Dean Koontz - Dragonfly

From the beginning of his association with the Maoist cause, General Lin had rejected asexuality and had, indeed, assiduously cultivated his erotic drives. At sixty-four he was still an extremely active man — and quietly proud of it.

His cover was perfect. He had been made chief of the Internal Security Force in 1951, and from the earliest days of the ISF he had done field work just like the agents who were answerable to him. He was the ISF's leading expert on South Korea and made regular monthly undercover missions into that country, often remaining there for a week or ten days at a time. This activist role was applauded by the Party's highest executives. As they saw it, any general who took the same risks as those he required of his subordinates was in no danger of being corrupted by power or by a sense of elitism. (And, in fact, this was part of the reason why he had always worked in the field as well as behind the desk.) He was, they said, an excellent example of revolutionary Communism at work. Accepting this constant praise with calculated modesty, the general continued his field work in South Korea, where, until such a time as the Korean dictator could be overthrown, he could enjoy a vigorous and very non-Maoist sex life beyond the sight and suspicion of his superiors.

“I am a failure,” Yin-hsi said.

“Are you fishing for more compliments?”

“I am a failure.”

“That isn't true.”

“It is true.”

“Why is it true?”

“You think too much.”

“How does that reflect on you?”

“If I were a good woman to you, I should be able to take your mind off all your troubles. But I am no good. I am a failure. You sit there frowning, worrying.”

He stood up in the bath while she dried him with a large, thick towel. “I frown only because I can think of no way to be with you more often.”

She tilted her head and looked at him coquettishly. “Are you telling the truth?”

“Yes.”

“This is why you were frowning?”

“Yes.”

“Then I am not a failure?”

“Indeed, you are too much of a success.”

Smiling, she finished drying him.

“Stand before me,” he said.

She did, her arms at her sides.

He removed the jeweled pins from her hair. Rich, shining, dark crescents of hair fell about her face.

“You desire me?” she asked.

“Perhaps.”

“Only perhaps?”

“I have not decided.”

“Oh?”

“I have high standards.”

She looked down at his thick erection and giggled.

“Ah, woman,” he said in mock exasperation. “Where is your modesty? Have you no shame?”

She pouted and said, “I am a failure.”

Laughing, he untied the sash of her robe and slipped the silk from her. Her sweet breasts quivered before him. He took them in his gnarled, scarred hands and gently massaged them.

“Should I turn down the bed?” she asked.

“Yes — unless you want to be taken on a brick floor.”

“You would bruise me?”

“If necessary.”

“But you would not like me with bruises.”

“Then I would leave you.”

“Oh?"'

“Until the bruises had vanished.”

“You are a cruel man,” she said teasingly.

“Oh, terribly cruel.”

She crossed the softly lighted room to the low-standing bed and pulled back the quilted blankets. The sheets were yellow silk. She stretched out on them, her golden thighs slightly parted, the shaven petals of her sex visible in dust-soft shadows. Her hair was fanned across both pillows. Smiling at him, she put the tip of one finger against her right breast and murmured wordlessly as the nipple rose and stiffened under it.

So beautiful! he thought. So exquisitely beautiful!

She patted the mattress beside her.

The general was a good, unselfish lover. He did for her all the things he wanted her to do for him; and after they had spent nearly an hour preparing each other, he mounted her. His compact, muscular body was powerful yet gentle in the act. She had no need to pretend a long, shuddering climax, for it came to her almost as soon as he began to thrust within her. And a few minutes after she had convulsed beneath him a second time, he groaned softly and emptied his seed deep into her.

“Tai-Pan,” she said.

He kissed her neck.

Later they sat up in bed and sipped mint tea which she had made in a silver pot. They ate miniature cakes sprinkled with honey, raisins, and toasted almonds.

When he was full of cakes, he got out of bed and retrieved a small box and a long beige envelope from his clothes. He placed the envelope on the mirrored tray atop her vanity and brought the box back to the bed. He gave it to her and said, “An imperfect gift for a perfect woman.”

As delighted as a child, she put down her teacup and unwrapped the box. She withdrew from it a long, fine-linked gold chain at the end of which was suspended a single jade teardrop. Carved in the stone were the basic features of a lovely oriental woman. “Oh,” she said breathlessly, “it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

“It is nothing.”

“But it is magnificent!”

“It is unworthy of you.”

“I am unworthy of it.”

“You deserve far more.”

“You are too generous.”

Gradually, each allowed himself to be flattered. Yin-hsi slipped the chain around her neck, and the jade fell between her smooth, heavy breasts. They agreed that the jewelry was perhaps the most beautiful piece of its kind in the world — and that it looked more beautiful between her breasts than it could have looked on any other woman who had ever lived. Both of them blushed and smiled.

After they had sipped brandy for a few minutes, he said, “How have your household funds been holding up? Am I giving you enough to meet the bills?”

She was surprised, for he had never asked about this during the last six years. “More than enough. You are too generous with me, Tai-Pan. I have accumulated a large surplus in the bank. Would you like to see my records?”

“No, no. The surplus is yours.”

“I manage the accounts well. You can be proud of me.”

He kissed her cheek. “Today I am leaving an envelope which contains four million Korean won.” At the current exchange rate, four hundred and fifty won equaled one United States dollar.

“That is too much!” she said.

“Is it sufficient to run the house for one year?”

“Perhaps two years! And stylishly!”

“Good. I would not want you to be in need of anything.”

Worry lines appeared in her face. “You are not going away for an entire year?”

“I hope not.”

“But maybe?”

“Maybe forever.”

The worry lines deepened. She bit her lower lip. “You are teasing me.”

“There is serious trouble in Peking.”

She waited.

“A great danger,” he said, thinking of the Americans and their Dragonfly project. “Perhaps the problem will be quickly dealt with. If not… Many of my people will die, and there will be months of chaos, disorder.”

“Do not go back,” she said.

“I am Chinese.”

“So am I!”

“I am a Communist.”

“You cannot really believe in Communism, not deep in your heart.”

“But I do. I do not expect you to believe, but I do. And a man cannot run away from his philosophy.”

“You love Communism more than you love me.”

“I have been with you six years,” he said softly. “And I love you more than I ever ever loved a woman. But Communism has been my entire life, and to deny it would be to deny myself.”

Tears shimmered on her eyelashes.

“Do not cry.”

She cried.

He raised his voice and became sharp with her. “You are disgracing your family. You are supposed to improve my spirits, not deflate them. What manner of concubine are you? Either you will stop crying at once, or I will punish you severely.”