Assault on the Empress (12 page)

Lewis Babcock threw the brass doors of the Dirksen Federal Building open, the pre-trial hearing dismissed, all charges dropped against Ernie Hayes. The icy wind stabbed sharply at him through his overcoat. But, for some reason, it didn't bother him as much as it had on the way in, despite the fact that someone overheard in the corridor outside the courtroom had been talking about the temperature having dropped outside and the wind being higher.

Darwin Hughes was standing on the comer, having left the hearing room as soon as the judge had announced dismissal of all charges, Babcock having seen him go but unable to join him, Thelma hugging him so hard. Babcock quickened his pace so he could join Hughes. Thelma had said, “Please. If he's leaving or something, give him the biggest hug for me.”

“If you're the Lone Ranger, I guess that makes me Tonto,” Babcock said over the wind, Hughes turning around. “Thelma told me to give you a big hug, but I don't feel like being arrested on a morals charge.”

“You're in better spirits, Lewis.”

“I'm in better spirits. I didn't think it was going to work that well, if at all. We even got that stuff disconnected without the hotel being any the wiser.”

Hughes smiled. “Their carpet will probably start rolling up a little one of these days soon and then they'll find those switches. But, we'll be long gone. I'll make a donation to charity in their name.”

“I think you already did. I would never have thought of that in a million years.”

“Same idea, though. You would have toughed it out and had to go after the cocaine. I just eliminated a few steps.”

“It was good working with you again, Mr. Hughes.”

“I'd like you to keep working with me, Lewis. A lot of people need help. Like your friends Ernie and Thelma. Only in circumstances even more desperate. We both know that. This General Argus has given us the opportunity to change things a little. There'll be a lot of heartaches in it, Lewis. Jobs we can't take because there isn't a solution, jobs we may take and screw up, lives lost. But I really believe we can accomplish something. Otherwise, I wouldn't have considered it.”

“They'd track us down, Mr. Hughes. We were lucky the first time—all of us except Feinberg. They never got our faces. We start doing this on a regular basis, the inevitability of them learning our identities is unquestionable.”

“That can be fixed, too, Lewis. The question is”—and Hughes smiled that big smile of his that deepened the lines already etched there, made his eyes light up—“are we interested in trying it all again? It's a great sacrifice. There's no denying that. But how many men are given the opportunity to really put things right?”

“You really think we could? I mean, really have any effect?”

“I really think we could, Lewis. We did already.”

Lewis Babcock told himself, Hughes is way into his fifties, can't keep doing this forever. Probably the team would only have a few missions and—if any of them made it through alive—disband. And maybe Hughes was right. He usually was.

Babcock pulled the glove from his right hand, feeling his flesh instantly start to tingle with the cold, extending his hand to Hughes. Hughes pulled off his right glove and took Babcock's hand. “God help us, it's a deal,” Babcock told him.

“Yes,” Hughes said almost like a groan. “God help us indeed.”

It was the first night after passing through the Straits of Gibralter and the tour director had organized what she called a Colossus of Rhodes party, apparently a regular event on the cruise because all the barmaids in the lounge were wearing little things that looked like mini-skirted togas and there were plastic Romanesque columns on either side of the stage. “Do you guys know any songs that would fit in?”she had asked in her sweetly sincere manner, her blonde curls tossing as she battled her eyes and thrust her hands into her skirt pockets meaningfully.

“Gee, I dunno,” Cross said.

“ ‘Three Coins in the Fountain'?”

“That's a great idea, Jenny.”

“I can play that. Got a nice arrangement of it,” Cross volunteered.

“When Lenny was playing for us, he used to do this. And I hope you will,” the woman began earnestly.

“He used to do what?” Cross countered suspiciously.

“We have this toga costume and—”

Jenny Hall laughed. “I bet you've got pretty knees.”

“You'll never find out that way,” Cross told her, smiling. Then he looked at the tour director. “Felicity. I like wearing Levi's. But I haven't worn Levi's since the
Empress
sailed because I know you guys have a class image you've gotta keep up. And I can dig that. I show up every night wearing a tux. Don't hear me complaining. Tonight I'm wearing a tux, too. Either that or Levi's. No toga.”

“Okay, already, if you feel that strongly about it.”

“I have this kinda off-the-shoulder thing,” Jenny said almost too quickly, as if she were trying to avoid a fight. As she described the dress to the tour director, she did funny little things with her hands across her body, designed apparently to show where the dress did this and that.

“Oh, that's wonderful. You'll look heavenly in it,” Felicity had said. She'd blown them both a kiss—it was a habit with her—and left them to rehearse.

They'd concocted arrangements for a couple of other songs that might fit in and Cross had tried his arrangement of the theme from
Ben Hur
, something he hadn't played in a while but liked and used to throw in on some of his movie-tune medleys.

And then he'd flat out asked her. “Tonight. After we're through. Will you sleep with me? I mean, if we can avoid Andrew Comstock?”

She hadn't answered.

“I beg real good,” he had said.

Jenny Hall laughed. Her voice became businesslike and clinical and at once funny, her eyes sparkling. “Why do you want to sleep with me?”

Cross started ticking off reasons. “You're the prettiest girl in the world, I listen to your voice and it sends chills up my spine, I see you come on stage and I start getting a hard-on, you're fun to be with, a good listener, intelligent, thoughtful and by the time we hit New York, I'll probably ask you to marry me. You want more reasons?”

“That's enough.”

“Got a date, then?”

“Yeah.” She'd smiled.

Cross had bought her a Coke and taken her back to her cabin. She napped in the afternoons for an hour or so to relax before getting herself ready for a performance. He wished they could nap together, but neither of them would be any better slept for it. He'd gone to his own cabin, stripped and plopped down across the bed, trying to sleep. That hadn't worked. He got up, redressed and started walking the Empress from stem to stem. The captain buttonholed him and offered to buy him a cup of coffee. Cross settled for orange juice.

“I'll come right to the point. I've been hearing really great things about you, Mr. Cross. And Miss Hall as well. I don't usually get involved with this stuff. I let the tour director take care of it—”

“Look, Captain. No disrespect, but I don't care what Felicity wants. I'm not wearin' some damn toga.”

“Toga? Oh, the Colossus of Rhodes party tonight. Naw. She used to be able to pull that crap with Lenny Brooks, but then he was afraid of losing his job and I somehow get the feeling you're not afraid of much of anything. No, I wasn't about to ride your ass over some silly thing like that. I just wanted to know if you'd like the job playing piano on the
Empress
on a permanent basis? I mean, you've got naval experience. It could lead to something better. A lot better. You know what some of my ship's officers get paid?”

“No idea.”

“A lot, Mr. Cross. And this is a growing company. Solid future. Think about it for a while. I'd like to have you aboard with me.”

“That's a great compliment, sir. Thank you. And I will think about it.”

They'd talked Navy stuff for another twenty minutes and then the captain's beeper had gone off and he was needed someplace else. But he picked up the tab for the coffee and orange juice.

Cross had returned to his cabin, tried again to sleep. He'd all but asked Jenny Hall to marry him and been offered a steady job. It was enough to keep any man awake. Finally, he'd gotten up, shaved again, showered and all the rest, then gotten dressed.

He'd arranged to meet Jenny for dinner in the Crow's Nest restaurant and when he saw her there, already waiting, she looked lovely. The dress she wore was just slightly off-white, more than slightly off the shoulder, at once seductive and demure, like something a Greek goddess would have worn. But as he touched her shoulder when he passed her to sit down, the touch was warm.

Over dinner, small talk, neither of them mentioning what had passed between them earlier. And then it was time for Cross to start playing piano and she stayed behind to finish her drink.

It was harder playing tonight than it had ever been, his mind elsewhere and his concentration forced. And then it was time for the first show and he almost missed a segue just thinking about her.

They sat together and talked about everything and nothing between sets for him, and then he was on again. Then she performed again and he started seriously wondering if he'd make it through the third performance without dragging her down onto the stage and ripping her dress off.

He forced his mind to focus on other things as his fingers moved across the eighty-eight. He had heard nothing at all from Hughes or Babcock after the surgical strike into Iran. Cross wondered if they'd gotten back together to do something else insane, but doubted that. Hughes was probably off training the SAS or the SEALs to be tougher or something. And Babcock. Babcock had been a character. Health nut, top physical shape, “Mr. Culture.” But a good guy. He was probably living with some gorgeous black girl and taking up the law practice he'd never had time for. If he ever did see Babcock again, he had to try him at chess at least once more. The man was sharp.

His attention drifted and he started studying the newest variation of the audience. One face from the third-show crowd was missing—Andrew Comstock. “Thank you, God,” he murmured. Comstock and his late suppers and his insatiable desire for information were enough to drive him—Cross—crazy. And Cross hadn't missed the way Comstock looked at Jenny. Which proved Comstock was just as normal as the next man.

Cross looked at his watch.

It was time. He did the intro and took the microphone and spoke into it. “Ladies and gentlemen. The
Empress Britannia
is proud to present someone who sings as good as she looks …” It was not the standard introduction, but he'd felt like saying it. “Direct from her triumphant tour of Europe, the incomparable Miss Jennifer Hall!” He put down the microphone and started applauding, then realized embarrassedly that he'd forgotten to shut off the thing and his clapping must have sounded like thunder claps to the lounge crowd. And then she was on stage.

Jenny blew him a kiss and smiled as she took the microphone and he started playing. But she signaled him not to. He stopped. “Ladies and gentlemen. I just had to say this. This man—this man right here, Abe Cross. He's gotta be the best pianist I ever worked with. And a wonderful guy. And not bad-looking himself. Let's give him a big round of applause, please!” And she put the microphone under her arm and turned toward him and started applauding. He did what he was supposed to do, stood up and took a short bow and then sat down and began playing her first song, “What's New?”

What was new was that she loved him back….

They chose his cabin for the night. Andrew Comstock had, mercifully, never shown.

Cross turned on the light and shut the door behind him. He'd straightened up a little before his shower and, with the help of the daily maid service, it didn't look bad. “Shouldn't we both sit down and run a medical and sexual history on each other?” she whispered as he took her in his arms.

“I'm okay if you're okay.”

“Yeah. I'm okay. Now that you're holding me. I really did think you were never going to ask.”

“I didn't know what you'd answer. Funny thing if you're a guy is, well, you want her to say yes, but not too easily. And then you're ticked off if she says no. You can't win.”

“Who wins, then? The woman, you think?”

“Nobody wins that way.” He drew her closer to him, his fingers touching at her hair, at her cheek, drifting down across her shoulders. “What do you do to yourself? Your skin's so soft.” He kissed her shoulder. “And it tastes so good, too.”

Her hands touched at his face and he lowered his face to hers and touched her mouth with his, his hands hard against her back and moving down to her rear end, her hands massaging his face and neck and starting to tug at his jacket as he kept kissing her.

As he moved his hands again, his left hand catching at the fabric of her dress to pull it up, she slipped away from him and backed across the room a little. “There's so much you should know about me.”

“I know. You're secretly left-handed. I already guessed that. If you tell me you're just the result of a cunning sex-change operation, I hope you know I'll kill myself.”

“I'm not left-handed. And I am real. And if you killed yourself, I think I'd do the same thing. I love you.”

He walked toward her, slipping out of his jacket and throwing it on the chair. “It'll get all wrinkled.”

“I've got two more.”

“You realty—”

“Yeah. I wanna marry you. I can always go get the captain.”

“He's asleep.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

“Why only maybe?”

“Maybe I won't be any good in bed.” She smiled.

“Somehow, I don't think that'll be a problem.”

“ I don't think it will be either.” Her hands moved behind her to unzip, and his arms closed around her and he held her hands there and kissed her hard on the mouth. Then his left hand tugged the zipper down. She'd already gotten the little hook and eye thing open. She stepped back from him and shrugged her shoulders and the dress fell. He guessed it was one of those things with a built-in bra, because she wore none, the nipples of her pretty breasts hardening as the palms of his hands frictioned against them. The dress caught at her hips for the briefest second, and she moved her hips and the dress fell the rest of the way. There had been an ankle-length white silk slip under it and she hooked her thumbs in the waist of it and pushed it down. Nothing but panties on, she pressed herself close against him, her hands at his tie, undoing it.

“I thought this looked rumpled enough to be real.”

“I'm glad I didn't have my pants off when you said that.”

The tie was opened and she started working at his shirt buttons. He had never liked studs. His hands cupped her breasts as she opened his shirt, her mouth touching at his chest, her fingers knotting in the hair there. He drew her closer to him, arching her back, kissing her neck, then moving his mouth down, touching at her nipples.

She pulled back again. “Take them off me, please.” He dropped to his knees and pulled her panties down and her arms closed around him, drawing his head close against her abdomen. “I do love you,” she whispered.

He stood up. She still had stockings on, the kind that magically defied gravity and stayed up on the thighs. He'd get to them. Cross swept her up in his arms. She kicked her high heels off and he carried her over to the bed. She was a tall girl and, regardless of how easy it looked when Clark Gable had carried Vivien Leigh up the staircase, carrying a full-grown woman in your arms was never that easy. But he put her down on the bed, without showing her that she'd been anything but light as a feather, then started out of his clothes. Another thing in movies was that guys never wore socks or underpants when they had to dress or undress in a hurry, and though Cross hadn't thought about it that much, he'd never thought he looked his romantic best struggling his socks off.

He threw the rest of his things on the chair and picked up her dress and laid it across the back of the chair.

“Thank you,” she told him.

“I was always polite. Even as a kid.” Cross found the light switch and flicked it off, noticing she was watching him intently.