The Longest Pleasure (18 page)

Galitsin smiled. 'I do not think the position is drawn, Mr. Harrington. I would like to play on for a little while.'

Harrington took off his glasses, polished them, replaced them on his nose. 'Mmmm,' he said. 'Yes, I suppose you're right. Then I'll resign, shall I? I don't think there's much I can do about it now.' He stood up, held out his hand. 'Thank you very much. I'm backing you to win this section.'

Galitsin squeezed the limp fingers, sat down again, finished writing up his score sheet. A good beginning, certainly. He thought it would be very nice if he
could
win his section.

'Congratulations, Alexander Petrovich.' It was Rauser, beaming, red-faced as ever. 'A very satisfactory start.' Rauser possessed heavy shoulders, and narrow hips, looked top heavy.

'Thank you, comrade.' Galitsin stood up. 'Where do
I
hand in my score?'

'At that desk in the corner, Comrade Captain.' Rauser pointed. 'But I will do it for you. There is someone wishes to speak with you. A newspaper reporter, eh?' Rauser closed one eye. 'A young lady.'

Galitsin sighed. 'Very well, comrade. But afterwards
I
should like to take a walk
by myself. That is permitted?'

'My dear Alexander Petrovich, you may do whatever you wish. My business is simply to see that you are not annoyed or upset by any peculiar people.. Britain is full of peculiar people.'

'And this lady?'

'Ah, she is American. There is nothing peculiar about Americans, Alexander Petrovich. They are very straightforward. I will see you at the hotel then. In one hour?'

Galitsin nodded. 'One hour, comrade.' He shouldered his way through the crowd, out of the door and into the coffee room, where groups of men were huddled around various small boards, and his opponent of five minutes earlier was illustrating to a group of equally youthful kibitzers just how he had been ground into defeat by the Red Army Champion. On the far side of the room was the coffee bar, also well patronised, and beyond that the stairs leading up to the esplanade over their heads. To the fresh air and the snow. But first there was the American newspaper reporter. He hesitated, saw the red-head seated in the farthest corner, smoking a cigarette. Her presence recalled him to his situation. For just a little while he had been nothing more than a chess-player, pleased with himself for having won a well-conducted game, thinking of nothing more important than his chances in the tournament
.
Now he was again an agent in the Fourth Bureau. An agent who was being tempted. But for the time being it was necessary to play this game according to the rules laid down by Tigran Dus and Mikhail Rauser.

He crossed the room, frowned as she raised her head. 'Alexander Galitsin.
I
think we may have met before. But you were not at the press conference?'

She smiled, shook hands.
‘I
wanted to get you all to-myself. I'm Nancy Connaught. I met you in Moscow, oh, over a year ago now, Captain Galitsin. You weren't speaking English then.'

'That was unkind of me, Miss Connaught.
I
apologise. Mr. Rauser said you wished to ask me some questions.'

'What a ghastly thought. I wish to talk with you, if you don't mind.' She opened her handbag, put away her notebook and her pencil. 'See? No props.'

'I am flattered. Shall I get you a cup of coffee?'

'You can take me for a walk, if you like; the pubs open in half an hour.' She glanced at him. 'Or shouldn't you do things like that?'

This afternoon she wore a blue woollen dress, decorated with a gold brooch on the shoulder; over the back of her chair there was a leopard-skin coat. Her features were a shade too crisp to be called pretty, but the determined self-confidence which surrounded her wide mouth was extraordinarily attractive. And she had delightfully thin legs; he had forgotten about them. It occurred to him that he was becoming increasingly in
terested in legs. But Nancy Con
naught could satisfy more youthful tastes, as well.
'I
should like very much to take you for a walk. Miss Connaught. I'll get my coat.'

The red Rolls-Royce pulled into the kerb, slithering on the snow mist which drifted across the street. Barnes stepped out, opened the back door of the car with his invariable slight forward tilt from the waist. He was a tall young man; Christine Hamble had chosen him personally from a list of several applicants. He wore his hair long; the handsome, arrogant features and the long hair contrasted with the tailored khaki uniform, the cap set squarely on his head. His eyes were hungry as he looked at his mistress.

'Thank you, boy.' Mrs. Hamble stepped down, brought her sable mink tighter with a shrug of her shoulders. Her mink hat sat on the side of her head; the yellow hair, so straight and crisp it might have been glued into place, lay softly on her collar. 'Come with me.'

It was dusk, and the roar of the traffic on Park Lane was clearly audible, but Christine Hamble did not believe in travelling anywhere alone. She walked along the pavement, scattering snow with her black high-heeled boots, Barnes at her shoulder. They crossed the street, plunged into an even narrower alleyway, and he opened a street door. She stood in a small hallway, dimly lit but recently painted, looked it over, with a professionally critical eye.
‘I
must replace that stair carpet. Remind me, boy.'

Barnes bowed, picked up the speaking tube.

'Yes?' The word rolled off the woman's tongue even at a distance of several floors.

'Mrs. Hamble is here,' Barnes said.

'Oh,' the woman said. 'Oh, yes. Please to come up.'

Barnes replaced the tube, opened the lift door. Christine Hamble stepped inside, Barnes joined her, pressed the ascent button. The lift was so small their shoulders touched.

'Lipstick?'

Barnes shook his head slightly.

Mrs. Hamble pouted, holding her lips steady. Barnes took the tube from his jacket pocket, stroked
the colour on to the thrusting,
creased flesh, slowly, carefully. The lift came to a halt, but he continued his task, frowning with concentration. Then he replaced the lipstick, took out a small mirror. Christine Hamble gazed at herself for a moment, thrust out her tongue, allowed the extreme tip to protrude between her teeth. Barnes leaned forward, closed his own teeth on the end of her tongue, held it there for a second, stepped backwards to open the door.

Thank you, boy.' She entered
a
small hall, and Barnes hurried in front of her. The maid was a Negress, small, with anxious eyes, hastily straightening her white cap as she helped the chauffeur remove Mrs. Hamble's coat,

'Madam has a client, just this moment, Mrs. Hamble. If you will wait in the other room?'

Barnes opened the door. Christine Hamble went into
a
bedroom decorated in green: green carpet, green walls, even green ceiling. The two chairs were upholstered in green, the double bed was covered with a green bedspread. The dressing table was mahogany, but the brushes and toilet articles were jade. Everything was new.

Christine Hamble sat in one of the chairs, crossed her knees. Barnes lit a cigarette, inhaled, took it from between his own lips, placed it between hers. He knelt before her, slowly drew off her boots. She leaned back in the chair, her chin resting on the forefinger of her left hand, the light glinting from the diamond solitaire which pressed against her gold wedding band, watched his gaze straying up and down the nylon of her calves. After he had taken off the second boot she uncrossed her legs, placed the sole of her right foot on his jacket, slid it slowly upwards, caressed his neck with the stockinged toes, rested the leg on his shoulder. Now his gaze could follow the nylon roadway into the silk-shrouded forest he longed to explore. His eyes were more angry than hungry, and there were pink spots in his cheeks. His hand closed on her ankle, tightened. He wanted to squeeze until the thin bones snapped beneath his fingers. Slowly he forced the leg back, making her bend her knee, pushing the foot upwards until it was in front of him,- and then easing it forward again, to kiss the sole, and take each toe into his mouth, one after the other, sucking the crushed nylon.

The inner door opened. Renee Smith wore high-heeled pumps and a yellow velvet dressing robe decorated with black dragons. She carried a brush in her right hand, and drew it through her long, thin brown hair with slow, easy movements, dragging it all the way from her scalp and down beyond her shoulder blades. The youthful hair, set around the haunted face, thinner now than it had ever been, and the gaunt body gave her a quality of ugliness that was almost beautiful, or a beauty that was almost ugly, depending upon what one wished from her. Renee Smith, was all things to all men. And all things to all women.

Christine Hamble placed her foot on Barnes' mouth, and pushed. He overbalanced, put his hands behind himself to brace himself, backed away from her, still in this faintly obscene posture, like a Russian dancer, and rose to his feet. He bowed to Renee Smith, backed to the door, closed it behind him. He left the room, but his presence remained, a faint scent, after shave and deodorant mixed, but more a physical desire so great it filled the room like cigarette smoke.

Irena Szen stooped beside the bedside table, took out
a
decanter of port, poured herself a glass. She raised the decanter, but Kirsten Moeller shook her head. Irena Szen finished her drink, with a single inhalation, replaced the glass and the decanter in the cupboard. 'Why do you do that to him?'

'Why do you do that to yourself? You will get gout. A whore with gout. What a fantastic thought.'

'My grandfather had gout. One could afford it, then. And I need my strength.' Irena Szen bent over Kirsten Moeller, received the privilege of nipping the end of the pointed tongue. 'For the past hour I have entertained Charles Manly. You have never been bitten by Charles?'

'God forbid.'

'Well, that is all he really w
ants to do. And his teeth are
false, so he cannot tell ho
w hard he is biting. And if you
show pain it encourages
him to bite even harder. I have
now taken the night off. I
have no choice. Any man looking
at my body would immediately ring for the doctor. There is
even blood. I charge him
three times my normal fee, and
yet I am out of pocket.
But that boy, he would make you into a woman again.'

'He shall,' Kirsten Moeller agreed. "But he must be trained first. Trained in every way. There is a method of longevity practised in the East. You must have heard of it The male makes an entry, and brings himself to the very point of orgasm, and then withdraws and washes in cold water. This is repeated time and again, for as long as the male heart will stand the pressure, and the male willpower, presumably. Can you imagine what happens when, after several hours, he no longer withdraws?'

'The female gets cancer of the womb.'

'Oh, you! You are obsessed with that nonsense. Yours must be like leather by now. Do you have a cigarette?'

Irena Szen took a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches from the bedside table, tossed them on to Kirsten's lap. She sat on the bed, knees drawn up, chin resting on her hands. Kirsten Moeller thought it truly remarkable how a woman with such an old face could look so like a little girl. Presumably this was an important part of her charm. 'But the penis,' Irena said, 'and the heart, are merely little bits of tissue. You are using the cold-water treatment on that boy's mind.'

Kirsten Moeller smiled, stretched out her legs. 'I cannot imagine what it is going to be like. Sometimes I am even a little bit frightened of it
.
It will be like flying to the moon, or diving to the bottom of the ocean.'

'And just as dangerous. You have had your face smashed in once already. I'd have thought you'd be more careful. And I wish you'd let me know when you are coming. It is only just after eight o'clock. What an hour. Where is Jonathan at this hour?'

'At his club. I am to pick him up at nine. We are dining at the Cafe Royal.'

'And will you tell him you have been here?'

Kirsten Moeller watched a smoke ring dissolving above her head.
‘I
will tell him I dropped in to inspect one of the houses. You need a new stair carpet. I don't suppose you noticed. But it is not something he will attend to himself, you know. He is not interested. He is satisfied that I have a nose for property, and he likes the rents we collect. Who lives in our houses is no business of his. Are you afraid he will find out and wish to close you down?'

Irena Szen lay down, arms and legs spread wide, occupying every corner of the bed at the same time. 'You would never let him do that,' Kirstie.' Her voice rippled with amusement Irena Szen was not often amused.