The Death’s Head Conspiracy

Seven

A chartered plane flew us to Antigua the next morning a couple of hours before the Gaviota was due to arrive. St. Johns, the capital city of the little island, is still very British in the downtown parts. But as soon as you get out into the native quarters, you start to hear the soft, musical calypso language and see the colorful costumes the people wear, not to impress the tourists, but because they like colors.

The travel agent in Queen’s Hotel wasn’t anxious to sell us cruise tickets on the Gaviota.

“You’ve already missed the first part of the cruise,” he said, “and I’ll still have to charge you full price.”

“What do you think, dear?” I asked, bridegroom-like.

Rona ran her tongue sensually over her lips. Tm sure we’ll be able to make do with whatever there is left of the cruise.”

I winked at the travel agent. “You see how it is.”

With some reluctance he made out a couple of tickets for Mr. and Mrs. Hunter. With somewhat less reluctance, he took my money.

Rona and I strolled around a bit, window shopping and holding hands, playing the newlyweds in case anybody was looking us over. Actually, it was not at all a hard part to play.

After a while we wandered down to the docks to watch the Gaviota put in. She was sleek and white with a speedy-looking silhouette, maybe a shade under five hundred feet long. As she pulled alongside the deepwater dock, the happy honeymoon passengers were noticeably absent.

An isolated couple here and there peered smilingly over the rail, but the ship seemed to be sailing with far fewer than her capacity of four hundred passengers. Apparently the new owners were not pushing their product very hard, which was understandable, considering the other ventures they had going.

I watched the few passengers and crew members who left the ship, and the minimal on-and-off loading activity, but saw nothing suspicious and no familiar faces. True to Juan Escobar’s account, most of the crew looked more Slavic than Latin.

Rona and I boarded and located the purser. With a complete lack of enthusiasm he showed us to our stateroom, an outside room one deck below the Promenade. It was sparsely furnished with a chair, a divan, small table, dresser, and twin beds. This last seemed unusual for a honeymoon cruise, but Rona and I soon discovered that they moved easily together on rollers. The rather chilly light was provided by a fluorescent tube over the dresser mirror. I pushed the curtains aside and let some warm Caribbean sunlight stream in the porthole.

Rona crossed to stand close beside me. She said,

“Well, what would you like to do now, hubby dear?”

“I shouldn’t have to tell you what I’d like to do. However, what we are going to do first is take a walk around the ship. Business with pleasure, remember?”

“Oh, all right,” she said. “But if this honeymoon doesn’t liven up pretty soon I may go home to mother.”

I swatted her nicely rounded rear and hustled her out on deck. We strolled the decks for a couple of hours, checking out the bars, gymnasium, dining salon, theater, card room, and gift shop. The scarcity of other passengers was eerie. The honeymoon couples we did meet seemed too intent on each other to notice if anyone else was sailing with them or not. The few crewmembers we met were studiously preoccupied with their tasks, and seemed to find us invisible.

The rest of the afternoon we sat in the observation lounge sipping a couple of those fruity rum drinks while covertly watching who came on board and sizing up the luggage they carried.

At dusk nobody looking remotely like Fyodor Gorodin or Anton Zhizov had come aboard, and no strange suitcases appeared in the hands of returning passengers or crew. Meanwhile, the sweet rum drinks were sloshing uncomfortably in my stomach.

As darkness swept toward us from the Atlantic, the Gaviota gave a couple of toots on her whistle to summon any vagrant passengers back aboard, and we prepared to sail. A native steel drum band serenaded us as the ship eased away from the dock.

We had a light supper in the nearly deserted dining salon, then walked once around the deck and back to our cabin. Inside the door Rona turned to look up at me, and I took her in my arms and kissed her. It began as Just an easy, friendly after-dinner kiss. But then I felt the tip of her tongue lightly, almost shyly, touch my lips, and I had a hunch that the “honeymoon” would be no charade. I had more than a hunch when her sweet little hand slipped under the wasteband of my trousers and groped playfully downward, lingering for an affectionate caress that promised a long night of erotic acrobatics.

She stepped back and, moving with the sensuality that is born in all women but used effectively by only a few, took off her clothes. She did it slowly — from the first button of her blouse to the final shrug of her hips that sent her panties sliding to the floor, revealing her tanned, velvet-smooth skin. Two narrow strips of white traced the outline of the bikini she had worn while sun-bathing. The white borders framed a fluffy-soft triangle that was only a shade darker than her blonde head.

During our frenzied lovemaking in the house at Malibu, I had not had a real chance to appreciate Ronas incredible body. The greyhound leanness she seemed to possess when clothed was deceiving. Although there was not an extra ounce on her anywhere, there were no sharp angles either.

She posed in front of me, enjoying my admiration. “You don’t think I’m too skinny?” she said, her face expressing not the least doubt.

I stroked my chin and tried to look critical “Well, now that you mention it…”

She placed her fingers lightly on my lips. “I get the message. It’s time for me to quit fishing for compliments.”

I closed my arm about her waist and pulled her toward me, kissed the soft little mound of her tummy.

Rona squirmed against me, made whimpering sounds of pleasure as now I explored her belly with my tongue in a slow circle, ever-descending.

I released her and she fell against me, her mouth searching wildly. I lifted her in my arms, and carried her to the bed. There I let her down gently on the satin spread.

Rona caught her lower lip between her teeth and watched with hungry eyes as I slipped out of my clothes.

It is true that we were not really the carefree newlyweds we pretended to be. But I doubt that any legitimate pair of honeymooners ever had a more fulfilling wedding night than ours. Before we finally slept, the first gray light of dawn had smudged the eastern horizon.