Kiss The Boys and Make Them Die by James Yardley - Chapter 01

Genre: Vintage Sleaze / Lady Spies

With the promise of red-hot action and uninhibited adventure, super-girl Kiss Darling strips for action... 

Kiss Darling had nerves of steel, a computerized intelligence, and a body designed provocatively for the pleasure of men...She had one weakness. She was a virgin... 

Kiss the Boys and Make them Die! 

Investigating the sales of ancient Egyptian jewelry involves Kiss Darling and her ex-Flying Squad boss with assassins, Bedouins, belly-dancers, revolutionaries, ceremonial sacrifices, duels and death in a Pharaoh's tomb hidden beneath the rising waters of the Nile... 

CHAPTER ONE 

... The semi-official Cairo newspaper AL AHRAM, yesterday announced that the President will attend the celebrations at the Aswan High Dam to mark its final dedication to the nation and people. January 5th will be declared a day of national rejoicing ... 

Reuter. 

FIFTY FEET beneath the plate-glass surface of the Nile the gigantic face of Rameses II, Pharaoh of the World, Lord of the Universe, High Priest of Life and Death, glimmered in the deep pale-green water. 

Frog-eyed and serene, carved out of the sheer cliff face more than three thousand years ago, it was now drowned for ever by the slowly rising waters of the High Dam two hundred miles to the north. And it dwarfed to tadpole dimensions the two frogmen swimming downwards across the enormous right eyeball. 

Flippers waving, tiny streams of bubbles escaping from their air cylinders, they paused, clinging to the rim of a hole which had been cut through the center of the iris. Squirming through into the narrow tunnel beyond, the leader switched on his helmet light and pulled himself forward. Ten yards farther on, his light picked out a short flight of steps. They turned upwards, barred at the top by a thick partition of glass. He fumbled against the wall for the electric switch and snapped it down. Machinery hummed and the barrier slid back. He swam through into the glass tank and waited for his companion to join him. He depressed a second switch and the airlock slid shut behind them. 

A swirl of water at the bottom of the tank indicated that the pumps were working. As the water drained down wards he lifted his mask. The face revealed was handsome, hard and arrogant. He motioned to the other to do the same. The second man was short, thickset and completely bald, a physical trait which gave his head an odd, egg-shaped look and as if to compensate for his lack of hair a thick mustache filled in the space between his upper lip and pudgy nose. You will seal off this airlock eventually?' he asked. 

'Of course. It is insecure. That's why we needed the French engineers for the lift. My men did the laboring, the French provided the expertise.' 

Egghead's rubbery lips barely moved. 'This is where we dispose of them?' 

The tall man's voice was cold and irritated. 'You are the last of the Council to be called because I knew that you would be eager to deal with the French. But do not let your past and painful experiences influence your judgment. 

Egghead stroked his mustache. 'Yes, torture is painful and tends to distort one's outlook. But the Pharaohs also observed the tradition of silencing workers whose usefulness had ended.' 

The tall man nodded agreement.

‘And this is the place?' Egghead insisted.

'Yes, they are waiting anxiously for our signal.' 

Egghead's eyes were wide with anticipated pleasure. 'We must satisfy their curiosity.' 

The water gurgled away. The tall man pressed another switch and they stepped out of the airlock into a large antechamber lit by a single naked electric bulb. The lime stone walls were covered with ancient Egyptian frescoes and hieroglyphs. Egghead stared at them in fascination as they slipped off flippers, masks and air cylinders before climbing the short flight of steps to the corridor. From a rack of assorted robes they each selected an Arabburnous. Dressed in these they approached two enormous doors painted in brilliant colors and inlaid with beaten gold. The tall man placed his palms against them and pushed gently. They swung back on greased hinges. 

Beyond was a great cavern of darkness. Immediately they were dramatically conscious that they were interlopers in an ancient forgotten world. It smelled of antiquity. Somehow in the warm still air there remained a residue of evil, pervasive and intimidating. In this place a Pharaoh's authority had been omnipotent; life more readily expendable than Nile water. From the blackness the protecting gods with heads of birds and animals stared with inhuman eyes towards them and three thousand years had not diminished their power or menace. 

A tiny speck of light appeared in the distance bobbing towards them. They heard the faint sound of footsteps. Far away the cracked voice of an old man called, 'Ahlan wahsahlan, hadritak.' 

'Mahmoud,' explained the leader, stepping through the doorway. 'He has lived in this place ever since I brought him here. He rarely leaves. Now I think he has gone quite mad.' 

Mahmoud wore a white gallabieh and turban and carried a small electric torch. His beard was grey, his skin seemed like dried camel hide. But his eyes were alert in the torchlight. 

The tall man greeted him. 'Have they finished the lift?' he asked. 

Mahmoud touched his forehead and breast ceremoniously. 'Three days ago it was finished. As arranged. I sent you the signal.' 

The tall man nodded. 'I could not come at once. I had to summon my colleague.' He indicated Egghead. 

'They are very curious. I have told them that when they bring the lift down this time I will unlock the great doors and reveal the mysteries.' 

'Then we will make them happy at last.' 

The two men followed the old servant. Their sandals clattered on the tessellated pavement as they tracked Mahmoud's tiny circle of torchlight. The echoes slid and lapped away into the ocean of darkness. Momentarily the torchlight touched the buttresses of immense columns fantastically inlaid and decorated, paused for a split second to identify the claw feet of gigantic figures, nightmarish and sinister. Fifty yards along the wide pavement the tall man paused and took Mahmoud's torch. He lifted its beam to spotlight a pedestal latticed with gold and cornelian. 

'Here,' he said softly, 'is our symbol. The source of lust and life. The mysterious beginnings of all things.' 

The light swung upwards over a golden foot and Egghead's pale eyes followed the torch-beam as it rose higher revealing the hideous head. 'Why?' he demanded. 'Why?' 

The other turned on him belligerently. 'don't you understand? To create a revolution—to build an empire—we need a symbol of power, a symbol of worship. Our followers need this magic as plants need water.' 

Egghead was angry at this sudden attack. 'did Marx have symbols?' he retorted. 'did Christ? The word, my friend, is the power which unites your disciples and wins your revolutions. Not this.' His mouth twisted in disgust. 

Old Mahmoud, only half understanding, looked at them in alarm sensing the abrasive bitter antagonism which linked the two men like an electric circuit. 

'Christ performed miracles. Marx died long before his philosophy killed the Tzar! Time for us is short. Both Christians and Communists needed symbols. The Romans demanded pagan gods, centurions, Caesars. Hitler came to power under the swastika.' 

Egghead turned back to stare at the figure that seemed to crouch formless and hideous in the darkness. But this!' he said contemptuously, 'three thousand years old. An image!' 

The tall man gripped his arm in a quick involuntary gesture. 'You're a fool. The image is reality. We have searched for months. Combed every city in the Middle East, every capital in the world: New York, Berlin, Paris, London. And now, at last, we have found what we want.' 

Kiss was aware that Angus Fane's slightly bloodshot blue eyes were focused directly upon the low decolletage of her clinging dress. That meant hangover. 

'For a fully paid-up member of the Virgins' Union, Miss Darling,' he said sourly, 'isn't that thing designed to give men fundamental ideas about rape?' 

Kiss smiled. 'A girl tries to look her best,' she said demurely. 

Fane made the noise of a sleeping rattlesnake nicked by a passing lawnmower and she knew this was one of his bad days. With luck it might be the onset of bubonic plague or some more incurable blight. 

'What's the matter?' she asked. 'Did Miss Finchingham stand you up again?' 

Miss Finchingham's horsey face, frosty eyes and ragged mustache terrorized all members of that small but exclusive section who dared to submit expense accounts for her approval. Not that Terrington, Orderling, Prentiss and Percival, insurance brokers since slightly before Noah took to his Ark, were small. In size and complexity they were rivaled only by Hall and Prentiss of New York, Deterding and François of Paris, and Lloyds of London. Their thirty-story skyscraper overlooking Hyde Park testified expensively to the volume of their business and the prestige of their clients. 

Capitalizing on her victory, Kiss leant over to extract a cigarette from the gold-plated box on Fane's desk, tantalizing him with the smooth revealed beauty of her upper superstructure. 

Ignoring the prospect, Fane glared down into the cigarette box with reluctant admiration. 'God Almighty, you can even find the Dunhill Special hidden amongst the Gold Leaf.' 

Kiss flicked a light from the Ronson lighter and recrossed her legs. 'It took me a year to understand your minor meannesses. The major ones are still a source of unexpected surprise.' She blew a thin spiral of smoke into the air. 'Perhaps I could hear why you wanted to see your valuable personal assistant.' 

'Certainly,' said Fane, at once affable now that he was about to score a predictable victory. 'A little surprise for you.' He smiled like a Japanese executioner about to deliver the chop. 'You're fired!' 

Kiss choked on an intake of smoke. A division of two thousand, seven hundred and fifty a year, plus reasonable expenses, was not the normal Friday-night take of every attractive twenty-three year old. The thought of the quarter's rent on the new Knightsbridge apartment, the down-payment on the Volvo, the account at Harrods, swam up through her consciousness like three hungry sharks. For five seconds she forgot how valuable she was and imagined life in an Earls Court bedsitter. 

'You bastard!' she said with feeling. 

Fane, always pleased to arouse a human instinct in his lovely assistant, looked benevolent. Beauty came and beauty withered and Kiss Darling was springtime and summertime: moonlight on silvery seas and sweet Neapolitan songs sung sotto voce by soapy tenors. That she was designed provocatively for the pleasure of men had never escaped Angus Fane's riveted attention: indeed, sometimes he lay awake nights in erotic conjecture of those rounded pneumatic breasts, that firm convex belly naveled as sweetly as the apex of a Cox's Orange Pippin, and those buttocks and loins of incomparable temptation. 

His intelligence and experience warned him, however, that she would never throw more than a look of vague distrust at the face weathered by forty-three summers, one disastrous marriage which had left its own emotional scars, and more hops into the hay than he cared to remember. After his second large Scotch (preferably out of the office cabinet), he sighed for his lost youth which once, at least, might have entered the competition for this taut beauty and rare feminine intellect. 

He remembered the first time she had appeared in his office. Observing her he had known at once that even should she turn out to be as dim as a YMCA nightlight, brainless as a Rhode Island hen, he would make every effort to recruit her for his department. For the beauty of Kiss Darling was enough to revive the sexual genes of an octogenarian. 

At that moment in past history she had worn a long sleeved navy-blue dress, mini-skirted but high at the neck, which did little to disguise the territories which curved underneath. She sat opposite him while he scanned her credentials with rapt, you might almost say, stupefied attention: upper-bracket school for girls, Sorbonne at sixteen, Oxford at seventeen and a half, Bachelor of Arts, Master of Arts, a Doctorate at twenty. Honors in Greek, Persian and Arabic. Fane who had escaped from grammar school at the age of sixteen had never seen anything like it. Her IQ was obviously equivalent to genius. And what was this? 'Computerized intelligence therapy under Dr Ludwig von Konigsblatten.' 

'What the hell does that mean?' he asked curiously. 

'Dr Ludwig von Konigsblatten of Heidelberg University,' she answered, as if anyone who was anyone knew all about Dr Ludwig. 

‘I've never heard of him,' said Fane flatly. 

She smiled. 'Perhaps it's not your subject, but most educational authorities are aware that within fifty years computerized instruction will be commonplace. Dr Ludwig is very advanced, he tested his theories on me.' 

'So you were his guinea pig. Go on.' 

'It would take a long time to explain. Simply, information is fed straight into the brain which, of course, is itself a computer. If your mind has the correctly conditioned reflexes and assimilative cells you can be indoctrinated within weeks and months with higher levels of learning and information which could take years of study to acquire. A pumping in process, in fact.' 

'I see. Does it ever come out again?' She looked at him without smiling. 'I hope so.' 

'Good,' said Fane. 'Of course in this job I'm not sure we need a computerized intelligence. Let me give you an example.' He fished into his desk and produced the piece of genuine Tabriz which had given them so much trouble in the fake Persian-carpet racket emanating out of Beirut, three years ago. 'Now, what about this?' 

She examined the piece of red carpet carefully. 'It was made for the Banaluja mosque.' She pointed, 'Look, this tiny Arabic inscription in the corner.' 

Fane hadn't a clue where it was made but he said with interest. 'Anything more?' 

She turned it over, running her fingers across the warp. 'You know there are still quite a few fabulous old pieces being discovered in the old mosques around Tabriz. The knotting and shearing of this piece is typical.' She made up her mind. 'Yes, I'd say this was certainly made by the great grandfather of Amin el Adhir.' 

'Who's he?' 

'He weaves carpets in the village of Banaluja. He owns the small shop at the left-hand side of the village entering from the direction of Teheran. He still uses the same vegetable dyes as his great grandfather.' 

'You wouldn't know the name of his eldest son, I suppose?' said Fane sardonically. 

'Amin has no son. His eldest daughter is named Safinaz.' 

'Of course,' said Fane, reproving himself. 'I should have known that.' He put the piece of carpet back into his desk drawer and lit another cigarette to give himself time to think. 

In the next few minutes he tested her knowledge on many of the subjects which concerned the investigations made by his office: gold smuggling, Middle East intrigue, oriental jewelry, tapestries, Pharaonic treasures, oil sheikhs, works of art, drugs (his department discreetly handled many hushed-up affairs outside the jurisdiction of the Law or Interpol). At the end of the interview, having proved conclusively that she knew approximately fifteen times more about each subject than he did, he said grudgingly, 'And what good do you think you could be to this mighty empire of insurance on which the sun never sets?' 

'I'm not really interested in insurance as such. The more adventurous aspects of investigation appeal to me.' 

'Who told you what we do? We're supposed to be a highly confidential section of TOPP.' 

'Lord Kenshon. He said the job might suit me.' 

Fane pushed back the Dunhill Special which had slipped a centimeter from his lower lip. Lord Kenshon owned eighty-five percent of TOPP. In Fane's genealogy he sat slightly closer to the right hand of God than Saint Peter. 

'I suppose you wouldn't like my job?' he said faintly. 

'I don't think so.' She gave him a sweet smile to hide the fact that she had been considering just that. 'Not yet, anyway. A few men are needed in every organization. At least, my father always said that.' 

'I'd love to meet him,' said Fane sourly. 'Who is he?'

'Lieut-Colonel Sebastian Darling. You may have heard of him?' 

Fane had heard of him. He was one of those special 'nuts' the British so often produce, a nut about the Near East, a cross between Glubb Pasha, Sir John Philby, Lawrence of Arabia and Omar Sharif. One of those idiotic eccentric Englishmen who prefer riding a hairy-assed camel across a waterless desert to chatting up a bird in a saloon bar. Fane wanted no part of him. Though he wouldn't mind a part of his daughter. 

He also didn't find out until much later that she had inherited an historic title from her mother. She kept that very quiet. 

‘My mother died when I was two. My father didn't know what to do with me so he stuffed me into his saddle bag and took me with him. I learned quite a lot.' 

'You seem to have learned everything,' said Fane gloomily. 'I expect you know all about me.' 

'You want me to guess?' 

'Go ahead. With those computerized brain cells it must be like stealing a bottle from a baby.' 

Kiss considered. 'You're from the North Midlands. Stoke-on-Trent, Newcastle-under-Lyme, Stafford, or some where ... quaint? Police in the first place, I would say, probably came up from the ranks to say— Chief Inspector? Obviously ended up at Scotland Yard?' 

'Flying Squad,' he intervened. 'In my terms that's as good as the Brigade of Guards.' 

'If you say so,' said Kiss. 'did you retire early because you wanted to remain honest in the face of graft? Fairly honest, that is. And of course there is more money in private enterprise? I think you find this job as Director of TOPP Special Assignment Department much more suitable. You're not confined by either police procedure or the necessity to act within the law.' 

Fane said, 'Can you also read teacups?'

'Am I being too personal?'

'Oh, please be personal.' 

'If you insist,' said Kiss. 'You've been married at least once. Definitely a womanizer. Compulsive? Perhaps. Yet, at root, like most men you are a puritan. In fact you despise women because of this puritanical sense of guilt. Does it ever inhibit your lovemaking?' 

Fane fumbled uncertainly for another cigarette and failed to light it the first time. 

'Shall I go on?' asked Kiss.

'Oh, please do.' 

'You like your job and you're good at it. But it's a policeman's pleasure in understanding and latching on to big international swindlers rather than an artist's under standing that the false must be exposed and the truly beautiful protected.' 

'Gawd!' said Fane, utterly defeated. 'I can't stand any more. What about you? Any chinks in your armor?' 

'Yes,' said Kiss, 'Of course. Everyone has weaknesses.'

'Name one.' 

She thought rapidly and selected the one she knew he would enjoy. 'I'm a virgin.' 

Fane blew out an elephant sigh of relief. He put his hands on the desk, and said heartily. 'I'm sure we can do something about that.' 

In the course of the next few months, Kiss often regretted her revelation. Having repulsed the advances of various amateurs in parked cars, hotel suites, dimly lit discotheques and various other establishments from an early age, she found herself moving into her twenty-third year still intact. To dispose of woman's greatest gift was proving a delicate job. But when she was finally overwhelmed and possessed by the male animal she was determined that it should be accomplished by the man of her own choice. 

She had indeed taken a long hard look at Angus Fane and decided that work should rarely be mixed with pleasure; that he was far too primitive and tough to offer her the finely tuned delight she wanted of her first sexual experience, and that the double room in the requisite hotel would certainly figure blatantly on his expense account as 'Entertainment'. 

But she had been very happy working under this noisy, flamboyant, iconoclastic ex-policeman. The fact that he was now preparing to fire her came as an unscheduled, unexpected shock. She needed the money, she needed the job. 

'I've done nothing wrong,' she protested vehemently.

'Better if you had, perhaps,' said Fane. He pulled open a drawer in his desk and pushed a large colored photograph towards her. 'tell me exactly what this is and I might just possibly reconsider.' 

Kiss bent her chestnut head over the shiny colored reproduction of a necklace. The design had been cut out of a thick plate of gold. In the cut-outs gold wire threaded round intricate designs of semi-precious stones, petaled flowers of turquoise, tiny leaves of lapis lazuli, delicate buds of cornelian. The whole necklace had been burnished to give the effect of cloisonné enamel; it was a creation of striking outrageous beauty. 

Fane watched her move her fingers across the picture as if she was feeling it. 'Impossible,' she said, 'Quite impossible.' 

'Yes?' queried Fane. 

'Nineteenth Dynasty. But from where? Cairo museum? No, they've nothing as lovely as this. I can't believe it. Fantastic!' 

'How much?' 

'It's priceless. To a collector buying at Sotheby's, perhaps a quarter of a million. Who can tell? There are fifty museums around the world who'd give a year's income for this.' The large grey eyes stared up into his. 'Where is it from?' 

'You are now,' said Fane, 'to use an American cliché, probably repugnant to your highly educated mind, asking the 64,000 dollar question.' 

'Well then, who has it now?' 

Fane bent across the desk towards her. 'I think you do,' he said softly. 

General Ephraim Buckholster, (Buck, to his wartime buddies), roared down Corridor F, Pentagon East Wing and smashed in through his office door with the violent panache he had shown on that glorious day in 1944 when his tanks had outrun Patton's left flank and that seared old warrior had sent him a case of Bourbon as a stinging rebuke. 

He tossed the confidential report on Meadow's desk with slithering contempt; his bellow loud enough to be heard in the blue drawing-room of the White House. 'Tell me, what in the name of holy moose-crap is Ellis playing at?' 

The First Secretary placed the tips of his fingers together. He looked into outer space, searching like a guru for philosophical calm. He reflected for the thousandth time on this sad march of events. It had been hell enough in LBJ's time, but Nixon had obviously released this batch straight from the Retired Officers' Mental Home. 

'General,' he said politely, 'Ellis is one of our best men.' 

The General thumped down on the table as if it had just bitten him. 'Let me tell you, sir, I expect to get my gossip from the columns of the Missouri Herald, not from a highly paid agent.' 

Meadows slid into the reassuring voice he used with congenital military idiots, 'General, the fact that the Israelis are manufacturing and stockpiling the bomb is now current gossip even in the bars of Beirut.' 

The General hit the table again. 'So that's where he collects his holy moose-crap: the bars, brothels and homos of Beirut? All this crap about some Gyppo organization teaming up with the Jews to confront the Americans and the Russians with a new, dynamic third force! Hasn't he heard that the Jews and Gyppos don't like each other! Hasn't he read those goddamn editorials about the Middle East being the powder keg under world politics?' 

'Yes, sir,' said Meadows wearily. 

'Doesn't he know that the only goddamn thing those goddamn Jew and Gyppo bastards can come to a unanimous decision about is circumcision? And if they did the complete operation it would save us all a whole lot of trouble.' 

Meadows tried politeness again. 'Ellis is one of our most reliable agents, if he reports...' 

The General brushed aside all defenses. 'Get off a coded 3D stroke A to that maniac and tell him we want more hard-assed information. Does he think that the Sixth Fleet can operate on that sort of moose-crap? Jesus, by itself that expense account of his is big enough to run the Fleet. What's he spend the money on? Women?' 

'I expect so, sir,' said Meadows, abandoning all hope. 

'And add a rider to that telex. As from here on in, tell him to leave the tits alone. Or, better still, tell him to get the message that in the Middle East every tit is full of oil. Valuable oil!' 

'Ya habibi,' said the Minister in terms of quiet familiarity. Although I sit on the right hand of the President and am therefore in touch with his innermost thoughts, the Bureau has heard a rumor on the wind and passed the word to the President. He is worried.' 

The tall man smiled, 'But we are not yet identified?'

'That is only a matter of time. CIA are making their usual elephantine investigations. The Russians are puzzled, contorting their necks wondering whose backside they must kiss next. The situation for them is bewildering enough, as they try to operate in a country where the official policy is to throw all Communists into jail. Do not smile, my friend, you have not much time.' 

The tall man patted the other's shoulder. 'We don't need much time. We have the woman. We are prepared.' 

The Minister took off his glasses, breathed on the lenses and polished them with a white lawn handkerchief he extracted from the breast-pocket of his exquisite cashmere jacket. 'This seems to be a computation entirely laden with danger. Women have confused more men in history than were ever destroyed by war. How deeply are you involved?' 

'She is useful. When her potential is exhausted, we shall liquidate her.' 

The Minister held up his glasses to the bright Cairo sunlight pouring through the window and replaced them. 'Liquidate or liberate, does anyone know the difference these days? You have a Stalinist quality of ruthlessness, ya habibi, which I do not know whether to fear or admire.' 

'Moreover, gentlemen,' added Valitsaris, in the gentle accents nurtured by Eton, Christ Church and the wealth of a Greek father whose pipe-lines had first sucked oil from the barren desert and tankered it to the creaking internal combustion engines of the early twentieth century, 'I would tell you this. The sources of information open to International Oil Consortium, suggest that the events in Iran, Venezuela and Nigeria are all linked to this mysterious jostling in the Near East.' 

He allowed his eye to wander from the polished board room table through the window of the fourteenth floor of the Shell Building to the magnificent view down the Thames. 

'We have, of course, observed in the past that such activity is often linked with Russian or Chinese power ploys in these areas. But this is a new Near Eastern syndrome which, to say the very least, is disturbing.' 

Lord Braceburn-Cruse, whose father had also taken the precaution of investing some ten million in oil long ago, decided it was time to ask his question. 'Who've you put on the job?' 

'Cacoyannis has gone to Beirut.' 'the man's a bloody fool!' 

'Precisely. Therefore no one will suspect him of any thing as subtle as tracking down information.' 

Braceburn-Cruse was unimpressed. 'I hope you're right. And I hope there's no danger of our Middle East supplies being held up. Those hundred-thousand-ton tankers are a vast expense.' 

Valitsaris looked at the long nylon-smooth legs of his personal secretary taking the minutes. She straightened her shoulders and her beautiful breasts were outlined by her prim white blouse. He remembered with voluptuous satisfaction the texture and shape of those breasts and how her dark hair, now coiled tightly behind her head, could be released from the cunning elastic band which held it in place so that it flowed down over her white curved body and her nipples stood up like little islands under the dark river. 

Reluctantly Valitsaris returned to oil. 'We have always been able to play one government or consortium against the others. But if some new authoritative power were able to cut off both wells and reserves simultaneously, then in spite of our enormous world assets, we should be in trouble. World wide trouble. And it is my opinion that something very strange indeed is taking place beneath the eyes of the inscrutable Sphinx.' 

The red light glowed as the lift came down through the long shaft cut through solid rock. The steel doors slid open. Inside were four men who would never be taken for anything else but Frenchmen. Three of them wore berets and faded blue overalls, the fourth, hair thinning and fifty-ish, a crumpled gray tropical suit. 

The three in overalls stepped out talking and gesticulating, exuding an aroma of garlic and Gauloises. The older man looked out more cautiously, a slightly troubled look in his eyes. His voice was puzzled as he observed the two men standing with Mahmoud. 'But how did you get here? We have been waiting by the lift for two hours. We thought it was the only way down.' 

'It will be clear to you in a few minutes, my friend,' said the tall man, taking him by the arm. 'Come with me and you will understand why you and your colleagues were asked to sink this lift-shaft down through the rock.' 

He led the way to the great bronze doors. Mahmoud produced a huge key from the pocket of his gallabieh and fitted it in the lock and the tall man turned back towards them. 

'I have demanded absolute secrecy from all of you,' he continued. 'Even your whereabouts has remained secret from your families, and for this I have paid you well. No doubt you have often wondered why. Now you shall see.' 

Mahmoud unlocked the doors and gently pushed them open. The darkness beyond was absolute. 

A moment,' cautioned the tall man holding up his hand. 'First we shall pass through the great temple. I would ask you not to stop to examine anything but to proceed with me to the focal point of our journey. On our return you may look at everything at your leisure.' 

The four men crowded after him through the doorway following Mahmoud's tiny torch-beam. Their astonished comments were muted as if they were visiting a cathedral. At last they arrived at the flight of steps leading down to the airlock. Mahmoud switched on the single bulb. The tall man walked down the steps first. 

'This, gentlemen,' he explained, 'is where it all began. I constructed this airlock before you arrived to sink the lift-shaft. Outside is the Nile. An enormous face of Rameses II is carved against the side of the cliff that once overlooked the waters. Hidden behind that face, undiscovered for three thousand years is the temple you have just walked through.' 

He turned to them. As you know, many ancient monuments like the ones at Abu Simbel have been saved from the rising waters of the High Dam at Aswan and moved to safety. But many monuments along the Nubian Nile will soon be covered for ever by water. This great face of Rameses was impossible to move from the sheer cliff, and the waters have closed over it. Would you like to examine the airlock?' 

The three French workmen walked into the cage, touched the walls of thick glass plate and nodded admiringly at the skill and craftsmanship. The older Frenchman hesitated before following them. He glanced anxiously over his shoulder before he went inside. 

The tall man looked at Mahmoud. As if waiting for the signal the old servant shot out his hand. It closed on the small black lever mounted in its steel housing on the wall. He snapped it downwards. The heavy glass panel began to slide shut. 

The elderly Frenchman turned, shouted a warning and leapt towards the gap. He might have made it; he was in fact almost through when the .38 Webley appeared in Egghead's hand. The bullet struck the Frenchman half way down the left lapel of his gray suit. His mouth opened, his face sagged in disbelief. He fell back into the arms of his colleagues. The glass panel closed with a heavy snap of finality. From behind it stared three frightened faces. 

Immediately water poured in from the entry pipes set in the walls, bubbling and foaming around the feet of the trapped men with the wild detergent life of liquid inside a washing-machine. Their mouths were wide open as they screamed, pounding and kicking at the heavy glass panel. Their agony was inaudible. The water climbed quickly up to their waists and they thrashed about like frenzied fish. As it rose higher they began to swim. 

Swiftly it reached the top of the tank. They drowned quite quickly, three men in baggy blue overalls turning over like untidy blue sacks. Their soggy berets floated near them, little black mushrooms against the ceiling. In the last paroxysms of death they still jerked in the water. Only the elderly man was quiet. He floated like a bloated starfish in the center of the tank, a long snake of misty blood twisting slowly upwards from the wound in his chest. 

The tall man turned away. He spoke to Mahmoud. 'When you get them out examine their bodies. Make sure you have all their papers and passports. Afterwards you know what to do.' 

He touched Egghead on the shoulder, 'Now,' he said, 'Now, it can all begin!' 

Kiss let the photograph slip through her fingers and fall on to the desk. She sat back in her chair and re-crossed her legs. She said nothing. 

'Well,' repeated Fane. 'Have you got the necklace?'

'You've been drinking.' 

Fane stood up. 'Not a hope, but it's a good idea. I could do with a Guinness. Come on, let's go.' 

'It is four o'clock in the afternoon,' said Kiss coldly. 'the pubs are shut.' 

'Not the Tatty Ogle. That's open every afternoon. Besides, I've arranged to meet someone there. Get your coat.' 

Outside in the pale November sunlight of Park Lane the mist clung to the wet outline of the charcoal-black trees. The four lanes of traffic were already building up as the early rush hour began. In the park autumn remnants of the leaves fluttered like little rags on the cold boughs, and on the raised grassy bank between the two traffic highways a man in a cloth cap and an old raincoat brushed them into a whispering heap. 

Fane stopped a taxi and said, 'Corner of Brewer Street and Regent Street.' He pushed Kiss in first. 

The taxi turned left at the Dorchester, waited patiently at the lights in South Audley Street and swept up into Grosvenor Square. Fane glanced at the American Embassy. 'Any good demonstrations this weekend?' 

Kiss, in no mood for an armistice, kept her nose pointing straight ahead. 'Why? Are you getting back into uniform? Going to pound the beat?' 

Fane was scornful. 'How a girl of your intelligence can get herself mixed up in all these adolescent marches and demonstrations beats me.' 

Kiss maintained her isolation in the corner. 'Mr Fane, what I do when I leave the office is my own affair. Not yours. If I believe that by demonstrating I can stir a few pin-headed politicians to alter our society into something more decent and equable then I shall continue to demonstrate.' 

'Temper, temper,' said Fane. 'Don't get yourself locked up yet. We may need you.' 

'You fired me ten minutes ago—remember.' 

He was smug. 'A temporary dismissal which will be explained in due course.' 

Fane paid off the taxi driver and led her through an arcade of shops, picked his way past the dustbins and piled cardboard boxes in the yard behind and went down the flight of steps which led to the underground bar. 

The Tatty Ogle was the kind of place adored by Englishmen, a sort of sleazy underground country pub set in the heart of London. Determinedly tatty, resolutely 1936. Faded pictures of cricket and football teams of that period; a few singular curios to add the right eccentric touch. A fake dried woman's head the size of an orange with twisted mouth, pointed teeth and lank black hair hanging from the skull was suspended on a string above the bar. A hinged set of shark's teeth, a ship in a whiskey bottle, a pennant from HMS Prince of Wales stood amongst the glasses. 

Fane sat on a stool and greeted the blonde woman behind the bar with hearty familiarity. 'Pint of draught Guinness, Edna dear, and a ginger ale.' He turned back to Kiss. 'That's right, isn't it?' 

'At this time in the afternoon, yes. I'd prefer a cup of tea, but I suppose that's out.' 

'Absolutely out,' said Fane, picking up the drinks and leading the way across to a small table. He took a long swig of the frothy Guinness, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, 'Just what I wanted.' 

Kiss sipped her ginger ale, 'Now you've been fed, you can stop acting like a neurotic bloodhound and start explaining.' 

'Ah, yes,' said Fane, as if the matter had just been brought to his attention. 'You've heard of Ross Bender Jr?' 

'Of course.' Everyone had heard of Ross Bender and his six disastrous marriages, his private yachts and planes, his film ventures based on a vast fortune made by his dad, a haberdasher from Illinois who had hit upon the original idea that a hundred million women would be willing to buy a yard of elastic and two pieces of gauze called by a French name in which to suspend their mammary glands. 

'The picture I showed you—that necklace—it's in Ross Bender's private collection. He thinks it's stolen property so he's keeping his mouth shut. One of our contacts found out.' 

'You've got a damn nerve,' said Kiss indignantly. 'You accuse me and you know I haven't got it.' 

‘Not that necklace. Its twin. It's here in London.'

'Why pick on me?'

'I'll come to that in a minute. First let me explain that three other pieces of Pharaonic jewelry have also appeared, purchased from some mysterious source, by, shall we say, not very ethical collectors. The Möhler Elhrich Museum in East Berlin, the Museo Alhambra in Venezuela and another private millionaire collector in Dallas.' 

'All right. I'm impressed. Now tell me where I come in?' 

Fane stared at his Guinness with misty affection. 'The fabulous, and I use the word in its exact meaning, wealth of the Cairo museum is insured between four of the biggest companies in the world. Of which TOPP is one. 

'And you thought this jewelry had been stolen from the Cairo museum?' 

'Kiss baby, you're dead right. When the news broke the balloon went up to stratospheric heights. Cables were fired at our man in Cairo like machine-gun bullets.' 

‘And he reported that nothing was missing.' Fane grinned at her. 'How did you know?' 

'Because I can itemize every object in the museum and that necklace is not amongst them.' She closed her eyes programming her mind back in the computer pattern imposed by Dr von Konigsblatten. Memorizing the contents of every major museum in the world had been one of the easier exercises. 'Room ten, for example,' she said. ‘Left-hand side showcase on entry: Item one—Faience scarab in gold mounting. Twelfth Dynasty, 2000 BC. Item two—Pectoral of gold, cornelian and lapis lazuli, representing King Amenemhet slaying his enemies...' 

'I believe you,' interrupted Fane. 'You're a clever girl, that's why you're going to work at the Cairo museum.' 

Kiss stared at him. 'You can't be drunk on one Guinness.' 

'Next month Professor Kingham Jones begins work cataloging his recent archaeological discoveries from the upper reaches of the Nubian Nile. You're going to be his assistant.' 

‘Angus Fane!' Kiss pushed back her chair. 'Unless you start to explain in short simple sentences, I get up and walk out. You're not my boss anymore, or had you forgotten? 

'Don't get so excited,' said Fane amiably. 'I've just found you another job.' He called to Edna behind the bar, 'same again, please dear, and bring them over, will you.' 

'We'll start from the beginning, shall we?' said Kiss firmly. 'It is discovered that immensely valuable Pharaonic jewelry is being sold on world markets. Examination proves that nothing has been stolen from Cairo Museum. So, possibility one: a new tomb may have been discovered. The Egyptian authorities therefore pass a quiet word on to TOPP who are partly responsible for the insurance. The highly hush-hush and confidential security services of TOPP run by that doyen of voyeurs, hedonists, con-men and womanizers—bluff, good-natured, ex-tec, Angus Fane—is asked to investigate.' 

'You flatter me,' said Fane modestly. 'But you hit it right on the nose. Anyone might think you had picked the lock of my safe and inspected the confidential documents yourself.' 

'I would only consent to examine the contents of your private safe under protest,' said Kiss coldly. 'And protected by a police escort and a minister of the Church.' 

Edna brought the drinks and set them on the table. Fane forked out a pound note as Edna said, 'Dickie's just been on the phone. He's delayed but he'll be round al most immediately.' 

'Good,' said Fane, 'he can buy us a drink. All these Special Branch types are loaded.' 

Kiss said, 'special Branch? What does he want?' 

'Well last week he invited me to a private showing of a new batch of blue films. They have a very fine selection at the Yard. Used purely in evidence, of course.' 

'I thought I knew where you went after those late lunches, now it seems I was wrong,' said Kiss. 'But to return to the question of the necklace.' 

'Dickie will tell you about it. That's what he's coming for. 

'I do wish you'd abandon this secret-agent pose,' said Kiss. 'It's very wearing. Answer me just one question; if the Egyptians have asked us to make inquiries and I'm to be sent out to Cairo, does it mean that they suspect somebody?' 

'Somebody!' Fane's eyebrows did a circular tour. 'They suspect everybody. All their diplomatic staff. All the United Nations people in New York. In fact every Egyptian who has traveled abroad in the last few months.' 

He looked up as a man approached their table. 'Ah, Dickie!' He shook the outstretched hand and said, 'Nice to see you, mate. Have you met my personal assistant, Kiss Darling?' 

Dickie was tall and square with a complexion the color of a sixteenth-century brick wall. He wore a brown Harris tweed jacket and dark-gray slacks, large checked yellow Viyella shirt and a dark-blue tie. The hand which took hers felt like a piece of railway sleeper. The eyes, which showed no warmth, were small and blue. They did not blink, they examined. 'No, we haven't met,' he said. ‘But it's her all right. That's the face. Pretty girl.' 

Kiss was not flattered. He could have been identifying a cadaver on a mortuary slab. 

Fane said, 'Have you brought it?' 

Dickie fumbled in his breast-pocket, produced a wallet and handed Fane a limp looking, postcard-size photograph. Fane glanced at it and handed it to Kiss. 

'I'll fetch the drinks,' said Dickie. 'Yours the same again. How about you, gorgeous?' 

Kiss studied the photograph. 'I'm beginning to see where I come in, and I think I need a drink. Scotch and ginger ale, please.' 

The picture was the usual flash-light nightclub job. It showed a young couple dancing. The girl was smiling up at the young man, obviously enjoying herself. 

Kiss gave the picture back to Fane. 'So, on the strength of this photograph you decided I was Queen of the Cairo underworld?' 

'Well, you must admit it's a bit of a coincidence.' 

'Because the man I'm dancing with is an Egyptian? I didn't have a date with him. A girl I knew rang me up and asked me to join a party of eight. This chap and his girlfriend were invited too. We had dinner at the Trattoria, then danced at Sybilla's. As the photo shows I danced with him, but I danced with all the others too.' 

'His name?'

'Tarek, something or other.'

'Gazal?' 

'That's right. Tarek Gazal. A nice young man. Good looking. Good manners. Educated in Europe. Works for some construction firm in Egypt. Over here buying equipment. You're way out, Fane, he's just an ordinary businessman. He didn't offer to drive me home, never mind give me a priceless necklace.' 

'Let me continue,' protested Fane. 'He comes from a wealthy Egyptian family. Has a brother who is well up in local Government circles. Tarek's the playboy. Likes fast cars and faster women.' 

'Pray twirl your curly mustache when you say that,' said Kiss sarcastically. 'You should have seen his girl friend, Lucie. Dishy! Top heavy, too. Just your type.' 

'I know,' said Fane. 'She's the star model for Bertin. You'll be seeing her tonight.' 

'How devious you are,' said Kiss. 'So it was you who asked Bertin to send me an invitation to his Collection.' 

Fane paused and looked at her thoughtfully. 'No, it wasn't me. Strange you should get an invitation out of the blue. Are you a customer of his, or something? 

'Please!' reproved Kiss. 'Client not customer. Customers are people who shop at Marks & Spencers. No, I'm not a client. I'd need a Greek shipowner as a lover to afford his prices. Anyway, I'm not going. I'm busy. I have a committee meeting laid on for the Underprivileged Working Mothers of Guatemala.' 

Tonight they'll have to get laid with just the ordinary privileges,' said Fane. 'Because you are going. You're going to be one of the specially invited audience at the Apollo Hotel. And you're going to clap like hell when Lucie models the wedding gown in which she intends to wed Tarek Gazal.' 

'All this to keep an eye on a perfectly innocuous young Egyptian?' 

'Make sure he keeps an eye on you, baby. Your job to night is to be so friendly to Tarek Gazal that he'll be delighted when he knows you are going to Egypt. 

'Why? Do you really suspect him?' 

'Well, recently Tarek has been several times to all the places where the stuff has been sold. And little birds tell us that there is more behind this than just the jewelry.' 

Dickie came back with the drinks and put them down on the table. He gave Fane a handful of change. 'Edna says she owes you this from the last round.' 

'Correct,' acknowledged Fane. 'down the hatch.'

'Worked it all out yet?' Dickie said to Kiss. 

'I think you're making a mistake,' she said. 'Who gave you that photograph of me and Tarek Gazal? Was some one watching us?' 

'Probably,' grinned Dickie cheerfully. 'We picked it up off another Egyptian. Looked a cheerful chap. I thought it a strange thing to find in his wallet.' 

Kiss was at once alert. 'What do you mean?'

'Well he was very dead when we fished him out of the Thames.' The small blue eyes peered across at Kiss from above the amber surface of his pint of bitter. 'Cheers!' he said. 

'I suppose you've got a picture of him, too?' 

The blue eyes crinkled. They understood this sort of conversation. 'Naturally,' he fumbled in his pocket and handed Kiss another postcard print. 

'Oh lord!' She looked a bit sick and Fane said solicitously, 'What's the matter, Kiss baby?' 

'This man,' she said. 'I know him. At least I've seen him half a dozen times. I've seen him outside the office and outside my flat. I wondered vaguely if he was following me. But there was no particular reason. He never spoke to me.' 

'You mean that men often follow you?' said Fane. 'Of course. Didn't you know, men are like that.' 

Fane turned back to his Guinness. 'Queer lives you women lead.'