Chapter 1

His name was George Galanopoulos.

Tonight was a night for celebration. He was flush with cash for a job well done. A job that had involved killing two people. Not for the mob. He was not a gangster. He did not join gangs. He organized forces. He was an international mercenary, a soldier of fortune. As a way of life, it had its rewards.

One of those rewards was power. Not political power, but presence, charisma, power of personality - which served to amplify his natural, barrel-chested, physical strength. Something about living on the sharp edge between life and death - it gave off an aura of danger that was instantly sensed by others, both men and women. In this case, a woman.

What her name was, he did not know.

Her beauty was dark, Mediterranean. Greek? Turkish? Spanish? He did not know.

He was not sure how he had picked her up, or whether it had been the other way around. He had intended to have a woman tonight, but he had fully intended to pay for it, with a professional. This woman was not that. What was she? He had run into her on the street. Their eyes had met as they passed. Her gaze locked on his. All this was common enough. What was odd was that his eyes had locked on hers - on those dark, bottomless wells of understanding. For he felt, as he looked at her, that she had known him all his life. Not that he had known her, but that she had known him. For even now, he did not feel that he knew her. Perhaps later. Yes, later.

The street where they had met was in Chicago, on Michigan Avenue, glittering in the autumn evening with the splendor of expensive window displays. At first he had thought she was just another wealthy young female shopper, pampered and privileged, looking for a thrill… and he had experienced a sudden desire to take her some place… more primitive. “Let’s go to Greektown,” he had said, and they had taken a quick cab ride to that boisterous neighborhood that reminded him so much of his own boyhood, full of the kind of people he felt comfortable with. They had gone to a place with live music and a loud crowd. They had danced together, on the floor, with the other couples, and the feel of her body had been good. She was supple and smooth as he held her in his arms.

There had been a performance by belly dancers, and their gyrating hips had whetted his appetite for her.

Now - much to his surprise - she was taking the floor, by herself, as the belly dancers departed. She held up her hands to him, gesturing that he should stay at the table. She beckoned to the band that they should play on.

She began to dance.

It was belly dancing music, but she was not belly dancing. Her body undulated with the rhythms, and she flowed across the floor with wild abandon - her arms spinning, her hips swaying, her legs smoothly leaping. He felt her eyes locked on his own. But he knew that every man in the room would be feeling the same effect - each imagining that he alone was the one for whom she danced. It was some overpowering illusion. As her eyes flashed around the room, each glance scored a hit.

He thought, they all think she’s theirs, but she’s mine. What an enchantress! Dancing the ancient dance of desire - the dance of the seven veils! “Gigi!” A harsh taunting voice roared above the din of cymbals, reeds and clapping hands. The voice contained a threat. The music stopped. The girl stopped dancing.

George Galanopoulos stood up. He knew what “Gigi” meant. It was an old ironical nickname of his, taken from his initials. He had never cared for it.

Standing 20 feet away was a tall, fair man, with short-cropped golden hair, wearing dark slacks and a light khaki jacket. In his left hand was an automatic pistol which looked a bit on the thin side. A .22 target pistol, guessed Galanopoulos. An accurate weapon, but not really a man-stopper.

Galanopoulos smiled, and waved a meaty hand. “Don’t point that thing at me, Thor. What’s got into you?”

But Thor kept it trained on Galanopoulos. “Don’t ask. Just make your move, Gigi.”

“But, Thor, what am I supposed to do? I’m not armed. Besides, I thought we were friends.”

“‘Were’ is right.”

“Is that why you’ve come after me? Are you still sore over that business in Rhodesia?”

“You went AWOL, Gigi.”

“AWOL, hell! I wasn’t a goddamned conscript! I’m a professional contractor!”

“You didn’t honor your contract, Gigi.”

“Thor, business is business. I had a better offer in Thailand.”

“I was counting on you, Gigi. On your honor.”

“Thor, you’re nuts. I sent you back the money! What else do you want me to do?”

“Draw your gun, Gigi.”

“Thor - honest - I don’t have one. All I have is a knife. Here, look!” He pulled up his right pants leg and drew a gleaming double-edged knife from its sheath. With a casual, perfect motion, he flipped up his wrist in an underhand throw and the blade shot toward Thor. Galanopoulos took a rolling dive for the floor.

Thor dodged sideways, to the left, trying to keep Galanopoulos in his sights.

But Thor’s dodge was not quite fast enough. Even as he moved, he felt the queer impact on his right hand as the blade went through it and sunk right up to the handle. It did not hurt, yet.

Galanopoulos came out of his dive with a 9mm automatic in his hand. Thor shot before Galanopoulos could aim. It was a trick shot. Galanopoulos dropped the gun and looked at his hand. The base of his trigger finger was partially severed, and it dangled loosely. It hurt. In a mad rage, he charged at Thor, head down, like a bull.

Thor smiled and put three quick shots into the top of the oncoming head. The legs stopped charging. The body sprawled to the ground and lay slack and still, just short of the spot where Thor was standing.

Thor put his pistol back into his waistband, and tugged the knife out of his right hand. It was bleeding seriously, but not arterially, from the wound. He wiggled his fingers. The ring finger did not respond properly.

He reached down with both hands and cut off the man’s right ear. He frowned. “This would have been much easier, Gigi,” he whispered, “if you had just drawn your gun when I asked. But you were never one for following orders, were you?” Then Thor buried the blade in the right kidney, and left it there. The body arched violently. There was still some life in it.

But not for long. The body went slack again. Thor stood, and took two cloth napkins from a nearby table. He wrapped one napkin around his wounded, bleeding hand. He wrapped the other napkin around the severed ear, and stuck it in his back pocket. Then he strode calmly out of the restaurant. There were several men carrying guns in the restaurant, including two Mafia members and an off-duty cop working as a bouncer. But no one tried to stop Thor.

It had all been fast. Slowly, people began to move again as the shock wore off. A woman threw up at her table. Another began to sob hysterically.

The dancer, still standing alone on the dance floor, did not look at the body of George Galanopoulos. She stared, with a stunned expression, at the door through which his assassin had disappeared.

Chapter 2

The morning was sunny, as most of the mornings on the island promised to be. Even the wet season here consisted of afternoon showers that cleared before nightfall.

The sun was still low, hiding behind the long-fingered leaves of the coconut palms. The moist air, which blew neverendingly, was not yet hot. Hook-nosed blackbirds squawked in the trees. Powder blue lizards darted about in the grassy brush, hunting for insect prey, scampering away at the approach of human feet.

He jogged at a leisurely pace, enjoying the cool of the day. Out of habit, he lifted his feet high as he ran, kicking up a trail of dust as he smacked them down on the dry dirt road.

“Hey, big guy, haven’t you ever heard of running shoes?” The call came from a young woman, a redhead, who was gardening beside one of the mobile homes he was passing.

He slowed to a walk as she arose from her gardener’s crouch. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, suitable for garden work, that hugged her form and showed her curves. Twenty or younger, he thought. But old enough to make up her own mind, he decided, as he studied the firm glance of her eyes and calm set of her mouth.

“You’ll never make your best speed in those,” she said, pointing to his feet.

He had stopped, and stood 10 feet away from her. A little too far to stand, she thought, but it afforded a good distance to look him over.

He was wearing high leather combat boots, crinkled with wear and dusty from the road. His knees were bare beneath his khaki shorts. His flat stomach and broad chest were bare, and he was fair skinned, very fair, not yet tanned - as he soon would be if he ran around like that for long.

He wore a close-cropped golden beard that extended rather than hid the jut of his jaw, and the hair on his head was close cropped, too. There was something distinctly icy in the pale blue eyes that repaid her gaze. Something icy that gave her chills that were not entirely unpleasant. She dropped her gaze and noted that he had a large gash scar on his chest, just under his left nipple. She had thought he was carrying a towel in his right hand, but now she noticed otherwise. It was a gauze bandage that wrapped around his palm and left his fingers free.

He smiled, flashing his teeth. “When you do all your running in running shoes, then you’re not used to running in anything else. But when the time comes that you have to run, you might not have your running shoes on. So it pays to get some practice in other footwear. I figure if you can run in heavy boots, you can run in anything.”

She listened to what he said. “What about barefoot?” she asked.

He smiled again. “Sure. I’ve had to run barefoot. But I only practice that on the beach.”

“That South African girl, the track star, she ran barefoot.”

“Those South Africans are all a little crazy.”

“What about you? Are you a little crazy?”

“Only when I want to be.”

“Really? It must be nice to be able to turn it on and off like that.”

“Sometimes it comes in handy.”

“So do you do everything in your boots?”

“No. Not everything.”

“Swimming?”

“No. Not swimming. But I have jumped into deep water with them. Just to practice taking them off in a hurry.”

“You’re quite a character,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Thor. Thor Johnson.”

“Mine’s Wendy. Wendy Drake.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said. Still, he had not moved his feet from the spot where he had planted them.

“Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?” she asked.

“You bet.”

She walked to the door and held it open. “What happened to your hand?”

“A knife. I was careless.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not really. I’ll just be glad when I get this bandage off. All this ocean and I can’t do any of that swimming you mentioned.”

She smiled. “You’re definitely an exercise nut. But keep it up. It looks good on you.”

Inside, the mobile home was the usual model of cramped efficiency. He sat opposite her, at the little Formica table, and took a swig from the mug she had prepared for him.

“That’s good,” he said.

“I suppose you should hurry,” she said, an uncertainty in her voice. “You’ll have to be getting ready for church soon, won’t you?”

He shook his head no and took another swig.

She said, “It’s Sunday. Don’t you go to church?”

“They don’t have any churches here that are my denomination.”

“Which one is that?”

“An old one.”

“A lot of the newcomers here are LDS. Do you know what that means?”

“Latter Day Saints. Mormons. Straight arrows from Utah. Are those the folks?”

“Yeah. Only they’re a bit more forward-looking here. They’ve cut themselves off from the old Utah church, and they’re calling themselves the Modern Day Saints.” There was something bitter in her voice.

Thor shrugged. “Well I’m just here to do a job, and today’s my day off. I didn’t figure on spending any time in church. How about you?”

She looked down into her coffee, as if the answer were there. “I suppose I might skip it,” she said. “I can always tell them I was sick.” She looked up from her coffee with a sparkle of fierce determination in her green eyes.

He suddenly felt naked before her. As, indeed, from the waist up, he was.

She felt a shiver run through her body. She whispered, “I could use… some adventure.”

There was only one thing for it. He put his cup down. Without a word he got up, walked around the table, behind her, and began to roll up her T-shirt from the waist.

Later, so much later, when her release came, and he knew it and let himself go, his strength was such that she momentarily worried whether the mobile home’s ceiling was really shaking like that, and about to come down on them.

•

Like so many red haired people, she had freckles all over her body. Thor was lying on his side, studying the ripple of freckles on her chest as she breathed in her sleep.

The mobile home’s door burst open. “Wendy, are you ready for church? I tried to call but - ” A sputter. “What is the meaning of this?” The tall white-haired gentleman in jacket and tie shot a look of moral outrage at the couple in the bed. Wendy shook her head awake, red hair tossing, and looked back and forth between Thor and the intruder.

“It means the phone was off the hook because the lady didn’t wish to be disturbed,” said Thor, speaking slowly but distinctly. He sat up in bed and crossed his hands behind his head in a posture of relaxed mastery. “Why are you disturbing us?”

“Because - because, I was worried. Because - this is my girl, God damn it!”

Thor looked at him, uncrossing his arms. “Daughter, sir, or mistress?”

Additional shock registered on the older man’s face. “No! That is, we’re engaged to be married.”

Thor cast his eyes to Wendy. “True or false?” he asked.

“They - they won’t let me leave!” she replied, a plea in her voice.

Thor looked back and forth between them. “The answer, I take it, is true with extenuating circumstances… That’s all right, Wendy… I won’t hold it against you. It’s not as if you were married already. At least this guy didn’t come in shooting and get himself hurt.”

Wendy opened her mouth but said nothing. She gathered the sheets higher, to her neck, the better to cover her breasts.

Thor addressed the man. “Sir, would you do me the kindness of stepping outside while I dress? I’m sure that you and your fiancé have a lot to talk about, but I don’t think that you would find me to be a very helpful participant in the conversation.”

The man’s head flinched back, as if he had been slapped in the face. His eyes narrowed. “I’m going to find out who you are, young man, and when I do-”

“The name’s Thor Johnson, and I’m not hard to find,” he called as the older man slammed the door behind him.

“At least I’m not hard to find as long as I’m cooped up on this bloody island.” He muttered this to himself.

“Listen, Wendy, we’ve got to talk, but this isn’t the time or place. Let me ask you one question. Is this guy likely to slap you around bad or anything like that?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Good. Give me your hand.”

She extended her right hand to him. He took it.

“Give me your other hand.”

She extended her left hand as well. The sheet dropped from her neck to her waist.

He held both her hands and looked at her. “I like you,” he said.

He kissed her once, on the lips, and began to get dressed.

•

Daniel Sears leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands together on top of his desk. This interview was not going the way he had planned. No, it was worse than that. Interviews never went as planned. But usually the disrupting factor was the other person’s resistance. This time it was his own attraction.

“Suppose you tell me what you want,” he said. He tried staring her in the eye but gave it up when he felt his own eyes betraying his yearning.

She uncrossed her legs, and crossed them the other way. She said, “You don’t want lots of women, do you?”

Perplexed, he looked at her.

She went on. “I don’t mean that you don’t like women, but that you’re very picky, aren’t you? You sit back, and you evaluate, and you have hidden standards of your own, that you don’t advertise. So that usually, when you meet an attractive woman, you find something you don’t like about her. Am I right?”

Compelled by truth, he nodded.

“Because of this, you are not used to being possessed by the overwhelming urge to lay down a strange woman. Am I getting warm, Daniel?” She smiled, deliciously. Her lips were large, he thought.

He arose from his chair, and stepped out from behind his desk, walking somewhat stiffly.

“And you,” he said, “are used to being so desired, and so laid down. Aren’t you?”

“I like it,” she said.

“Are you making an offer?” He continued to stand in front of her.

She nodded, solemnly. She glanced about his office, noting its closed door and shaded window, and reached a hand toward his belt, to pull him forward. He stepped back.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“We can talk about it later,” she said, her voice low in her throat, as she rose from her chair and clasped her body to his.

Fever burned in his frontal lobes. He reached around, grabbed her buttocks, and ground her groin into his. He let the pleasure surge. What a taste of paradise she was! How did she do it?

He took his hands from her rear, brought them to her shoulders, and pushed her away. He felt dizzy, very dizzy. “We talk about it now,” he said. “What do you want?”

She stepped back, with a gasp, using her own hands to knock his off her shoulder. She looked at him hard. He was looking at her the same way, desire written all over him, from the bulge of his eyes to the stiffness in his pants. She studied him, became absorbed in him, began to drink up his presence, and she did it without effort. He was prematurely gray and balding, tall without being very muscular, long-waisted, long-armed. She imagined how they would fit together in bed. This was a man who lived mainly in his brain, but he stood now as if he lived in his body as well. He would be good, and it would be a spiritual experience for both of them.

He repeated, “What do you want?”

“You are tougher than you look, Daniel.” She went back to her chair and sat. “Fine. I will tell you what I want.

“This man, this Thor fellow that I mentioned to you, I would like to know one thing about him.”

“And that is?” Daniel leaned his hands back onto his desk, and sat on its edge, his feet still flat against the ground.

She raised her left foot to the seat of her chair, and removed her shoe. “What have you done with him?” She raised her other foot and took off her other shoe. She lowered both her feet and extended her legs.

“Nothing.” He smiled.

She smiled back. “Don’t be silly. Of course you did something. He came here three days ago, met with you, and that’s the end of the trail. If he’s left town, he’s done it much more quietly than when he left Chicago for D.C.”

“You know about Chicago?”

She nodded. She undid her skirt and slid it down her legs to the floor. Thumbs at her hips, she started to peel off her pantyhose.

“Then you know he’s hurt.”

The peeling hesitated at the knees and her eyes widened momentarily, as if she felt a stab of fearful concern. Then her hands continued the smooth stripping away of the nylon sheen.

“Only his hand,” she said.

There it was! he thought. The real thing. Instantaneously squelched reaction. Emotional leakage. Almost unfakable.

She was beginning to unbutton her frilly white blouse. It buttoned up the back, so she had to reach both arms behind, thrusting her petite breasts forward. He wondered what color her nipples would be, given her olive complexion.

He said, “I found a job for him.”

“Where?” The blouse was on the floor with the rest of her clothes. She wore no bra. The nipples were cinnamon.

“St. Barnabas Island,” he said, forcing the words out. “In the Caribbean. Working for the St. Barnabas Tourism Bureau, which is not what it sounds like. It’s a small island. It belongs, on the books, to a larger island, St. Camelia. But it’s being operated on a very independent basis lately. He should be easy to find. All you have to do is get there.”

She stood naked and spread her arms, beaming a smile of pleasure at him.

He shook his head and smiled wryly, though his eyes still dwelled on her body. “Not today,” he said.

“Tonight I’ll go home and hump the living daylights out of my wife before we sit down to dinner. But I’ll save it till then. Put on your clothes. You have what you came for.”

She crooked one index finger and raised it to her lips, looking him over carefully. Clearly, his body was still ready for her. She moved the hand from her lips and gestured with a flip of open palm, as if tossing something away.

“You are even tougher than I thought,” she said.

He shrugged his shoulders. His eyes never left her as she put her clothes back on in efficient silence.

When she was dressed, she picked up her handbag from her chair, and turned to him. “My compliments to your wife, Mr. Sears.”

“She won’t know what hit her,” he said, ruefully shaking his head.

“By the way, what’s your name?”

“Alma,” she said.

“Alma what?” he asked.

“Just Alma.” She walked to the door and opened it.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Any time.”

She shut the door and was gone.

In his mind’s eye, he followed her out of the building, past the unmarked doors in the drab hallway, past the receptionist, out onto the street, into the bustling noonday world of Washington, D.C. There were, of course, no signs admitting that these were the offices of a government agency. It wasn’t exactly a top secret, but neither was it something the agency advertised to the general public.

She had found the place rather quickly. She did not seem to be a professional. Nevertheless, she was good. Who was she working for?

Herself, he thought.

•

Thor had been waiting for this. For almost two weeks. Now, what would it be?