John Abbott - Scimitar

“Here we go,” he said, and brought her omelette and toast to the table. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat beside her. Last night, they had enjoyed the passion only strangers could bring to the act of making love. Now, this morning, sitting here at the kitchen table, sipping coffee with him, eating the omelette he’d made...

“This is very good,” she said.

... she felt more comfortable than she had on far too many mornings-after. A friend of hers once confided that some men weren’t worth the shower afterward. She had often felt that way herself. But sitting here with Scott Hamilton, she felt entirely at ease — and this time, she did not want the morning to end.

“How long will you be staying out here?” she asked.

“Until after the Fourth, at least.”

“Will you be going to the fireworks?”

“I didn’t know there’d be any.”

“The Hamptons without fireworks?”

“I’ll have to see what Martin’s plans are,” he said.

“Where do you go from here?”

“Back to San Diego.”

Careful, he thought.

“Back to your cable TV station.”

“Yes.”

“What’d you and Buddy talk about, by the way?”

“Oh, mutual interests.”

“He’s great at getting seats to the U.S. Open, you know.”

“Yes, he mentioned that.”

He put down his cup and leaned gently into her. She lifted her face to his. Their lips met. Their kiss tasted of coffee. He picked her up, cradling her in his arms, and they kissed again. She could not remember the last time a man had carried her into a bedroom. Smiling, one arm around his neck, the other resting on his chest, her hand just above the green scimitar tattoo, she closed her eyes as he negotiated the narrow stairway to the second story of the house, and did not open them again until he lowered her gently to the canopied bed. He stood beside the bed for a moment, staring at her the way he had from the deck yesterday, his grey-green eyes consuming her. Then he untied the sash at his waist, and let the black silk robe fall to the floor.

Selly Colbert was very proud of the security precautions his intelligence people had coordinated for the Canada Day gala.

“If you’ll look at this floor plan of the Baroque Room,” he said, and spread the drawing on the conference table:

“... you’ll notice there are three entrances to the foyer. I’ve marked those with numbers in a circle...”

“Yes, I see that,” Dobbs said.

He kind of liked Colbert. The man looked like a scarecrow in a tailored suit, but there was an air of efficiency about him, and he was so obviously dedicated to getting things right that his enthusiasm was contagious. The room in which they were sitting was on the sixteenth floor of the Exxon Building on Sixth Avenue, between Forty-ninth and Fiftieth Streets, less than a mile from the Plaza, where the big event would take place.

“We’ll be closing off the doors numbered two and three,” Colbert said, “locking them from the inside. That means the only entrance to the foyer’ll be through the number-one door. The Mexicans’ll have people outside doors two and three...”

“How many?”

“One at each door. And as backup, we’ll have our own people on the inside. Again, it’ll be two agents, one at each door.”

“Four altogether,” Dobbs said, nodding approval.

“Should be sufficient, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes. Who’ll be at the entrance door?”

“Two agents checking the guest and press lists...”

“Canadian?”

“One Canadian, one British. Four other agents in the corridor itself — lots of stairs there, do you see them?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll have two agents at each of the stairwell entrances — British, Canadian and Mexican — and another two agents here at the elevator banks... do you see the X’s? They indicate elevators.”

“Um-huh.”

“There’ll be agents at each of the doors marked four, five, six and seven, leading into the Baroque Room itself. We’ll be locking the doors marked eight, with agents standing inside and out, just in case an emergency requires them to be unlocked in a hurry. Fire, what have you.”

“Um-huh.”

“The number-nine doors lead to the service pantry, so we’ve got to leave them unlocked. Again, there’ll be two agents on either side of them.”

“How about the room itself?”

“The dais’ll be set here at the far end, where you see the four pillars — those little black squares, do you see them? I’ve marked the spot with the number ten.”

“Um-huh.”

“It’ll be a U-shaped dais... you already have the seating plan...”

“I do.”

“... agents behind it, and to the left and right.”

“How about the windows?”

“Agent at each window. That’s eleven, twelve and thirteen. Have you seen the room?”

“Yes.”

“Big tall windows looking out on the park. A beautiful room.”

“Beautiful,” Dobbs agreed.

“How many people will you be using?” Colbert asked.

“I’m planning on a man at the foot of the steps here,” Dobbs said. “Just outside the number-nine doors.”

“Okay.”

“Another man at the top of the steps...”

“Okay.”

“And two in the corridor up there. There’s elevator access, you know...”

“Yes, and another staircase as well. Fire stairs. But our intelligence people figured the men at the number-nine doors could handle anything originating...”

“Well, I’d just like to be sure.”

“Okay, that’s four.”

“Have you got any people in the pantry itself?” Dobbs asked.

“No, but...”

“Then I’d like to put a man in there. Robert Kennedy was shot in a hotel kitchen, you know...”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Anyway, where there’s food, you’ve always got the danger of...”

“Right, our people should have thought of that. Will you need backup there?”

“I don’t think so. One man should be able to keep an eye on whatever’s happening.”

“Plus we’ve got those number-nine doors covered.”

“Right. And I’ll be in the Baroque Room itself.”

“So how many will you be altogether?”

“Six, not counting whoever he brings with him. He’s got his own detail, sticks with him day and night. They’ll be with him every minute.”

Both men looked at the floor plan again, studying it, trying to locate any loopholes in the security arrangement. They nodded at almost the same moment, but it was Dobbs who said, “Looks airtight to me.”

Carolyn had already explained that the idea of the game was for each of them to drive each other to the very brink of total insanity by teasing but not satisfying, manipulating but not gratifying, withholding pleasure until it became unimaginably excruci...

A knock sounded at the door downstairs.

“Damn it,” she said, “who’s that ?”

He got out of bed, pulled on the black robe, and shouted, “Just a second!”

“It’s called Brink,” she said. “The game.”

“I’ll be back,” he said, and disappeared down the stairwell.

She had taken off her watch and placed it on the night table beside the bed. She looked at it now. A little past eleven. She put the watch back on the night table, stretched languidly, and smiled in anticipation. She could hear muffled voices below. Scott talking to someone she supposed was a delivery man. The man telling him he had to sign for all three cartons. Scott thanking him. The man telling him to have a nice day. Yes, come on up here, she thought, the nice day is just about to begin. She heard the door closing. The lock clicking. And then silence.