Page 14 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

Allister glanced at the glove compartment where he stashed a Colt 1917 “Fitz’d” cut-down revolver.

He had never even fired it. He could only take his fantasy so far.

A fairly inexpensive military surplus gun, he bought it after seeing it on the cover of Fleming’s fifth Bond novel.

Richard Chopping’s cover art featured a similarly cut-down Smith & Wesson revolver over a beautiful red rose.

Allister had taken the book to a military surplus store to show the clerk what he wanted.

He ignored the man’s scoff and handed over the $55.

49 for the used firearm. He had put it in his glove box where it had lived ever since.

Passing signs for the University of Maryland, Baltimore, he took a right onto West Baltimore Street.

This section of the city looked defeated, as if the rest of the country had moved on and forgotten about it.

Less an exotic Bond location, it briefly reminded him of a le Carré novel, dark and brooding.

Tonight, you are Bond, not Smiley, Allister reminded himself. And you are about to get the girl. Smiley wouldn’t get the girl.

It was closing in on six o’clock in the evening when Allister pulled into the hotel parking lot. Knowing it did not offer valet service, he parked, put on his trilby, and adjusted it in the rearview mirror.

Very Connery, he thought.

He reached behind him and grabbed the handle of his Hartmann attaché case, finished in tweed and tan leather, before exiting the vehicle.

He locked the driver’s side door and tested the other three door handles and the trunk latch to ensure they were all secured before marching toward the front of the Lord Baltimore Hotel, cautioning himself not to run and appear overly eager.

Play it cool.

Even from the outside, the once regal hotel that had opened in 1928 looked slightly dilapidated, a venue losing the battle to which all eventually succumbed.

He entered through the large double doors and took an immediate right into the dimly lit lounge. Just after working hours on a Thursday, the bar was filling up. The bartender and overworked waitresses scurried about delivering a variety of cocktails to patrons eager to dull their inhibitions.

It took only a moment to locate Clara amongst the crowd.

She was seated alone at a high-top table in the far corner with two drinks in front of her.

She was striking in a black skirt and form-fitting gold knit turtleneck sweater that accentuated the shape of her breasts.

Geometric triangle-drop earrings dangled elegantly from her ears, their shape blending seamlessly with her black-framed cat-eye glasses.

An understated single gold bangle adorned her left wrist. A wide leather belt that matched her shoes completed the ensemble. She looked exquisite.

Allister watched as a well-dressed and slightly inebriated man approached her, touching her shoulder and leaning up against the table. She politely indicated the second drink was for someone else and the man sauntered off in search of easier prey.

Allister twisted his wrist and glanced down at his 1953 Hamilton Cranston timepiece with a ten-karat gold case and subset second hand on a black pebbled leather band.

He had been trying to decide between the Cranston and Boulton models when the secondhand jeweler had explained to him that the wider tank shape and rounded edges of the Cranston would look better on his beefy wrist. Allister remembered the jeweler’s disinterested sanctimonious tone.

He was sure he had paid too much. Maybe it was time to switch to a Gruen?

Just after six. Allister should be home by nine so as not to arouse suspicion. That didn’t give them much time.

Allister took the two steps down into the lounge going unnoticed by any of the other patrons.

He was used to being ignored in social circles.

He fought the urge to run directly to her and instead intentionally cut a wider path to approach her from behind.

He was sure she could feel his heart palpitations as he neared.

He slid his left hand across her eyes, briefcase still in his right.

“Guess who?”

“Des.” Her voice, a mysterious combination of French and German–influenced English, was music to his ears. He could tell she was smiling. Pure magic.

He stepped to the side, and she stood to embrace him.

His shoes helped elevate him to five feet seven inches, which put them at eye level.

As her breasts pushed against his chest, he felt a familiar arousal between his legs.

She was wearing just the right amount of perfume.

He remembered the fragrance from the first night they had met.

He had never experienced anything like it, an exotic blend of jasmine and rose with a slight hint of sandalwood.

Intoxicating. He was ready to get her upstairs, but he took the chair across from her instead.

“I ordered you the Diamondback. It’s their signature cocktail.”

“Brilliant,” Allister said, raising his drink to touch her glass.

“A night to remember,” she said.

“With you, they all are.”

That was pretty smooth.

Named for the local aquatic turtle and official state reptile of Maryland, the potent drink consisted of rye whiskey, applejack, and yellow Chartreuse. The concoction was then shaken with ice, strained over ice, and served in a rocks glass. Allister particularly liked the mint garnish.

A nice touch.

“We can get you a fresh one,” Clara said. “My company is paying. I ordered it to keep the wolves at bay.”

“I am so sorry I was late. Emergency at work, you see.”

“They wouldn’t survive without you,” she said, never taking her eyes off his, making him feel like the only person in the room.

Her face was a study in symmetry with high cheekbones, fair skin, light blue almost gray eyes, thin nose, statuesque jawline, and exquisite chin.

Allister whispered a silent prayer thanking the heavens that she was attracted to the world of computer programming and not modeling.

He caught a glint of auburn in her normally dark brown hair.

If she had applied any makeup, he couldn’t tell. She certainly didn’t need any.

“It is so good to see you, Des. I’ve missed you.”

That accent. Captivating.

“I’ve missed you too.”

“Do you have time for dinner tonight?” she asked.

Allister looked at his watch and shook his head.

“Have to get home? I understand,” she said. “This is America. In Europe, our women are much more relaxed and accepting of such things. There is a tacit understanding that relationships are open. We are sensual creatures. Having a mistress is natural and accepted in France.”

“Different than Germany?” he asked, taking another sip of the strong cocktail.

“Oh yes, much less stodgy. Dating begins with sex rather than the complicated rituals in most of the West. We get right down to it.” She smiled. “That way we know from the outset if dating is worth the investment of time.”

“Makes sense to me,” Allister said.

“A spouse is the person you share a home and children with while the mistress is who you share your passion with. One life. No regrets. An outlet for passion and sex means a man does not have to try and force carnal desires into a relationship at home. Life is all about expectations. It’s very natural if you think about it. ”

Allister knew she was saying these things to assuage the guilt he felt over Brenda. If Clara didn’t feel guilty and it was normal in France, then why should he?

“To only one life,” he said, raising his drink and finishing it off, eager to get upstairs. “No regrets.”

“No regrets,” she repeated with a mischievous sparkle in her eye.

Allister could hardly contain himself. The alcohol was having the desired effect.

“I brought you a present,” he said, tapping his briefcase at the base of his chair with his foot.

“I hope it’s not flowers or diamonds,” Clara said.

“It’s what you asked for. From my work.”

“Even sexier,” she replied, still keeping her eyes on his, not even glancing at the attaché case.

“Another drink?” she asked, noting his empty glass.

“I don’t have much time tonight,” Allister admitted.

“Well then,” Clara said, leaning seductively forward in her chair. “We’d best get upstairs.”