Safari for Spies

They Call the Dream Mirella

He was mesmerized by her.

There was a magnetism about her that was almost supernatural. But there was nothing supernatural about her perfectly formed limbs or the way they moved. It was not a dance so much as a suggestion, and not a song so much as an intimate invitation. Intimate, subtle, unmistakable and irresistible.

Nick felt her spell bewitching him and found himself incapable of fighting it off, of even wanting to fight. His will melted as he gazed at her, absorbing her compelling beauty with all his senses. Her luminous, hypnotic eyes, all the more dazzling for the kohl-touched lids, caught his and wrapped them up.

The drumbeat and her palpitating movements changed again. This time she spoke in a lovely liquid accent he found hard to place, though the burnished copper of her skin suggested both North Africa and the Middle East. She would sing, she said, of warriors and a lion hunt, of how they tracked and ran and speared and fought until at last they returned in triumph to their homes, panting from their labors.

At first her lithe movements and the low throbbing of her voice suggested stealth and caution. Gradually they built into the intensity of the hunt and then the kill, and her voice soared to incredible heights before ending with a shuddering sigh. Her feet stamped lightly in a sort of triumph and her hips twitched rhythmically while her breath gasped out its message of exhaustion. Nick had seen young warriors at the end of hunting and he knew her artistry was incredible; and yet to him the movements were not only suggestive of the climax of a hunt but also of a climax far more sensual and ecstatic. At last she closed her eyes and let her arms and head fall back as if into a sleep, and a contented smile played about her lips. Then she was no longer warrior but a woman dreaming of her lover. Her arms rose languidly and began to caress her own body. A veil floated lightly to the floor.

Nick was conscious for the first time of what she was wearing, and even then he could not have described it. It was something shimmering and yet diaphanous when she raised her arms against the lights. It was full, yet molded to her body; and instead of being the single flowing garment he at first thought it was, it was a multiplicity of separate folds and veils. One by one they floated free, and the lovely body swayed and gyrated. A little pulse hammered in Nick’s temple. The woman was incredible; voluptuous without vulgarity, giving of her beauty without shame but not shamelessly; impersonal, almost mysterious, yet warm and infinitely desirable. Somehow all the Yoga training in the world failed Nick at this moment. Breath control be damned! he thought, and felt himself come close to panting.

She looked at him again through long, thick lashes, and he thought he saw a smile that was meant for him alone. Perhaps they all thought that. But he also felt a sense of his own destiny, and knew that she was part of it.

The longest veil wafted to the floor. The drumbeat quickened and the long, lovely hips quickened with it. Another and another twitch of filmy cloth and gracefully spasmodic movement... and she was almost naked in all her female glory. The houselights died silently and the one big beam began to dim. She stretched out her arms imploringly in a gesture that could have meant she’d had enough, or wanted much, much more. Then she tore the last strips off her body almost savagely. An animal grunt swept through the house. For a fractional beat of time she stood there with her magnificent body completely bared and almost still but for a tiny muscular quivering that was far more provocative than the most blatant of sexual gestures; and then the light went out.

Nick felt the breath go out of him like air out of a balloon and he knew from the gusty sounds around him that every red-blooded male in the place was having the same reaction. He felt oddly jealous.

A saxophone crooned into the darkness and the lights came on one by one. Mirella and all her veils had gone. A thumping, clapping, cheering audience demanded her return, but Mirella, said the giant Senegalese emcee, did no encores. One act like hers was all any man deserved, he said, and rolled his eyes. The males in the audience cheered.

The small band was good and a little dark-skinned crooner sang the latest hits from Ghana, the lyrics of which were apparently packed with sly meaning and good humor. Gradually, Mirella’s exotic aura faded and a hundred male dreams melted in the air. Feet tapped, hands clapped, full glasses clinked.

Nick felt deflated. The Ghanese songs were fun, but they had nothing on Mirella. Her spell still lingered over him. It was a long time since he had felt so completely captivated by any woman, so painfully drawn to such overwhelming beauty and desirability. He wondered how he could manage to meet her — send his diplomatic compliments perhaps, and would she join him in a drink? But why had she looked at him like that? If in fact she had. He thought it over. Yes, she had been looking at him. Maybe a message via a waiter would do the trick...

But the message came to him.

“Mr. Ambassador Carter, sir?”

Nick raised his eyebrows and nodded at the waiter before him.

“Miss Mirella sends her greetings, sir, and requests your kind presence in her dressing room. She would come out herself, but she prefers not to be stared at by all the people, if you don’t mind, sir.”

“Delighted,” said Nick. “That’s very kind of her. You’ll show me...?” He reached for his cane and rose.

“This way, sir.”

Nick followed the man across the room and through a swinging double door to the backstage area. It was clean and cheerful and brightly lit, and he had none of the sense of foreboding that so often came when he stepped through strange doorways into back passages.

“Here, sir.” The waiter stopped and tapped at a starred door.

“Come in.”

Nick entered. The waiter closed the door quietly behind him and padded away.

Mirella rose from a soft settee against the wall and stretched out an arm in graceful greeting.

“Mr. Carter? I am very honored.”

Nick held her hand briefly but with warmth. “The honor is mine — and all the luck. To what do I owe it? And what do I call you?”

She smiled, and a chorus of slightly fallen angels sang. Her beauty was even more striking from so near at hand, but she was no wide-eyed innocent working her way through nursing school, nor was she the usual hard-bitten bitch of the nightclub circuit. Everything was her own, from the lovely, knowing eyes to the slightly crooked teeth, from the smooth copper skin to the firm but supple flesh, and everything about her was breathtaking beauty that knew its way around but still thought the world a fine and lovely place. A place more for wild creatures than for human beings, perhaps, but still a place for joyous living and ecstatic loving.

“You call me Mirella. Please sit down.” She gestured at the settee. “Perhaps you would like a drink more satisfying than our light wine?” A small cabinet came open at her touch. Nick noticed ice cubes and glasses waiting. “I almost live here, so I like to have refreshments for my friends. Cognac? Scotch? Irish whiskey? I even have some bourbon.” She smiled again. Nick liked the slightly crooked teeth and the warmth that lit her eyes.

“Scotch, please,” he said. “Save the bourbon and surprise some other guest.”

“There’ll be no other guests tonight,” she answered. “And I haven’t answered your first question.” She paused for a moment while she poured two sturdy shots into the glasses and added just a touch of soda. “I asked you here for two reasons. One, because Rufus asked me to look out for a tall, distinguished looking American with a cane who was doing all he could to find out what’s troubling Nyanga; and two, I saw you watching me. You weren’t — what is the word? yes — drooling, so I liked you. I do not often like the audience, even though the management is very strict about the clientele.” She handed him a glass and sat down on the settee beside him. “To your success and health, Ambassador Carter.”

She raised her glass and looked deep into his eyes. His heart skipped one tiny beat and settled down to something close to normal.

“To yours,” he said warmly. They drank.

Mirella... Mirella... Mirella... Was that what they called the wind? No, not quite. But they should have. She was a sultry summer breeze, a breath of spring — no, she wasn’t. She was a siren on a rock, filling his ears with the music of her voice and turning his knees to jelly, a lovely Lorelei who was all woman from her dark hair to her toes.

They talked for a while, and then they stopped. He found himself staring at her face as if it were the one face in the world he’d ever wanted to be gazing at, and she looked back at him with something in her eyes that matched the pleasant tension of his body.

When they had stared for moments she lowered her eyes and turned her head away. Nick put his glass down and rose instantly.

“Don’t let me outstay my welcome,” he said longingly. “I’m sure you want to rest. I’ll be on my way.”

“Oh, no!” She got up and lightly touched his arm. “Don’t go. I was wondering — you see, my day starts late, so for me it is still early. There are friends I must see tonight, friends of the Makombes, and I thought perhaps you... might care to come with me.” Her dazzlingly lovely face looked into his, and there was something pleading in it. Nothing desperate, nothing of fear; something pleasantly urgent that struck a harmonious chord with what he felt himself.

“I’d love to,” he murmured happily. The back of his mind said “I wonder where the body will be buried?” and all the rest of him shivered pleasurably and said “Oh my God, what a woman, what a woman!”

He helped her into her coat. It slid on smoothly over the gauzy gown that was so much like the one she’d stripped off in filmy pieces onto the floor.

“Thank you,” she said. “Do you mind if we stop off at my place for a moment? They’re the sort of people who sit outdoors at night and listen to the crickets; I’d like to change into something a little warmer. It won’t take long — my apartment’s on the way.”

“Whatever you say. But I’m afraid I don’t have a car.”

“Mine’s outside. Perhaps you’ll drive.” She flashed the wonderful smile at him again and took his arm. The warmth of even that small touch spread through him like a brush fire. He longed to kiss her. But even for Carter it was a couple of minutes too soon.

Singing from the big room followed them to the street, and that was all that did. Nick slid behind the wheel of the expensive year-old car and drove according to her murmured but concise directions. The uniformed gateman at her garden-apartment house greeted them with a smile and guaranteed to take care of the car until their return.

Mirella’s apartment was Cairo modern, plus piles of soft, skin rugs and huge, deep cushions that served as chairs. She latched the door behind them and Nick parked his cane to help her off with her wrap.

“Where shall I put it?”

“Just toss it on the chair — I’ll be needing it again in a few minutes.”

He laid it down gently and turned into the richness of her living room. Mirella touched a switch and the dim light brightened almost imperceptibly. Muted colors came to life.

“It’s lovely,” he said, and meant it.

“Thank you. Drinks and ice are in here...” She brushed against him very lightly as she reached for the cabinet and opened it. Sensation shivered through his veins. She touched another switch and low, blue music filled the room almost instantly, making him tingle suddenly with its tantalizing magic. At least, something was making him tingle. Perhaps it was the way she moved. Or perhaps it was the way her breasts thrust against the filmy fabric that covered them without concealing their temptations. She turned toward him and he knew that, though the music added spice, it was she who was enchanting and she who made his senses whirl, she who had the exciting beauty of a youthful, uncalculating Cleopatra.

“But you’re even lovelier,” he said softly, and thought his voice sounded slightly choked. “And you must hear that so often that it bores you.”

“No.” Her luminous eyes traced a gentle pattern over his face. “It is not something I hear often. I only see the staring, and then I run. I run into a crowd of friends, and meet only their friends, who try not to stare but talk instead about the weather, and then it is that I am bored.” The slight smile on her delectable lips was yet another temptation.

Nick lowered his eyes. “I’ll do my very best to stare no more, and I can say with absolute honesty that I have no desire to talk about the weather. I do want to say that you are the most beautiful and bewitching woman I have ever seen. And the funny thing is, you’re human. And I happen to be crazy about slightly crooked teeth. Now if you don’t go and change I’ll start gaping at you again and you’ll throw me out.”

She laughed, a low and happy sound. Her hand reached over and touched him under the chin, gently raising his head so that his eyes, inevitably, looked right down into hers, and his chin was resting on the soft velvet of her fingers.

“I wouldn’t think of throwing you out. You look at me in a different way, as though you also see my face. And I like it. I like it. I love to be told that I am beautiful. And human!” Her hand released his chin and dropped to his shoulder. “I think that you are beautiful, too. Is that a funny thing to say to a man? Your face is strong and your eyes... they have depth. Cruelty and laughter and determination, that is what I see in them.”

“It’s admiration that you’re seeing now,” said Nick. “Perhaps you’d better not come any closer. Admiration has a way of turning into lust.”

“So it has,” she murmured. “Yes, perhaps you’re right. I must go and change at once.” But the move she made was still toward him, and then her other arm was resting on his shoulder. “And there is such strength about your mouth,” she whispered, almost inaudibly. “I wonder if that can be cruel, too.” Tall though she was for a woman, she had to raise herself on her toes to do what she wanted. Her lips brushed his and lingered lightly. Then the tip of her tongue ran lightly over his lips. Her eyes were half-closed as she said, “Not cruel at all. Too firm, perhaps. Unyielding. But flesh, not stone. Is it ever any softer?”

This time his lips found hers and his arms encircled her. His kiss was light at first, a soft caress and gentle savoring, but when he felt her mouth open under his and her tongue probe his tongue, he allowed himself to yield to his own need. His kiss became passionate and searching, and his mouth fused with hers. Yet he could not get enough, nor could she, and as they held the long, molten kiss their bodies moved closer until they clung as close together as two clothed bodies can.

She bent the spell at last, but did not break it, by turning away her head and sighing deeply. Nick fingered the loose knot of her rich dark hair.

“You shouldn’t have let me do that,” he breathed. “You’ve made me want too much. I want to kiss you all over... I want to take the clothes off you myself...”

Mirella raised her lovely head. “I want it, too,” she whispered. “Kiss me again, and take them off.”

His kiss was less lingering and more urgent than before. Then he slid the gossamer gown down past her shoulders and caught his breath again at the marvelous beauty of her.

“Please, you too,” she said softly. “Undress with me — let me help you.” Her graceful fingers plucked gently at his jacket and took it from him. The luminous eyes narrowed slightly when she saw Wilhelmina resting at the waistband of Nick’s trousers. “You carry a gun?”

“Standard procedure,” Nick said lightly. “In case of enemy action. I’m not always in the company of friends.” He expertly removed one of her filmy undergarments.

“You are safe with me,” she said quietly, and he believed her.

Strange, how wonderful the simple act of undressing could be, when Man undressed Woman and Woman undressed Man.

They did it gently, courteously, exploringly, until they stood before each other like Adam and Eve before the fall. She gazed at him and gave a little sigh, drinking in the splendor of his lean, lithe body and the perfectly shaped limbs marred only by the scars of earlier encounters with the enemy.

“You are beautiful all over,” she said simply. “Come. Please, not the bed. That is for sleeping.” She took him by the hand and led him across the room to where the soft rugs and cushions made a thick, luxurious pile, and they lay down together like a pair of splendid savages in a cave carpeted with fleecy hides and fur.

In the near darkness of their embrace Nick caught sight of the tiny tattooed AXE symbol on his inner elbow. It glowed faintly, a permanent and graphic reminder that he was Spy, not Savage, and the most beautiful and desirable women he had known had not always been the ones deserving of his trust. And so, even when he believed in them and loved them, he held back a fragment of his trust to stand guard and keep reminding him — along with the AXE tattoo — that he was more Killmaster than lover and that a spy had few real friends.

But it was not always easy to remember. Mirella’s subtle touch electrified him. He stroked her softly and touched her in all the lovely places his eyes had shared with all those others, and then he touched the secret places that others had not seen. She trembled a little, and began the pulsating movement of her provocative dance. Only now it was real, and it found a response that gave it meaning and added vitality. Their thighs came together and rotated voluptuously until Nick’s senses reeled and he felt all control slipping from him. He gently disengaged their clinging bodies and changed position so that he could start again, knowing that his every muscular movement and gently stimulating touch were giving her exquisite pleasure. And she knew the art of love as well as he; she was volatile and languorous, now lazy as a cat and then agile as an acrobat; and she gave him all the ecstatic variations her womanly knowledge and her supple body had to offer.

Sparks flew between them. They came together in a dozen different ways and lit a hundred little fires until suddenly she gasped and began to jerk beside him. He rolled over on to her and attacked as he sensed she wanted to be attacked — rhythmically, with vigor, and yet with controlled subtlety. Then she moved convulsively and held him to her and would not let him go, raising her body to bring his even closer, and he felt her tightening around him until the exquisite pleasure was too much to hold back. Wild exhilaration swept them both as one, and kept them together in their intimacy for incredibly long, impassioned moments. They parted then, first to draw breath and then to kiss, and then they made more love until the glowing embers died down to a faint, relaxing glow. Sighing, they stretched out with their bodies barely touching, and were silent.

At last she said drowsily, “I really did promise I’d go out. Do you still want to come with me? Or perhaps you have had enough of me.” She eyed him pleadingly in the soft light.

Nick raised himself on one elbow and looked at her with surprise.

“Mirella! How could I have had enough of you? Of course I want to come!” He drew her to him and kissed her tenderly, feeling passion stir in him again.

She returned his kiss with something like gratitude mixed with gentle urgency, and then she pulled back with a laugh.

“No, we must not start again, or people will be bound to think it strange when we arrive together so late. But — shall we shower together?”

Nick agreed enthusiastically.

They laughed and fondled each other under the warm water like children discovering each other, and when they found the children growing up too rapidly and beginning to act like very experienced adults, they turned on the cold water and cooled off.

They both dressed rapidly, in separate rooms, and when they stepped out of her apartment they looked as cool and decorous as if they’d spent the evening discussing the respective climates of Washington and West Africa... both of which are very warm in summer.