"But darling,
Germany and the United States are not at war. What harm is there
if we share the occasional bit of . . . gossip? Surely you don't
think that I, a loyal Swede . . ." The question
trailed off in a lethal pout as his beautiful and so very exotic
mistress stretched languidly, mock-innocent appeal in her eyes.
Even though it had been only minutes
since their last lovemaking John Mayhew was as ever overwhelmed
by the sight of her, the shameless pleasure she took in her own
body and its affect on him. Still, he mustn't let her see just
how much she moved him. A relationship had to have some
balance. He stretched in turn, reached over for his cigarettes
and gold-plated Ronson on the art deco nightstand with its
Tiffany lamp. Since he wasn't sure what to say he made a
production out of lighting up and enjoying that first luxurious
after-bout inhalation.
His continued silence earned him a small
punishment.
"Darling . . . isn't it time for you
to leave?"
Playfully, to drive home the potential
loss, she bit his shoulder, then kissed it better.
"Aw, hell, I don't want to . . . I
wish I could just divorce Mrs. Little Goodie
Two-Shoes!"
"I like this
arrangement." She laughed softly. "Mistress to the
Chief of Staff of the President of the United States. Nice title,
don't you think? Such a book I could write."
Mayhew shuddered at the thought.
"Don't even joke about it." But he could trust her to
be discreet. . . . He was sure he could trust her.
More to cover his moment of doubt than
for any other reason, he harked back to her initial gambit.
"One thing we really don't have to worry about is a war
between Germany and the United States. It just isn't in the
cards. There's no way it could happen within the next six months,
and after that - well, just take it from me, nobody is going to
dream of messing with the United States, not even Adolf
Hitler."
"I don't think there is going to be
a war either, but you seem so sure. What is your big secret? You
were so excited about it when you came in here, and now you won't
tell me." Suddenly the pouting sex kitten gave way to
Diana the Huntress. She rolled onto him and somehow was sitting
athwart his chest, her knees pinning his shoulders. "Tell
me, or I will make you do terrible things," she hissed.
Mayhew looked up, and up, and up at his
delicious interrogator. For a moment her intensity almost
frightened him. Then he was overcome by it, by her. His had been
a strict and starchy upbringing, and his marriage had not been
born of love but of political opportunity, though his wife didn't
know that. But he was not yet ready for "terrible
things," so he capitulated. Besides, he wanted to tell. What
good were secrets if you couldn't share?
"Okay. I surrender."
"Lucky for you," she purred,
poised for a moment like delicious doom above him before rolling
off with a laugh. "Such games we have," she whispered
in his ear. "You play wonderfully. Now tell!"
Having given in, characteristically he
stalled. "Sure you're not looking for a story for your
Swedish newspaper?"
She just looked at him. He could tell she
was tiring of the delay.
"Our interests are different,"
he announced as if he were the first to have that particular
insight. "Germany won its war in Europe and will be busy
consolidating its gains for years. Our situation in the Pacific
is much the same: We've won; now it's time to consolidate. There
just isn't any significant conflict of interest between us, and
there won't be for a long time.
"Hell, by the time they've
consolidated Western Russia and the Ukraine and practically all
of Europe, we'll be looking at the next century. Same for us,
especially now that we have this China mess to worry about. We
have no reason to interact with each other. Our paths don't
cross. It's that simple."
"What about the death camps we're
hearing about?"
"What about them? It's a shame
what's happening there, but it's not something to start a war
over." Personally he couldn't care less about the camps, but
he wasn't about to admit that aloud to anybody - not when his
president felt about it the way he did. Continuing with that line
of thought he added, "Even my boss isn't about to throw away
millions of American lives over it, and even if he wanted to
Congress would never allow it. Victory in a war with Germany
would not be a sure thing. Remember 1918? Germans are tough.
Right now the only thing that could move us would be an invasion
of England. That might do it."
"Really?"
"I know it for a fact. I heard my
boss talking about it with the House Minority leader and the
Speaker. They agreed. We don't dare lose England."
"This is so exciting. You really do
hear about everything, don't you?" Her fingers twined the
fur on his chest.
John maintained a smug silence.
"But there's something more. I know
there is. Something that nobody else knows. Now you must tell. Or
. . . " she began to roll onto him again.
"Okay! Okay! there is something
more," he said hurriedly, laughing with just a hint of
nervousness. He stirred at the movement of her fingers, which
were no longer on his chest.
"Can't it wait just a little
while?" he panted, suddenly wanting her very much.
"If you promise faithfully . . .
"
"I promise. Everything!" She
was truly an artist. . . .
* * *
His next coherent words
were:
"We're making this new kind of bomb
. . . "