Christopher's Ghosts by Charles McCarry Read Free Book Online Page B

the hair, which was thick and silky but less heavy than he had expected, and much longer. It fell to her waist and below. His arms were around her now. Her body moved inside her clothes. They were very close. She put her arms around his neck and moved even closer. Their bodies brushed. She kissed him on the lips, her own lips fluttering. He imitated this. She took his lower lip between her lips. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. Rima touched his tongue with her tongue. He had had no idea that such techniques existed.
    Rima pulled him closer, pasting herself to him. She was a strong girl, slender and muscular. She made no noise. She was in a state of total concentration, he could feel it. Suddenly she stopped kissing and turned her face away. She was crying. He touched the tears and whispered her name.
    She said, “Ssshhh.”
    She clung to him, arms around his neck, the length of her body still against his body, but now she seemed relaxed. Many moments later she stepped back. He let her go. By now he could see much better in the dark. Her face was almost visible. He saw her pale hands twisting her long dark hair and realized that she was braiding it. She wound the plait around her head, pinned it, and re-tied her head scarf. She took his face in her hands. She kissed him, a chaste affectionate kiss.
    He felt her put a note in his hand. “Tomorrow afternoon,” she whispered. “This will tell you where.”
    Paul kissed her again, this time making the first move. He was a little ashamed that he had not acted first when they entered the trees, that Rima had been obliged to do it. He was still too young to know that a man can almost never be quick enough to make the first move when a woman has made up her mind to make love to him.
    In a normal tone of voice, Rima said, “Go first.”
    When he walked back into the light he realized that he was leading the wrong dog. He turned around and walked back. He and Rima met in the path, switched leashes and dogs as smoothly as veteran secret agents, and walked on in opposite directions. In the instant that this maneuver took, Paul saw that Rima’s face was different—softer, with a different light in the eyes.
    Balzac had been right about pretty girls. When they were happy, they were beautiful.
     2 
    The next morning at five o’clock, even before Hubbard had started to write, two of Stutzer’s men came for him and Paul. They were young fellows, fresh-faced and correct. They were dressed alike in versions of Stutzer’s civilian wardrobe—brown fedoras, black leather trench coats, highly polished shoes. Hubbard called them the apprentices.
    Standing calmly in the doorway in his dressing gown, Hubbard said, “What is it you gentlemen want?”
    “Papers.”
    Hubbard handed American passports and German identity documents to the apprentice who was doing the talking. He put them into his coat pocket without looking at them.
    Hubbard said, “I ask you again. What is this all about?”
    “Get dressed, you and your son,” the other apprentice said. “You have five minutes.”
    “We are under arrest?”
    “You now have three minutes,” said the first apprentice. Apparently it was part of their technique to take turns as spokesman of the arrest. Paul saw that his father loved this detail. Hubbard said, “Paul, get dressed. Bring a sweater. Use the bathroom.” As the Christophers knew from earlier arrests, the refusal of toilet privileges for hours on end was one of the features of secret police interrogation. It was an effective technique. Who knew what the punishment might be for wetting on Major Stutzer’s floor?
    Lori, who somehow had managed to appear with her hair combed and fully dressed in a gray frock, stockings, and low-heeled black shoes, said, “Why are you doing this?”
    One of the apprentices said, “That is not your concern.”
    “My husband and son are not my concern?”
    “Today they are our concern. You are expected to go riding in the