Warren Murphy - Blood Lust

"This mustache thing. Is Hinsein serious about this?"

Abaatira shrugged. "Why not? You know the saying, 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do'?"

"Abominadad is not Rome," the undersecretary snapped. "And if your people don't watch their step, it might just become the next Pompeii."

"As I was saying," Abaatira continued smoothly, "when in Abominadad, one should respect the great traditions of the Arab people. In my country, there is a law stipulating that all men should emulate our President in all ways, especially in regard to facial adornment. If we expect this of our own people, should we not also ask it of our honored guests?"

"Hostages."

"Such an overused term," Abaatira said, stuffing his handkerchief back into his coat pocket. "So like calling everyone who disagrees with you a latter-day Hitler. Really, sir. You ought to change your record. I believe it is skipping."

The undersecretary of state stood over the Iraiti ambassador, clenched fists trembling.

He exhaled a slow, dangerous breath. Words came out with it.

"Get the hell out of here," he hissed. "And communicate our extreme displeasure to your President."

"I shall be delighted," Abaatira, said, rising. At the door, he paused. "He finds my cables outlining your outbursts hugely entertaining."

Returning to his limousine, Ambassador Abaatira picked up the speaking tube.

"Never mind the consulate," he told the driver. "Take me to the Embassy Row Hotel."

Then, getting on the car phone, he made two calls. The first was to reserve a room at the Hotel Potomac.

"Just for the afternoon," he told the front desk.

Next he put in a call to the Diplomatic Escort Service.

"Hellooo, Corinne?" he asked cheerfully. "This is Turqi. How are you, my dear?"

An unfamiliar voice said, "Corinne is indisposed. May I assist you in some way?"

"I truly hope so. Is Pamela available for a few hours?"

"I'm sorry, but she is indisposed."

"Hmmm. I see. How about Rachel?"

"Rachel is out of town."

Abaatira frowned. They were passing the White House. A protest group was assembled outside the east lawn, shouting, "Food, not bombs! No blood for oil!" They waved placards: "U.S. OUT OF HAMIDI ARABIA." His frown melted. His heart gave a little leap of joy. Such a civilized country.

"I will tell you what," he said magnanimously. "I am feeling adventurous today. Why not send over a selection of your choosing? Hotel Potomac. Room 1045."

"Kimberly is available. You'll like her. She's a fresh face. Very, very good with her hands. And blond."

"Yes, I like the sound of that. Kimberly will do nicely."

Ambassador Abaatira replaced the receiver. He leaned back in the tooled leather seat, folding his hands on his stomach and closing his eyes. He thought pleasant thoughts. Of blond-as-daffodils Kimberly.

"Ah," he murmured, "Washington is so restful in the summer. "

At the office of the Diplomatic Escort Service, Kimberly Baynes put down the phone.

She stood up her yellow silk dress shifting in the light. It was a sheer ankle-length dress cut in the Chinese pattern. A slit showed most of one shapely leg. Above the waist, it thickened and billowed around her ample bosom.

Taking her purse from the desk, she went to a door and opened it a crack, revealing a bare closet.

On the floor, Corinne D'Angelo, founder of the Diplomatic Escort Service, lay in a heap, a yellow silk scarf twisted around her neck. Her tongue lolled out like a black snail extruding from its shell. Her eyes were open, but only the whites showed.

Because she was still quivering. Kimberly knelt down-careful not to split her dress seams-and wrapped spiderlike fingers around the ends of the tight scarf.

She gave a hard, fast jerk. The quivering stopped. A faint gurgle escaped past the swollen black tongue. Another came from deep within her, and the sudden stink of released bowels filled the closet's narrow confines.

"Oh, yuk," Kimberly said recoiling. She hated it when they let go like that. She slammed the door sharply on her way out of the office suite.

On her way to the elevator, she bumped into a redhead wearing a white knit dress through which her black lace brassiere and panties showed like playful black cats in a heavy fog.

"Oh!" the redhead said. Stepping back, she looked Kimberly up and down frankly. "You're new, I suppose." Her tone was appraising, a little cool. "I'm Rachel."

"Corinne's expecting you," Kimberly said quickly.

"Good. I could use a few bucks. Catch you later."

Rachel brushed past. Kimberly tugged a long yellow silk scarf from her neck while the redhead rattled the office doorknob with growing annoyance.

She was knocking on the panel when Kimberly came up behind her, holding the yellow scarf in both hands.

"You have to lean into it," Kimberly said. "It's stuck."

Rachel's long-lashed eyes flickered in her direction. Taking in the scarf, she said. "You should get another color to go with that dress. Yellow on yellow is so tacky. Try white or black."

"That's a good idea," Kimberly said. "Maybe you should take this one."

"No, thanks," Rachel said, rapping on the door. "Yellow isn't my color."

"Oh, no," Kimberly said sweetly, lowering the scarf around the redhead's neck. "I insist."

"Hey!" Rachel said, flailing. Then: "Ugh! Ukk Ukk Ukkkkk."

"She loves it!" Kimberly cried. "Can't you tell?"

Rachel's knees buckled. Face bluing, she slowly collapsed into a heap of warm white knit flesh.

Holding Rachel's head off the floor by the yellow scarf, Kimberly Baynes unlocked the door. She dragged Rachel by the neck. Rachel protested not a bit as she was hauled into the well of the reception-room desk. When Kimberly let go of the scarf, Rachel's head went boink! She jammed her cooling limbs in.

Kimberly left her to decompose in private.

Ambassador Turqi Abaatira changed into a dressing gown in the privacy of his hotel room. As he waited patiently, he watched CNN, his eyes going often to his gold wristwatch, which he had set on the nightstand by the bed.

A reporter was engaged in a carefully worded report of U.S. troop deployment m faraway Hamidi Arabia.

"Since we are forbidden by military censors to report our location," the reporter was saying, "I can only say that I am reporting from a place near the Hamidi Arabia-Kuran border, where forward units of the Twenty-fourth Mechanized Infantry Division are dug into the shifting sands. Rumor has it that only a few kilometers north of here, Hamidi frontline troops are busily erecting a top-secret weapon, described only as a kind of modern Maginot Line they say will neutralize any gas attack the Iraitis dare launch. Operation Sand Blast commanders have so far refused all comment on the exact nature of this breakthrough . . . ."

Abaatira smiled. Let the Americans have their spy satellites, which cost billions of dollars and could read a license plate from orbit. The Iraiti Revolting Command Council had a superior tool. The American media. Under the banner of freedom of the press, they were daily feeding all sorts of valuable intelligence directly to Abominadad. And all for the price of a satellite dish. Who needed spies?

The knock at the door was sudden and inviting.

Abaatira hit the remote unit and bounced off the bed in one motion.

He padded to the door, his spirits soaring. With a grand flourish, he flung the door open.

She was, if anything, lovelier that Abaatira had expected.

"Ah, and you could only be the unrivaled Kimberly," he said, eyeing her yellow silk gown. A flash of thigh showed like a tantalizing dream.

"May I come in?" Kimberly asked demurely.

"Of course." She entered with a languid grace. Abaatira closed the door after her.

She stepped around the room, casually placing a small yellow purse on the nightstand by the bed. She turned. Her smile was red and inviting.