Don Pendleton - Continental Contract

Bolan did both. She moved out of the bed and into the flimsy garment in a single fluid movement, then leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "I am not the louse," she assured him. "Eeny-way, I am leave for Cannes een a few hours. I 'ave not the time for blow the wheestle. Tell Gilbear that Cici sends 'er love."

Bolan asked, "Ceci who?"

"Oh, m'oui, you are the lousy stand-een. You do not know of Ciei Carceaux?" The girl was getting into a bulkier garment and fishing about with one foot for a pair of furry little bedroom slippers. She gave him a sharp gaze and told him, "Not eentirely lousy. The face ees strong, eet 'as character, more so than Gilbear. Cici could grow to love thees face, Meester Stand-een. Tell me, stand-een, what would you do weeth Cici othair than seet and look at 'er?"

Bolan chuckled and said, "I'd think of something."

She laughed again and said, "Well, eef I were not going to Cannes..."

"Isn't that on the Riviera?"

"Yes, eet ees on the Riviera."

"Close to Nice and Marseilles?"

"Nice, yes. Marseilles, not so close. Are you going there?"

Bolan grinned. "Someone suggested tonight that I may be happier there."

She was watching him through partially lowered lashes, the coquette resurfacing. "I do not like to drive alone. Come weeth me."

"You're driving?"

She made a wry face and told him, "Pairhaps you would do the driving?"

Bolan said, "Great. Let's leave right now."

"Agreed! Do you mind eef I stop by my suite and get some clothing?"

He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. "You look great to me just the way you are."

"Americains I love them!" she shrieked. "So eem-pulsive!" She ran to the door, turned back to him, and said, "Meet me een the lobby een feefteen meenutes."

"In the garage," he suggested.

"Oh-kay!"

The door closed and she was gone.

Bolan put a hand to his head and gazed about the room, wondering if she had actually been there.

He had never been in the presence of such an exciting, enchanting woman.

"Yes, she had been there. He could still smell the lingering traces of her.

Maybe, he was thinking, the game had changed. Maybe he would snatch a few golden moments from his jungle of death and discover what Eden was all about.

The Executioner should have known better.

Very shortly, he would.

Bolan took the elevator straight to the garage, again bypassing the lobby. He dropped his bags at the pickup station and told the attendant, "Le voiture de Mlle. Carceaux."

He was informed that the car was ready, and was directed to a gleaming Rolls waiting in the exit lane. The attendant turned over the keys and Bolan approached the car with sudden misgivings. He was stowing his gear in the luggage compartment when the woman arrived. She was almost quivering with excitement as she hurried over; a porter burdened with two large suitcases was laboring to keep up with her.

Bolan took her bags and stowed them himself. He noted that Cici was tipping the porter, then she opened a rear door and climbed in without a word to Bolan.

He secured the luggage compartment and went around to the driver's side, leaned in, deliberately measured the distance separating the front and rear seats with his eyes, and told her, "I didn't exactly have this in mind."

She said, "In the box — the compartment — what the 'ell you call — is chauffeur's 'at."

"You want me to wear a chauffeur's 'at?"

"Not that I want, but that I suggest. Also I suggest you should 'urry."

Something in her eyes told him not to argue. He slid into the seat and found the blue cap. It was a bit small but not hopelessly so. Bolan put it on, added his dark glasses, cranked the engine, and eased out of the garage.

They were stopped immediately at the curb just outside by a uniformed policeman. A quick glance right and left disclosed a swarm of them in the immediate area. Bolan's heart went into a tango and his mind shifted into survival mode. He had a hand on the door mechanism, waiting for the cop to step over to him, his thoughts racing ahead to the moment when he would make his move, catch the cop with a flying door, and try the breakaway on foot.

But the cop did not step over to Bolan. Cici Carceaux had her window down and was scooted to the edge of the seat, giving the guy a smile that would light two square blocks of Paris. The cop touched his cap and bent almost double in the sudden recognition. He murmured, "Bonjour, Mlle Carceaux — excusez-moi." To Bolan he gave the slightest flicker of a glance and the command, "Continuez."

Bolan did so without delay, easing the big car onto the street and around to the boulevard. Police vehicles were all over the place and a dozen or more uniformed cops were on the walk in front of the hotel. He cruised on past, and not until the scene was completely lost in the rearview did he relax enough to ask his passenger, "Okay, which way to the Riviera?"

"Is this all you 'ave to say?"

He shrugged. "It's a sensible question — unless you want to end up in Brussels."

She was slithering over the backrest and moving beside him in a flash of well-filled nylons. "Follow the signs for Lyon," she directed breathlessly. Then she snatched the chauffer's cap from his head and removed the glasses. "Why do the police swarm all ovair for Gilbear?"

"Is that what that back there was about?"

"This you know! I encounter them in the lobby. They are confer with the desk and go up in great numbers to make the arrest. Uh-huh, it becomes more clearly to Cici, this masquerade. Gilbear is in great trouble, no?"

"No," Bolan responded, quite honestly. "It's all a misunderstanding. Gil isn't in trouble. Those cops, Cici. Any chance of them putting one and one together and coming up with you and me?"

She stared at him for a silent moment of confusion, then: "Oh, no. I do not think they even notice Cici, they-are so occupied with othair things."

She settled daintily into the corner of the seat, against the door. Bolan could feel her eyes on him. Street traffic was practically non-existent, it being that dead period in Paris between the two worlds of night and day. They were moving swiftly along now, the powerful Rolls engine pulling them on effortlessly through the quiet streets.

He glanced at her, caught he direct gaze, and asked, "How far is Cannes?"

She replied, "Eight, ten hour, depending on the 'aste of the driver."

He whistled softly. "That's quite a drive."

"This is your fault, stand-in. I would 'ave been aboard Train Bleu and more than 'alfway to Cannes but for you."

Bolan said, "I'm sorry."

"You do not look sorry. You look most 'andsome and appealing. Anyway — I am not sorry. This is superior to the day train, an endless and boring journey. I say this for your benefit. The same train from Paris goes also to Marseille and Nice."

"Something wrong with French airlines?"

"For some, no. But for Cici, I will await angel's wings, not pursue them."

He grinned and told her, "You're pretty close right now. Uh, your accent is smoothing out. What became of the long e?"

She laughed and moved closer to him. "I am the natural fraud! Sometimes I do not know what is Cici and what is the cinema image."

"And what does that mean?"

"When I am cast in American films, I am told 'ow to accent the English. In Italian films, 'ow to accent the Italian. Even in French films, 'ow to speak the French. Sometimes I do not know what film I am speaking."

"Sounds confusing," Bolan muttered.

"Yes, it is confusion." She moved closer and her hand crept inside Bolan's arm.

He said, "Uh-uh."

"What this means, uh-uh?"

"It means you're tangling up my gun arm."

She giggled and pressed her head against his shoulder. "M'oui, thees ecs threeling!"