"Never mind what you think, Mija. Just do as you're told." Mr. Stout's voice was hard. "This isn't just a silly game, you know! Anytime you think it is just remember Mousy!"
A shadow crossed her lovely face. "Poor little Mousy. I am so sorry — he keep me away from them and save my life and now he…"
Mr. Stout patted her knee. "Forget Mousy. He's dead. I want to keep you alive. It's not going to be easy as it is — so don't make it any tougher."
N3 had already, to a certain extent and in a certain manner, forgotten Charles "Mousy" Morgan. When a soldier is killed by your side in battle you do not linger to mourn the corpse!
Mr. Stout allowed his lecherous nature to take over. He fingered the girl's shiny nylon leg above the knee. The flesh beneath the stocking was wonderfully soft-firm. Mija's skirt was very short, in the current mode, and Mr. Stout's hand had free play. Mija leaned against him, her firm breasts pressed against his cheek. Suddenly she shivered and clamped her knees together on his hand. "You are a nasty old man! You get me excite and then you can do nothings!"
Mr. Stout grinned. "I might surprise you, baby doll! For all you know I might have a harem back in Indianapolis."
Mija giggled. She disengaged herself from his hand and stood up, smoothing down her skirt. "You will not need a harem, old fat one! I am all the harem you will need — if ever we have a chance!"
She stretched, her arms over her head, pulling her taut young breasts hard against the thin stuff on her blouse. Mr. Stout, looking at the tender little buds her nipples made on the cloth, was inclined to agree with her. Patience was, at times, a virtue hard to come by.
He followed her back into the suite, drink in hand. Seen upright, with his wrinkled linen trousers over a fat behind, the garish sport shirt worn outside his pants, the black and white shoes with perforated toes, Mr. Grover Stout was something of an artistic creation. Close to perfection — this middle-aged hick from Indiana, this aging Pan who was having a last fling before returning to the wife and kiddies. Even the flat, nasal accent was right, along with the bumbling gaucheries. Mr. Stout was all check book and big stupid heart. Mr. Stout and his pretty little Turkish trollop who had checked into the Hilton shortly after ten that morning.
Nick Carter patted his rubber belly in contentment as he watched Mija's svelte little fanny sway into the living room where a pile of bundles and parcels lay in the middle of the floor. Stout and doxy, he thought, wouldn't play for long, wouldn't hold up forever — the enemy was too murderously keen for that — but for now it was working. Twenty-four hours was all he needed!
Now he watched from a sofa as the girl, on her knees among the parcels, tore them open with the undisguised glee of a child on Christmas morning. Frocks, suits, stockings by the dozen, dainty underwear of every shade, girdle and garter belts — even a fur piece.
He said, "I see you've been obeying orders. Buying out the shops in the lobby. You've been sufficiently loud and vulgar about it, I hope."
Mija nodded. "I have been, yes. I almost drive the sales people from their minds. I charge everything to you in a loud tone."
Mr. Stout nodded. "Good. That's what we want. A smoke screen. From the bottom of the cave to the top of the Hilton. They'll be looking somewhere in the middle."
His words to Hawk early that morning, over the scrambler phone in the Hole, had been: "I've got a plan, sir, but to put it into effect I've got to get out of this hole. I've been low — I'm going high. Fast. I'll need unlimited funds."
Hawk did not hesitate. The news of Mousy's death had not upset him — nothing short of an atomic blast on Pennsylvania Avenue could do that — but his voice was like broken glass as he said, "You've got it. You had it, anyway, you know. You heard what the man said — the entire resources of this country. What else do you want and what are you going to do with all this — if I may ask?"
"I really can't tell you, sir, because I don't exactly know myself. My plan is sketchy. I'm going to play it by ear, by guess and by God. I think boldness is the answer — boldness and speed. Things can't go any worse than they have been. I'm going to stop that! Now I want a switch over to Ankara, sir. I think I'd better talk to them myself."
Nick had talked to Ankara for half an hour. He explained in meticulous detail what he wanted and how he wanted it done. This done he was switched back to Hawk.
"I'm taking the girl and cutting out now, sir. Ankara is sending two men to take over here. Old Bici will hold things down until they get here."
"You think it's wise to take the girl?"
Nick grinned at the phone. He knew Hawk wasn't being moralistic this time — it was a legitimate doubt.
"Ordinarily no, sir, but this time yes. For one thing I want to keep her alive — and since Narcotics here is a shambles just now I'd have to hand her back to the Turkish police. They'd try, but they wouldn't have the interest I do. Besides I think she might be able to help me — she speaks most of the Anatolian dialects, I don't. And I need her for the cover I'm establishing. That most of all. Really, sir, I think I'd better keep her with me."
"Okay. You're running the show. You'll be listening to Singing Sam, of course?"
"Yes, sir. I'll tune into the barber. Goodbye, sir."
"Goodbye, son. Stay alive."
Mija was holding up a sheer pair of black panties. "You like, Daddykins?" She winked at him and made a face.
It was probably unnecessary — Nick had searched the suite thoroughly upon their arrival — but a role was a role, a cover had to be played all the way.
"Daddy likes," he smirked. "Daddy would love to see his baby doll in them. Go and put them on for Daddy." He gave her a lecherous smirk.
"Later," said baby doll. She held up a tiny scarlet Bikini. "This is how you say — cute? I think I will go try it in the pool, no?"
"Yes," said Mr. Stout. "A good idea. I'll come along and watch." He sure as hell couldn't join her, Nick thought. He'd look damned funny swimming in fanny pads and rubber belly, not to mention a bald wig that might or might not stay on in the water.
So he watched that afternoon as the girl swam and went off the high board. Soon everyone at the pool was watching. Not only was Mija a sleek skinned, phocine beauty in the brief scarlet, she was also a terrific diver. Before long there was a ripple of applause after each perfectly executed dive. This Mr. Stout did not like. As soon as he decently could, he got her out of there. Mija did not demur. She understood. Too much attention was not good. When they got back to the suite she was still flushed and happy with her little triumph.
From the bathroom she called to Mr. Stout, who was fixing himself a weak scotch and gazing out over the balcony to where the westing sun was laying a golden carpet on the Horn.
"You see I do not lie when I say I am good athlete," Mija said from the shower.
"Yes," agreed Mr. Stout. "You are. I was impressed."
It was true. She was good. But he had been impressed with something else, too. With so prosiac a thing as the diving board Mija had used! A diving board!
Mr. Stout took his drink to the little balcony. He watched the last rays of the sun strike sparks from the windows of the Divan Hotel and the Annex. For a moment the windows were golden, gleaming, fiery eyes. Mr. Stout regarded the two buildings with an air of abstraction, but behind the phony features a mind was racing like a computer. A diving board! A children's play area. A trampoline.
Mr. Stout smiled and sipped at his drink. It could be — it just could work!
"Daddykins?"
Mr. Stout winced and turned back into the suite. It would have sounded bad enough from an American chorus girl — from a Turkish girl it sounded just plain ridiculous. It was time, he thought, to knock it off for a awhile. Time for a breather. He would take it as read that this was, for the moment at least, a safe house. Time to relax for a couple of hours. He couldn't operate until well after dark in any case. He felt sanguine and sure of himself, but you never knew. Death could be out there in the twlight now, gathering itself for the assault.