would embarrass me if he did so afterwards.”
“I’d hate for you to be embarrassed.”
“Good. Remember that.”
He rose and left the cavern purposefully. In a moment his two assistants sauntered around the bend. They came and stood on either side of me. Ork, the pudgy one I had not kicked, laid his rifle aside, bent and undid my belt and britches front. He put his hand inside my shorts, jerking them forward and down. Thevik craned his neck as Ork’s free hand darted into my groin, lifted my dick and skinned it back. His fingers were cold. He said something to Thevik, who grunted and turned away. Ork reached deeper and pinched my balls, sending a stab of agony into my belly. I gasped inadvertently. He chuckled. I refused to look at him but in the corner of my eye I could discern the grin under his beard. He licked his lips.
Thevik spoke in a sneering tone and Ork released me as if he’d been stung. I don’t know what Thevik had said, though I could guess. Whatever it may have been, I was very grateful.
Helpless in the hands of unrestrained enemies has got to be a man’s worst predicament. And a woman’s, I suppose.
Ork took up his rifle and hooked the front sight guard under the waistband of my shorts. He jerked hard enough to pull them out from under my buttocks. The opened britches followed, exposing me completely. The shockingly cold rifle muzzle lifted my testicles and roweled them painfully. Fortunately he held the weapon with bayonet receiver turned down; otherwise I’m sure it would have cut me. The weapon’s selector was on full automatic, I saw, with safety off. He could blow away my manhood with the twitch of his finger.
Thevik wanted to kill me, according to the commander. Presumably Ork was only playing. When Thevik said something in a tone of disgust and turned his back, Ork snarled a reply. I had opened my mouth to breathe deeper, remembering that excess oxygen can mitigate pain. Now Ork raised the muzzle and jammed it into my mouth, striking teeth painfully. I’m lucky no incisor was knocked out. He rattled the steel back and forth, mainly striking the harder set molars, cracking off a filling, as I discovered later. Talk about noisy! The bayonet receiver cut into my tongue and in addition to gun oil I tasted blood, though not enough to be worrisome.
He paused and spoke again to Thevik, a taunting quality in his voice. Thevik argued in reply. His own rifle twitched towards us. He didn’t quite raise it. I imagined that Ork in typical boyish bravado had offered to kill me and that Thevik reminded him of the commander’s promise — while considering a first shot. I was pretty confident that if Thevik shot Ork, the latter would blow out the back of my head by reflex. Perhaps Thevik realized it, too. He said something in a conciliatory tone and turned partly away. Ork laughed.
But he did finally remove his god damned rifle from my mouth.
I was daring to breath easier when Ork made a peculiar gurgling sound and suddenly straightened up to level his rifle behind me. Thevik turned back curiously. His eyes widened and his own weapon came up, also pointing behind me. Both men froze.
I detected a peculiar tangy, sweet — and familiar — odor. A slim, naked woman walked past me straight to Thevik, buttocks swaying in the unequivocally female way, hands held open and away from her sides. The odor was that of the cologne I had given Melki and Estri half a week ago. My mouth fell open. Could this actually be Melki? How’d she get here?
That question also occurred to Thevik. She closed on him, weaving a narrow waist past his rifle, and languorously raised her arms to encircle his neck. He spoke sharply but bent his head to her, rifle sagging from its pistol grip as his other hand cupped a female buttock. Ork scuttled out of my vision toward the back of the cavern.
I wondered if she was kissing Thevik but decided from the head misalignment that she only nuzzled his beard. Her hands came down and fumbled at his waist. For the first time I noticed a wide scrape high on her back, slightly oozing blood. Other scrapes, marked by whiter skin, were apparent on hips and heels.
Clearly Ork had made only a cursory inspection. In seconds he was back, barking a short sentence and laying his rifle down. Thevik had simply let his own fall to the floor with a clatter, causing me to wince. It’s a poor way to treat automatic weapons.
That Melki — assuming it was Melki; I’d yet to see her face — intended to seduce them was obvious. Her deft hands had dropped Thevik’s britches upon his slippers in no time. She bent head and shoulders beneath his coattails, hiking her butt purposefully in the direction of Ork, legs together, pubic lips presented in rear exposure, their vertical line perfectly enclosed in the feminine thigh gap. Ork’s britches were already sagging. He waddled close behind her, hand fumbling with himself.
I was nearly without feeling in my arms. But not quite completely. Something behind me was disturbing them, something that twitched them rhythmically up and down. It had to be someone with a knife, sawing on my lashings. Another girl? Tuanti, perhaps? Surely they hadn’t let Estri come here!
I could only grit my teeth — discovering the broken filling — and watch the spectacle before me. Ork had trouble with his penetration until he resorted to the original lubricant. As a teenager I had also used spit for that purpose, on a girl bent over a fender and claiming to be scared to death — a fair summary of the present girl’s attitude?
Soon Ork’s hands gripped Melki’s hips while his belly pounded her relentlessly. Her arms were around the taller’s buttocks. He had fallen back against the wall, head bent, hands holding his shirttails back so that he could watch the face bobbing in his groin. Both men were well and truly engrossed.
My shoulders creaked. Someone had actually forced my hands apart! Pain shot through elbows and shoulders as I stealthily bent arms and hands in front of me. Something impeded my right arm. A small, brown hand was trying to close my fingers over the handle of a thinly ground short dagger. My fingers and hand resembled gray lumps of clay and could have felt no less if they were, but the muscles that control the four fingers are fortunately in the forearms. I was able to grasp the knife even without a usable thumb, though I’d have to watch that I didn’t drop it inadvertently.
Indeed the brown hand belonged to Estri! Her eyes, looking over my shoulder, were huge above a proud smile. Horrified, I jerked my head back. In her bright way she understood and disappeared behind me.
I applied the dagger to the lashings on my boots, noticing but ignoring cuts on my wrists, just beginning to bleed, where the child had sliced their bindings. The boot rope was resistant hemp but should have soon parted under the sharp blade — except that my uncooperative fingers immediately dropped the knife. I was reaching for it when a male voice shouted gruffly.
The commander had entered the cavern. He marched, grimacing, toward the little orgy, shouting another command. Ork ignored the voice except to plunge his hips even faster. Thevik, face muscles drawn tight unmistakably in the nearness of orgasm, extended one arm, hand splayed, to ward off his commander.
I saw it coming but was helpless to interfere.
God, this is hard to write!
The KGB officer whipped out his pistol and blew Melki’s brains out.
(Excuse me. I have to take a break.)
Thevik fell down the wall, eyes large as marbles. The girl’s body jerked back, knocking Ork onto his ass, collapsing atop him. Thevik’s hand had fallen on the pistol grip of his rifle. He screamed something, audible despite my reconcussed ears. The commander’s pistol turned towards him as he jerked the rifle up. Clearly the commander had not expected it, else he would’ve fired immediately. As it was both weapons roared almost together. Another set of brains decorated the wall, but Thevik had gotten off two shots of his own. Both men flopped backwards, Thevik against the wall, the commander stretched over a large boulder.
I’m not alone in making mistakes.
Ork flung off the writhing female, ignoring the fountaining blood, and snatched up his own rifle. Again two weapons spoke together. The commander’s accuracy had slipped a bit. His bullet entered Ork’s mouth in poetic justice before scattering yellow gobbets behind him, some of them into my face. Ork had triggered a three-round burst, at least one of which ricocheted, knocking chips loose all over the cavern. But at least one round connected, throwing the commander off his perch. He struck the wall and rolled back heavily to the floor.
Estri darted around me, took up the knife and began to saw on my boot lashings. A few of Ork’s bloody gobbets were stuck to her shoulder. My estimate of the blade’s sharpness must have been in error. She made very slow progress against the hemp.
I reached to take the knife back but motion beyond her caught my eye. The commander rolled slightly toward us, his chest a bloody mass, and raised the hand still holding the pistol. The barrel wavered but was still steady enough.
I shouted with all my strength, “Don’t kill her!”
Estri looked back at me, mouth falling open, then followed my gaze across the room. Her body seemed to shrink into itself. I caught her shoulder, probably squeezing too hard, and forced her gently behind me, away from the shifting pistol. As I released her she slipped the knife into my hand, again closing my fingers around the handle.
The Russian gestured with the pistol: Come here. I held up one finger of my left hand and tackled the rope savagely with my right. At last the knife bit; I discovered the dagger blade to be quite sharp on one side but dull as my pocketknife on the other. In seconds my boots were free. I swung my feet under me, but pain shot through all my joints. The best I could do was crawl toward him on knees and elbows. My britches ended up around my boots.
As I approached he released the pistol, letting it slide among the pebbles, and gestured toward his mouth. I bent toward him, avoiding the blood, and lowered my ear. He said distinctly, intelligible despite the ringing in my ears, “So Aladdin does exist!”
I looked into twinkling blue eyes. A line of blood suddenly streaked from the corner of his mouth. His lips were moving again; hastily I lowered my ear. “To think he was only a rich American after all!”
This time the twinkle was gone. His eyes stared glassily past me as his last breath fluttered out, pushing a bubble of blood.
Was Aladdin ever rescued by women? I can’t remember but resolve to look it up when I get home.
I got to my feet, tugging on my britches. Estri’s strong little arms helped me get them back in place. I stood over the remains of Melki. Her body was twitching horribly. I’ve seen it before when the brain is destroyed suddenly, but only in reality; it’s too horrible for movies, even X-rated. I turned her over to be sure. The other side of her head was a bloody mess entangled with long hair and interspersed with whitish streaks. The heart had stopped at last, ending the geyser of blood that had splashed over Ork and on the wall beside her.
I stood, wringing my hands together, forcing the circulation to return. The face below me was Melki’s and so was the birthmark on the hip. The mouth was open. Instead of blood Thevik’s semen lolled on chin and cheek. I clutched Estri against me, meaning to turn her face away, but the child calmly extended her thumb and closed the staring eyes. Only then did she look up at me with the largest eyes I think I’ve ever seen in a human face. Something splashed on her cheek. Water. From somewhere.
Snapping my head around, I briefly examined the three men. Their condition was beyond question. Ork had pissed all over his own shirt, another common result of sudden death. Thevik lay still, dick dangling, his last bit of ejaculate glittering in the tip.
I hadn’t seen others. Surely the gunfire would have brought them, if any, but I took up Thevik’s rifle in hands pierced by a thousand needles and crept cautiously around the bend, Estri on my heels.
The two vehicles sat where I’d last seen them. The outer cavern was empty of anything else. I walked outside and looked up and down the road. Nothing. Blue sky, sun nearly at the zenith. My wristwatch indicated 13:47.
Estri stood, shivering a little, just inside the cave, watching me. I looked into the Soviet jeep and found the commander’s greatcoat. The officer’s shoulderboards had been removed. Estri’s eyes lit when I wrapped it around her, though it dragged the ground behind.
I said slowly, forming my words carefully, “How did you come here?”
Of course I had already guessed it. She led me past the bodies. Melki’s had mercifully stilled at last. In the back of the second cavern the rock closed down to an oval hole about fifteen inches across. I could hardly believe Estri had passed it. Surely the cross-section of Melki’s buttocks was larger, the width of her shoulders greater!
“From here?” I demanded.
She thrust out her chin positively and pointed with one finger cocked in the delightful manner of young girls. “Hedre!”
She might possibly go back up it, but certainly not I! In any case I was not about to let her out of my sight.
“Come with me, Estri,” I said, turning on my heel.
She followed willingly. At the Soviet vehicle I paused long enough to throw an extra banana clip in my jacket pocket before bundling Estri into the blue jeep beside me and Thevik’s rifle. I was resolved that anyone who tried to stop me again would have a shoot-out on his hands.
But I saw no one except Estri on the entire trip up to the Meshir cavern. At each fork I bore right and soon came out on the remembered road. Stopping the jeep at that intersection, I reached under the seat. Its captors had not thought to check there. The box of candy bars was still present. I took out a Butterfinger, broke it and gave half to Estri. She watched me peel the paper back. When I took a byte, she was hardly a second behind me. Bliss spread on her face as she chewed.
“Oh, Hah-ree!” she breathed. She bent and kissed the back of my hand where it rested on the gear-shift knob. She paused as she rose, eyes widening at the blob of chocolate she’d left on my hand. Down she went again to lick it off, which of course only widened it. She turned apprehensive eyes to me. I chuckled, sucked my mouth dry, raised the hand and licked it clean myself. Her eyes twinkled. “Lovv tongue, Huss-ban’!”
At least her mind was off the tragedy, I thought, letting out the clutch and rolling up the road. I was wrong. After awhile she tugged on my sleeve. I leaned close to hear her piping voice over the grinding gears and the residual ringing in my ears. She asked, “You lovv Melki, Huss-ban’?”
Not really. I’d secretly thought of her as a two-timer. Memory of that choked me up. Not many two-timers will put life on the line as Melki had done. I took a very deep breath, dashed a bit of dust from my eyes and declared, “I loved her very much.”
“Melki lovv you, too.”
“I know.”
Constance’s point, that a Meshir girl will devote herself heart and soul to the one who favors her with a kiss, was only too well demonstrated. God, I felt cheap!
“Estri lovv you, too, all yearss that come.”
“I know you do, you little sweetheart. And I love you!” I had to stop the jeep and take her into my arms. She kissed me. No woman has ever kissed me warmer or sweeter.
All right, I’ll admit it once. We broke down and cried together. She bawled raggedly like the child she is, whose whole world has been tumbled upside down by playboy Harry Stone. My own breath became somewhat irregular. Crying, weeping, bawling, whatever you call it, is an odd behavior pattern. The emotion is one of the most powerful, but how does a waterfall in the eyes and jerky breathing further it? What could those actions possibly accomplish?
Curiously, when I had wiped both our faces on my coat sleeves and put the jeep into motion again, I felt better. Estri returned to her candy and the smile it engendered.
And I felt something else. A resolve was hardening in my heart, one for whose achievement I was willing to expend everything I’ve accumulated.
* *
* *
No one was waiting in the high cave. When I had parked the jeep under the overhang, Estri departed in a flash, the huge greatcoat flapping behind her ludicrously, crying, “Find Constansse!”
I took personal inventory: a few flecks of Ork’s blood on my face revealed by the rear-view mirror, removed by spit and finger, plus spots of his tissue on my field jacket that would have to wait. The scratches on my wrists were of no importance, already scabbing. I still had pins and needles in my hands, but they were easing and the thumbs were again willing to oppose. I got out of the jeep to wait for the women, noticing without surprise that pants and boots were filthy.
An hour ago I had been trussed to the rocks like supper’s piglet with essentially no feeling left below the elbows, expecting torture at least, followed by a forced vacation in the workers’ paradise to the north. Here I was, free, all the Air Force’s property and my own recovered intact except one fragment of tooth filling. I verified that even the pistol still rested in its holster behind the front seat. All I’d really lost was four hours of time and five or six hardly noticeable additional miles on the odometer. How infinitely better off I was than my three captors!
And poor Melki.
Fortunately I was spared further stewing about that. Constance came hurrying into the light in her gray robe. She dashed into my arms, kissed me three or four times about the mouth and squeezed me hard. She stood back and stared into my eyes.
“When did you last eat?”
“I … had bacon and eggs about, ah, seven o’clock.”
“As I thought. Come.”
“And half a candy bar ten minutes ago.” I reached into the jeep. “The rest is for your girls.”
She grinned. “Don’t you think old women like candy as well?”
“Whoever.”
She took the box of Butterfingers in one hand, my hand in the other, and led me away. I followed her at a quick pace, winding deeper into the mountain through pitch darkness, trusting her absolutely.
“Did Estri tell you about Melki?” I asked, hating it but knowing I must.
“Yes, Harry. She relayed the main facts: you safe, four dead. Who were the men?”
“A KGB officer and two Iranian hirelings.”
“KGB, was he? While you eat you must tell me all of it.”
“I will, but I also want to know something from you. Why did you send those children to save me?”
“I didn’t, Harry! It has ever been Meshir policy to leave men to their violence. Who in her right mind would think those two had the slightest chance?”
“If you didn’t, who did?”
She laughed humorlessly. “Estri!”
I retorted sarcastically, “Didn’t know she was in charge.”
“A wife has a certain authority in her husband’s affairs. Her command initiative demonstrates that Estri understands this implicitly. What happened was this: we heard gunfire, two series of shots whose echoes told us the source. The child dispatched down that drain hole happened by chance to be one of those who attended you on your first morning with us. She recognized you bound in the rocks and reported strange men meaning to kill you. Estri overheard the report to Moreti. By the time it reached me, Estri had already commandeered Melki’s assistance and both of them were on the way to that cave. You do understand it, don’t you?”
“I …”
“Their behavior is very Meshir. The whole cavern will be proud of them. They would save their husband or die trying.”
“God!”
“Why does that disturb you, Harry?”
Just as well it was pitch dark. I couldn’t have seen anything anyway. “But I wasn’t … wasn’t really …”
“Are you trying to say you weren’t their husband? They thought you were. I assure you that Estri still thinks so.”
“What do you think, Constance?”
“Harry, I know by Western rules you are not. But today you’re in Meshir.”
She continued to lead me. Rounding a curve, we came upon an oval cavern lit by two oil lamps perched on waist-high pillars. Carpets were spread on the floor, bearing platters of food and cups of liquid. Two girls in the gray robes stood at parade rest behind the carpets.
Constance turned in front of me and grasped a lapel. “Harry, give your clothing to these girls. They’ll clean it while you eat.”
The girls returned my gaze stolidly. I didn’t recognize them. I assumed from the robes that they were teenagers, at least. So far as I’ve seen, all prepubescent girls here go naked. Shrugging, deciding not to ask how they’d clean it, I emptied my pockets and gave them field jacket, pants and boots. As they trotted away, Constance cast off her robe and helped me shed the rest. She had a robe to fold around me.
I sat cross-legged at her urging. She put the first morsel in my mouth herself: some spicy lamb preparation, I think. I paid little attention to the food, though I was indeed hungry. I asked, “Why are you treating me so tenderly?”
Her eyes sparkled. “I could say that I’m substituting for Melki. In fact, Harry, you are valuable to all of us. We’re happy that you’re safe. It has been a very long time since a man brought us gifts.”
“I am … very sorry about Melki.”
“I’m sure you are, Harry.”
“I want you to believe that if I could do it, I’d have me still tied in the cave and Melki here alive.”
She studied me. “Surely you don’t mean her death was pointless!”
“In a way. The KGB wanted me alive for what I know. I’d’ve had an unpleasant time, maybe years of it, but doubt they’d’ve killed me, whereas Melki is …”
“Tell me about it, Harry.”
So I told her the whole story. She listened quietly, waiting patiently as I blubbered through the hard parts, her hand stroking my shoulder.
When I finished she tossed her head. “They might have killed you, Harry, at any time. Or unmanned you at the least. You say the commander told you as much. And hours without blood circulation might well have cost your hands.
“No, Harry. You must face the fact. You owe your freedom, probably your health and perhaps even your life to Melki’s sacrifice and Estri’s pluck.”
I took a shaky breath and dropped my eyes. “You may be right. I think you are. But, Constance, it’s not a price I would’ve paid voluntarily.”
“Then I’m glad they left you no choice!”
After a moment I asked, “What will become of her body?”
She sighed. “That depends on what you do!”
“Me?”
“What do you intend to tell the authorities at Fellavi?”
My god, I hadn’t even thought of that! I told her so.
“Well, my generous Harry, now is the time to think of it.”
So I did. “The KGB officer’s notebook — my name was in it. They know we’re here improving the stations. They almost certainly have other teams waiting to kidnap us. I really ought to warn Captain Smith or even the colonel.”
“Think about what you’ll tell him.”
I had learned her face well enough to detect the worry in her eyes. “I won’t tell him of the Meshir.”
“Then how will you explain your escape?”
“Huh! I just realized — If I tell him anything, it’ll mean the end of my visits here.”
“Oh, Harry! … But if you don’t …”
“My visits here may become the end of me.”
“Which means they must cease.”
“I’ll risk it.”
“No, dear.” She touched my check. “You really must tell them.”
But I had another problem. I took a deep breath. “Constance, how goes your search for a conduit?”
She smiled slightly. “Interesting that you should ask, Harry. I have been wondering how to tell you of it.”
“What’s the problem?”
“There was already a man … who saw me often. He is the son of Moreti’s older sister. Not two days after you put the idea in my head, this man asked me again to marry him, which led to a discussion of what I need, what Meshir needs. He has an establishment in Kehren behind the mountain, an import-export business, as you recommended. I believe he would serve admirably.”
“If you marry him.”
“Yes.”
“Then Meshir would lose your services. Hell! I would lose you!”
She leaned against me, kissing my cheek. “I’m much older than you, Harry. There was never a chance for us to be close in the long term. We must lose each other regardless of what we do. I know that and so do you. As to the Meshir, yes, I must go with my husband. But he won’t prevent my frequent return.”
“He wants you for your knowledge of the world, of English.”
“That is certainly true, Harry. But those are not his only reasons.”
“He loves you, then?”
“Do you know something about that feeling, Harry?”
“I think so.” My arm went around her, pulling us tightly together. “I am learning fast these days — about myself and about life. You, Melki, Estri … The Meshir women are so marvelous! I think I’m falling —”
Her fingers gently pressed my lips. “Don’t say it, Harry. I shall marry Elsik and bear his children while still I can.”
“But, Constance —”
“It is well that this be your last visit here.”
“God!” I glanced at my wristwatch. “And I can’t stay much longer. They’re probably already missing me in Fellavi.”
“Then make love to me one last time.”
“Not yet. I want to talk to you about Estri.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What about her?”
“What is my legal status in regard to her?”
She grunted. “None.”
“I phrased that poorly. How do the Meshir regard my relationship with her?”
She thought about it. “Estri has announced her rank as wife, but it is of course meaningless unless you acknowledge it.”
“What about my daughter?”
Her eyebrows rose. “You have a daughter?”
“No. I mean, would the Meshir release her to me as my daughter?”
“No, Harry. This is not a Western orphanage.”
“Then I want to acknowledge her as my wife.”
“Do you!”
“And I want to take her out of here.”
She smiled slightly. “I like a man who feels strong gratitude.”
“It’s more than that.”
“Is it?”
“I love her.”
She studied me. “You hardly know her.”
“I know she’s beautiful and will get more so. She’s very bright and eager to learn. I’m confident she loves me.”
“And you don’t know her carnally, despite several opportunities. It seems that you do think of her as a daughter.”
I took a breath. “I want to protect her, Constance. My job here will be over in two weeks. I want to take her back with me to America.”
“Can you do that, Harry?”
“I think so. It’ll be a little tricky. I’ll have to sneak her into Fellavi just before I leave —”
“Requiring you to come here first?”
“Well, yes, but —”
“No, Harry. That you mustn’t do.”
“But, Constance —”
She held up a hand, staring pensively into the distance. I wondered at first if she had heard a sound. But she turned a speculative look upon me. “Suppose I have Elsik deliver her to Tehran at a time of your choosing?”
“Elsik: your … fiancé?”
She chuckled wryly. “The precise word. In a week my husband.”
“You don’t seem too pleased.”
She shrugged. “It accomplishes my ends. He is pleased, which is the important part, and I intend that he continue so.”
“He’ll deliver her?”
“I think so, if I ask.”
“Okay, if you come along on the delivery!”
“I? Harry, that would be a mistake. Elsik knows nothing of you. Neither you nor I wish to make an enemy of him.”
I had to sigh. “Then wait in the car. But I want you to accompany Estri.”
“You don’t trust Elsik.”
“Of course not. That’s a long drive. He’ll send her by some flunky, but he won’t if you come, too. Is the trip safe?”
“It’s a combination of highroad and railway.” She shrugged. “I’ve not done it in ten years. I imagine it’s still safe, but you’re quite right: if I attend Elsik will make it so.”
“Then you must come. You can teach her English on the way.”
“How presumptuous!” she exclaimed sarcastically, grinning at me, but added thoughtfully, “Elsik would also like such lessons, I believe.”
“Where is Estri now?”
“She wants to be a good wife. I suspect she’s helping to clean your clothing. She’ll be along shortly.” Her hand fell to my dick. “In the meantime …”
My hand cupped her breast beside the glittering necklace. “In the meantime let’s make one last sweet memory.”
Her loving body momentarily supplanted the scenes of horror that lingered in the back of my mind. Estri and the two serving girls arrived while we were engaged. I was aware of the child’s arms around my shoulders and her wet tongue on my ear, but this last dalliance in Meshir was the least stimulating of all. My heart wasn’t in it — probably a first for me. I didn’t climax until Constance fetched me with her own.
Afterwards I lay between woman and child, each with a head on my shoulder, and thought of practical implications. “I have to return here once more,” I announced.
“Why?”
“To take a picture of Estri.”
“Why do you — ah, a passport!”
“Right, and it’s a problem. The colonel won’t let me out of Fellavi unaccompanied when he hears what happened. But I have to tell him, and I could never explain waiting a day or more to do it.”
“Couldn’t you make your photograph in Tehran?”
“Hmm. Yes, of course! Thank you very much. I’ll just delay our flight to the states by a day or two. But … damn! I meant to take a few shots of this place and the pretty faces in it.”
“‘Shots,’ Harry?”
“Sorry. I mean pictures. That’s out, now.” I heaved a sigh. “I’ve said what I mean to do, so answer my question. What will happen to Melki’s body?”
“You need it, Harry.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can tell most of the truth: that your abductors quarreled over a woman. We’ll have a child deliver typical clothing via the drain hole.”
“That’s not a sight for a child.”
“Indeed not! But the one we send will have already seen it.”
“You mean to risk Estri again?” I asked in rising disbelief.
“Not if you think there’s any risk.”
I thought about it. “Maybe not. The commander said he was waiting for dark to move. But for god’s sake make her be careful!”
“I shall. You need to have your authorities there before dark.”
“You’re right, and that means I’d better get moving. But first … will you help me tell Estri?”
“Yes.” She raised up on an elbow and called the serving girls close, presumably as witnesses. I pulled Estri’s head and shoulders up on my chest. She looked wonderingly from me to the woman, who asked, “What do you want to tell her?”
“That I love her, that I say she is my wife. That you will bring her to me in two weeks and that she and I will fly away to my homeland. Oh, god, Constance, there’s so much to tell her!”
She smiled. “Those are certainly the main points.”
She spoke in Meshir. I’ve seen my niece’s little face on Christmas morning; Estri’s expression was more blissful. “Oh, Hah-ree!” she breathed and began kissing me all over cheeks, lips, nose.
* * * *
Constance apologized that the girls hadn’t removed all the stains from my clothing — and a good thing, too! With a spotless jacket you could hardly tell the story that I laid before Col. Parin. The clean boots were bad enough, but I was ready to explain they’d been so dirtied I just had to wipe them off. He wasn’t inclined toward doubt, however, not when he saw my calling card: a loaded AK-47.
His eyes widened soon as I walked into his office. “Put the safety on that thing!” he ordered. I had taken it off just before entering. Clearly he’d handled the Soviet weapon before, rather surprising of an Air Force officer, especially a bird colonel.
Then, “Where’n hell did you get it?”
“Took it off a dead Russian.”
He was on the phone to the Iranian commander of Base Security before my story even arrived at reaching the cave of imprisonment. Before I had advanced it to Melki’s appearance we were interrupted by a clatter in front of the command Quonset and an Iranian officer stomped in, rank equivalent to our major.
“Russians, here at Fellavi?” he demanded, eyes sparkling with excitement above his handlebar moustache. His English was excellent — not surprising. I found out later he’d graduated from Princeton.
“Closer to Advance Camp Two,” I interjected. Nice to be a civilian outside the military protocol limits! It probably gives them the willies.
“Who’s this?” he demanded.
The colonel introduced us. I am an “invaluable civilian expert.” I agree on the first two parts — invaluable to me, at least. From recent events the third is not so evident.
He asked, “Can you find the place again?”
“I think so, though I got lost getting out.” That last was to account for the discrepancy in time between my reporting and the deaths in the cavern, in case they should bring in a forensics expert. Then I realized I had forgotten about the damned odometer! It probably wouldn’t show more than two or three miles extra.
Two half-tracks stood in the road, heavy machine guns mounted, one full of troops, the other half full. I rode in the front between the driver and the Iranian major. The colonel boarded the second with a couple of American APs, after commenting with a glare at me that I could continue my report when we got there. Message received. And away we went. These things certainly leave a dust trail!
I thought of “getting lost” a bit, but what the hell, I’m an expert. It’s not good for an expert to appear stupid. So I led them directly.
Both tracks stopped side-by-side before the cave. First rounds were jacked into the machine guns and the major ordered half his troops forward. They went strung out and crouched down, slipping one-by-one under the hillside overhang. Colonel, major, APs and I waited between the half-tracks, surrounded by the remainder of the Iranian squad.
“By the way,” I announced, “they’ll also find a woman’s body.”
“A woman?” the colonel demanded. “A Russian?”
“No, sir. Well, I don’t think so. If they hadn’t quarreled over her I probably wouldn’t be here. I mean, you probably wouldn’t be here!”
He was glaring again. “Tell us what happened, Stone.”
In my slightly improved version the Iranian mercenaries had brought in the woman, were fucking both ends of her when the Russian objected and blew her brains out. Not much departure from the truth. I kept a light-hearted tone to the best of my ability. But, god, that was Melki!
“He shot the woman first?” asked the colonel incredulously. “Whatever for? Was she armed?”
“No.” I shrugged.
The major suggested, “He ordered them to cease, didn’t he?”
“He shouted something. I don’t speak Farsi.”
The major spread his hands. “It’s obvious. The men were valuable to him, the woman was not. Typical Soviet reasoning.”
I wanted to add, “And Iranian,” but didn’t.
He mused, “Odd that they could stuff her without his knowledge.”
I contributed, “He said he was going to use the radio for an hour. Must’ve come back for something.”
“Radio in that jeep?”
“Yes. You’ll find it still running if the battery isn’t dead.”
Estri had come and gone. When they let us in, I noted a neatly folded white blouse stacked on a black skirt and shawl, placed to one side out of the blood. My god, I thought, why didn’t they tell her to strew it?
But the colonel touched the folded clothing with the toe of his boot. “Neat woman,” he observed. “Too bad for her.”
Oh, yes, too bad! I wanted to get away from them before they noticed my eyes, but they distracted me successfully. “You were tied up here, were you, Stone?” asked the colonel, pointing to the pillar. “How’d you get free?”
Here was the weak part of my story. There lay Estri’s dagger, so the foot part was all right. If they ever saw the slashes on my wrists, I’d be in trouble. For the first time I was glad my military field jacket was a bit too large. I told them I’d worked my hands free from the binding, which let me reach a dropped dagger to cut loose the boots. I claimed it took a long time, of course. I breathed a symbolic sigh of relief. Didn’t need to worry about the odometer.
The major held up several strands of cord from behind the pillar. “These were on your wrists? They’ve been cut.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “The cord was wrapped several times on one wrist. I had to cut it off that one.”
“Amateurs!” he spat contemptuously, overlooking the oddity of the cord having fallen behind the pillar when I had presumably cut it in front after releasing the hands from each other.
Their attention turned to the body of the KGB officer. The major rifled the pockets, wiping partly dried blood off the extracted contents. He went through the note book carefully, after a bit showing something to the colonel, who said to me, “You’re right, Stone. Your name and Shelton’s are here. There’s been a leak.”
“Worse than that, Colonel.” I had given this whole affair some thought.
“What do you mean?”
“The road to Advance Camp Two isn’t used much but it does have some traffic. They wouldn’t’ve put out their roadblock until they knew I or Shelton was in the jeep.”
“You’re saying the leak’s in AC2?”
“Right. And it’s not the APs on the front gate. I left by the back gate.”
“Why’d you do that, by the way?”
I shrugged. “Curiosity. Didn’t know it was prohibited.”
“Well, it wasn’t, but it is now. You better watch that curiosity, Stone.”
“Colonel, my curiosity quotient just went to zero. The next time I leave Fellavi, it’ll be for the ZI.”
“Good! Major, you got anybody who can examine that jeep radio?”
“Yes, sir, but I respectfully point out that you have better people.”
“That’s true. Leave a substantial guard here and let’s get back.”
“I’ll have to report this to Tehran, you know.”
“Of course, and I’ll have to buck it to the Pentagon, but we can’t do it with the track radio.”
“Yes, sir.” He switched to Farsi and began shouting orders.
* * * *
Ate dinner with the colonel tonight. He wanted to make me out something of a hero, seemed mystified and hurt when I refused absolutely to play the part. After all, as I pointed out, my captors had obligingly killed themselves!
Oh, my dear Melki! I’ll always be sorry for her, for leading her into sacrifice.
Normally I wouldn’t mind a bit of recognition. A little acclaim here would look good in my NSI file, probably seal me in tight on future military contracts. But a semi-famous man can hardly execute the skullduggery I’m planning for my short tour of Tehran.
He finally agreed. “You may be right. If we go public it would cause an international incident. They found proof that guy was a field agent of the KGB. We’ll give his body back quietly with an ‘Oops! Look what we found!’”
“What about the woman’s body?”
He shrugged. “It’s been turned over to the locals.”
Who may realize what she is. God! This is likely to be the longest two weeks I’ve lived yet.
Monday, October 2, 1972
The colonel sent me to Tehran today to report in person to his boss in the American embassy. He offered to call in a jet but I preferred the supply flight. The dedicated jet would involve a special car to the embassy and escorts all the way — with no chance for our hero to execute some necessary business of his own. So I was on the runaway again as the Boxcar’s engines began to cough their start-up.
Finished up with the general about eleven and taxied over to the Horton, our little piece of America in downtown Tehran [Editor’s note: the hotel name has been altered slightly, although it is reasonable to suppose that no American-owned hotel exists in Tehran today]. They will be happy to provide two beds and a cot for me, my niece and my brother-in-law, as long as we care to stay. I paid a night in advance and went on to the airport PX.
Looked up the accommodating pharmacist and treated him to lunch. Affable fellow, an Iranian educated in Boston and a fountain of information. Oh, yes, he could recommend a paper merchant. A very good one, keep it under your hat, a sometimes counterfeiter. Had done a better likeness of the shah than you could find on real money: Mr. Vardish, a prince of a man, married to the pharmacist’s sister, in fact.
Three hours to flight time after lunch. I needn’t have worried: the taxi driver found the address in the bazaar in fifteen minutes. Mr. Vardish ran a watch repair shop, about the size of a hole in the wall. He was mustachioed, short and fat, one eye huge whenever his loupe fell down, which was often. When I mentioned the pharmacist, he ushered me into a back room after lowering a curtain in his doorway.
His English was good enough to understand that I’d left his brother-in-law in good health. When the conversation faltered, I asked, “Can you make an American passport?”
His eyes narrowed. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“Who you want fool.”
“Customs agents.”
“American custom agents?”
“Maybe. Why not?”
“Number is problem.”
“What number?”
“Show you passport.”
I passed him mine. He opened it and pointed to the multidigit identification number formed of tiny holes driven through all the pages along the top of the document. “Number is code. Must match bearer.”
“Do you know the code?”
“No. American government secret. Can use you number, change one digit, hope pass. But change wrong digit, screw up. Is for man same you?”
“No. Is for — It’s for a young girl.”
His loupe fell across an eye. “No way! Sure catch.”
I thought a moment. “Suppose I get the number from another girl’s passport?”
He nodded, pushing the glass back up. “Work better.”
“The rest of it — you can make it look just like that?”
“Can do. Need ten day.”
“Ten days!”
“Need photo.”
“Let’s see, today is Monday … I’ll want it in eleven days. Can’t you mount the photo last?”
“Can do.” He thought a moment. “Punch number take two day. When you get number?”
“In a few days. Are you here every day?”
“Except Thursday. Closed on Thursday.”
“All right. I’ll have it Wednesday or Friday.”
“One thousand dollar.”
“Ouch!”
“Pay now.”
I shook my head. “As you say, no way. Two hundred now, eight on delivery.”
His loupe fell again. He pushed it up, studying me. “Can do.”
Back to the pharmacist’s office. He eyed the twenty I laid on his desk, mumbling that he wasn’t supposed to let customers use the telephone, except for calls to the American bases. Another twenty caused him to remember an obscure case where, yes, a call to the US had been permitted, so long as it didn’t last more than a few minutes. And was I aware that it was now almost six A.M. in New York?
“Good!” I retorted. “They’ll be at home.”
The Iranian telephone operator didn’t understand me. The pharmacist had to place the call, but he did have the grace to leave me alone in his office while I talked. Actually I suppose it was a form of self-protection.
“Hello,” she moaned, obviously just awakened.
“Sis, it’s me, Harry.”
“No, it isn’t. Harry’s in Iran.”
“I tell you it’s me. Oh, did I wake you up?”
“You bastard! It’s not even five o’clock. Just where are you anyway?”
“Still in Iran. Can you do me a quick favor, then go back to sleep?”
She made a flatulent sound. “Is a raspberry quick enough?”
“Too quick. All I want is for you to find Heather’s passport and read me the number that’s punched in it.”
“Her passport? Whatever for, Harry?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”
“What are you up to?”
“I said I’ll tell you when I get home.”
“Hold the phone.”
I heard an unintelligible exchange between her and a man, surely her husband. In fifteen seconds she was back on the phone. She is probably the world’s best organizer. I doubt anything in her house, even in her husband’s workshop, escapes her accountant’s memory.
“Are you ready to copy?”
“Ready,” I answered, pen and notebook handy.
She read it off: the same number of digits as my identification but wildly different. The telephone connection was crisp; I didn’t need to repeat it back. Her suspicion came through clearly. “Will you get Heather into trouble?”
“Absolutely not. How old is she, about eleven?”
“She was twelve in June. Harry …”
“Okay. Sis, this has helped me a lot. Thanks very much. I’ll see you in about three weeks. I’m confident you’ll approve when I tell you about it.”
“So tell me now.”
“Are you kidding? D’you know what this call is costing me?”
Sis has grown up close-fisted as a miser. That argument would appeal to her, I knew. She let me off after a couple of “love yas.”
An hour to flight time. Too tight. So out to the flight line, after thanking the pharmacist.
When he saw me, the load master craned his neck right and left. “Where’s the jeep?”
I grinned negligently. “Traveling light today.”
Hard as it is to admit, Constance is proving right all along the line, especially right to end my Meshir visits. If it hadn’t been for the KGB, I would’ve probably bought another jeep load of junk for the Meshir today. And that would’ve attracted altogether too much attention.
Guess I’ll return to Tehran on Wednesday. Too bad I didn’t get Mr. Vardish’s telephone number. If he has one.
Heather, my real niece, is a dark brunette with brown eyes but “New England” skin: so fair as to be almost translucent. Estri has black hair, brown eyes and olive skin. If those characteristics are part of the passport code, as they would be if I had designed it, then Heather’s ID number may trap us.
What’s that I said about the man who never takes risks?
On the other hand, could I maybe sneak her in across the Canadian border?