Гарри Гаррисон - The QE2 Is Missing

His thinking had brought him to his room at this time with the roll of tape that he held in his hand. He made a copy of this large reel-to-reel tape on a small cassette, then played the cassette back to be sure it was a good copy. It was. With the cassette in his pocket, he put a fresh roll of tape on the machine, made sure that the instruments were all functioning, and locked himself out of the building as carefully as he had let himself in.

The zdcalo, the plaza complete with bandstand and promenaders out for the evening air, was a short walk away. The few soldiers he met saluted him crisply as they passed; those who saw him coming in time avoided him completely. The sun had set and there was a slight cooling touch in the breeze now. The Sergeant bought an evening newspaper and sat on a bench under a light in the zdcalo to read it. One nervous shoeshine boy, egged on by his friends, made so bold as to approach the Sergeant to see if his boots needed a polish. A single brief glare across the top of the paper sent the boy fleeing for his life.

After the Sergeant had finished the football news he glanced down at his boots. Perhaps there were a few flecks of dust on their mirrored surface; it had been a dry day. He looked around and spotted a boy with a shoebox hung from his shoulder on a length of ragged cord. He pointed at the boy and snapped his fingers. The lad scurried over and went feverishly to work while the Sergeant read his paper. The boy had finished minutes before the Sergeant noticed it. Then he glanced down at his boots and dug a coin out of his pocket and passed it to the boy. Who ran quickly away.

It was impossible in the darkness for anyone to see that the Sergeant had passed on the cassette along with the coin.

“You know, Hank, I would feel a lot better about this whole business if you would only tell me exactly what is going on,” Frances said. She lay back in the large double bed, the covers drawn up to her chin, a piece of buttered toast held daintily in her long-nailed fingers.

Hank Greenstein, wearing only a thin bathrobe, stood at the window watching the rain course down the pane; he shivered.

“Well, it’s a matter of utmost urgency, darling, or we wouldn’t be here. Don’t forget that our firm is one of the largest groups of international lawyers — solicitors — in the world. And I’m about the most junior member. So when they say be international, why, I’m the one that is sent.”

“Two days before our wedding day?” Frances’s eyebrows rose in wonderment at the thought. “And our families finally agreeing on a big wedding, all the arrangements made. Then this. On a plane at a moment’s notice and halfway around the world to Australia. I’m still not sure how you convinced my father that it was all right — or for that matter how you convinced me. You’re not a lawyer, Hank Greenstein, you’re a con artist.” She bit viciously at the toast and Hank turned to admire her.

Frances was something to look at by anyone’s standards. Coppery red hair and the peaches-and-cream complexion that went with it. Green eyes that melted your heart when you looked into them. A figure — and the clothes sense to display it to perfection — that made men turn to look after her in the street. That was what happened to Hank the first time he had seen her in the restaurant hallway, her vision pulling him up from his dark thoughts and whipping his head around as though pulled by an invisible string. What pleasure to discover a few minutes later that they were both guests at the same boring reception, and even greater pleasure to have her agree to leave the reception to join him in a drink more civilized than the watery punch they were being served. Then, what paradisical pleasure some weeks later to actually have her agree to his proposal of marriage. Finally, what indescribable pleasure to find himself making love to her within minutes of the proposal.

“Get that look out of your eyes, you leech, I know what you’re thinking,” she said. He smiled and walked over to sit on the foot of the bed.

“You’re a mind reader — and you’re absolutely right.”

“Well, you’re not going to lay one of your over-sexed fingers on my fair white body until you’ve answered my question. What is so bloody important that we had to drop everything and come here? And make a dishonest woman of me — Mr. and Mrs. Greenstein, I saw the way you signed the hotel register.”

“Just getting practice. We’ll be married in a few days and it will all be legal…. “

“Answer the question and stop dodging the issue.”

“I’ll tell you today, I promise.” He took her hand up gently in his and kissed her palm, running the tip of his tongue lightly over it. She shivered and tried to pull away, but he held on tightly.

“Now stop that! You still haven’t answered the question.”

She tugged harder and her struggles dislodged the covers which slipped down exposing one conical and perfectly formed breast. At this Hank let go of her fingers and leaned forward to cup her breast instead, bending to kiss the suddenly upright delicate pink nipple. Frances shivered and wrapped her arms tightly around his head.

“God, you know ways of changing the subject,” she whispered hoarsely as he pulled the covers from her. They laughed, together, when the breakfast tray crashed to the floor, but it did not interfere with the intensity of their lovemaking.

They were lying quietly, their bodies touching warmly, when the phone buzzed beside the bed.

“At least they had the courtesy to wait until we were done,” Frances said.

Hank leaned out and fetched the phone. “Greenstein,” he said. He listened for some time, nodding as he did. “Right,” he finally said. “I'll see you there at eleven o’clock.”

“Are you going to tell me about it?” Frances asked as he threw the covers back and climbed out of bed.

“That call was about the business I’m here in Australia for. I shouldn’t be long. Why don’t you do some shopping or something and I’ll meet you back in the hotel at…. “

“No.”

“They say there are really great things to buy here in Sydney. You can get clothes made out of kangaroo skins, or aboriginal craftwork…. “

“Shut up. I’m going with you.”

“Or toy koala bears, sheepskins, opals…. “

“Didn’t you hear me, you fiendish seducer of helpless women? You are not going to leave me alone in this beer-swilling, sheep-shearing pest-hole.”

“The Chevron is the best hotel in town.”

“You know what I mean. Where do we have to be at eleven o’clock?”

“It’s business, I told you…. “

“No, you didn’t tell me. That’s why I’m going with you.”

Hank had little enough time — and he knew when he was licked. “All right. You can come, but only if you just listen. We’re going to meet some people and I have to talk to them. Some arrangements have to be made. If you will let me talk to them quietly, I promise to tell you everything that is going on as soon as the business is finalized. That is right away, now, today. Is it a deal?”

“Then you admit that you have been concealing something from me?”

“I’m a lawyer and have been trained to admit nothing, never to no one.”

“Rotter. Where are we going?”

“To an exclusive restaurant named the Rhinecastle Bistro, world-renowned for its fine Australian wine served in a gourmet atmosphere.”

“Sure. Pink plonk and tough steaks. I’m going to shower first.”

“You Brits are sure hard on your colonials.”

“When you taste the food you’ll know why we shipped them out in chains.”

The taxi driver dropped them off right in front of the restaurant, but the rain was so heavy that they were soaked before they got through the door.