of lovely but purportedly untouchable hares should
be dispensing American steaks, French wines, and voyeuristic enticements far out here on the eastern marches, within the very jaws of Asia, surrounded
on every side by hundreds of miles of
bleak collectivism.
But for all one could have known in the
hermetic dimness of the West Berlin rabbit hutch, it might have been December
outside instead of June, the remembered lights of the Kurf ü rstendamm might have been the neon of
Manhattan, and the ugly concrete slabs of The Wall not many yards away
might have been among the foothills of Rockefeller Center. Here inside,
everything was all sweetness and dark—soft jazz, good whiskey, and mass-produced, sanitized
eroticism.
The synthetic aspects were repellent to the
Saint, who now that he’d tried the experience could think of ap proximately
eight hundred better ways to spend his rare spare moments than
sitting at a bar visually absorbing standardized sexuality which had about
as much impact to it as the identical squares of butter set out on the
din ing tables.
He drained his glass and had just pulled his
money from his pocket when his attention was arrested by the approach of
a most luxuriantly developed young lady whose display
included things of much greater charm than the cellophane-covered packets in
the tray at her waist.
“Zigaretten?” she said. “May I you serve?”
Simon handed her a bill and accepted one of
the packs.
“You serve very nicely.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, smiling,
and moved away.
Such an ordinary event would not be worth
recount ing,
except that it is with such seemingly insignificant encounters that a wait for a plane can turn into an adven ture.
If the cigarette bunny, in her mammary munificence, had not come along at just that moment, and if Simon had not turned to witness the oscillatory retreat
of her pretty little bottom, made rabbit-like by a fascinating caudal appendage somewhat resembling an overgrown powder puff, he would not have noticed the
iron-gray stocky man sitting alone at
a table on the other side of the
dance floor. Alone, at least, except for several bunnies who stood around laughing at some story he was
telling.
Simon turned back to the bar and said almost
absently to the white-jacketed young man behind it, “Another of the
same, please.”
It took surprisingly few seconds for him to
isolate from the mass of faces in his memory even so relatively obscure a figure
as William Fenton, ex-Royal Navy, more re cently with British
Intelligence. Simon’s previous con tact with him had been brief but
friendly, and now he had to decide whether he wanted to—or ought to—renew the acquaintance. There was always the possibility
that Fenton was involved incognito in some mission or other, and would not appreciate having his identity
heralded all over bunny heaven.
“Here you are, sir.”
The bartender was blond and pale-eyed, and
more for friendly efficiency than for lively conversation, which suited
Simon fine. But, thanking him, he noticed a sudden change in the man’s
expression, a shift to new alertness. The gray eyes followed—as the
Saint could see by glancing into the mirror-covered wall—the entrance and
transit of a dark unattractive individual in a poorly cut suit.
The newcomer did what most newcomers to clubs
do not do: having entered by the front door, he went more or
less directly to the rear door, an obscure portal shrouded in black velvet,
AUSGANG glowing above it, and disappeared behind the curtains.
Even a person less well versed in the ways of the Un godly than Simon Templar would have felt some suspi cion by now that all was not precisely as it
should be in this modern Wonderland.
The hasty newcomer was no White Rabbit, but he was most certainly intent on
meet ing some sort of deadline, and
he was choosing a strange route by
which to do it.
The Saint had already gone beyond suspicion
to active calculation. The eyes of the bartender became his mir
be dispensing American steaks, French wines, and voyeuristic enticements far out here on the eastern marches, within the very jaws of Asia, surrounded
on every side by hundreds of miles of
bleak collectivism.
But for all one could have known in the
hermetic dimness of the West Berlin rabbit hutch, it might have been December
outside instead of June, the remembered lights of the Kurf ü rstendamm might have been the neon of
Manhattan, and the ugly concrete slabs of The Wall not many yards away
might have been among the foothills of Rockefeller Center. Here inside,
everything was all sweetness and dark—soft jazz, good whiskey, and mass-produced, sanitized
eroticism.
The synthetic aspects were repellent to the
Saint, who now that he’d tried the experience could think of ap proximately
eight hundred better ways to spend his rare spare moments than
sitting at a bar visually absorbing standardized sexuality which had about
as much impact to it as the identical squares of butter set out on the
din ing tables.
He drained his glass and had just pulled his
money from his pocket when his attention was arrested by the approach of
a most luxuriantly developed young lady whose display
included things of much greater charm than the cellophane-covered packets in
the tray at her waist.
“Zigaretten?” she said. “May I you serve?”
Simon handed her a bill and accepted one of
the packs.
“You serve very nicely.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, smiling,
and moved away.
Such an ordinary event would not be worth
recount ing,
except that it is with such seemingly insignificant encounters that a wait for a plane can turn into an adven ture.
If the cigarette bunny, in her mammary munificence, had not come along at just that moment, and if Simon had not turned to witness the oscillatory retreat
of her pretty little bottom, made rabbit-like by a fascinating caudal appendage somewhat resembling an overgrown powder puff, he would not have noticed the
iron-gray stocky man sitting alone at
a table on the other side of the
dance floor. Alone, at least, except for several bunnies who stood around laughing at some story he was
telling.
Simon turned back to the bar and said almost
absently to the white-jacketed young man behind it, “Another of the
same, please.”
It took surprisingly few seconds for him to
isolate from the mass of faces in his memory even so relatively obscure a figure
as William Fenton, ex-Royal Navy, more re cently with British
Intelligence. Simon’s previous con tact with him had been brief but
friendly, and now he had to decide whether he wanted to—or ought to—renew the acquaintance. There was always the possibility
that Fenton was involved incognito in some mission or other, and would not appreciate having his identity
heralded all over bunny heaven.
“Here you are, sir.”
The bartender was blond and pale-eyed, and
more for friendly efficiency than for lively conversation, which suited
Simon fine. But, thanking him, he noticed a sudden change in the man’s
expression, a shift to new alertness. The gray eyes followed—as the
Saint could see by glancing into the mirror-covered wall—the entrance and
transit of a dark unattractive individual in a poorly cut suit.
The newcomer did what most newcomers to clubs
do not do: having entered by the front door, he went more or
less directly to the rear door, an obscure portal shrouded in black velvet,
AUSGANG glowing above it, and disappeared behind the curtains.
Even a person less well versed in the ways of the Un godly than Simon Templar would have felt some suspi cion by now that all was not precisely as it
should be in this modern Wonderland.
The hasty newcomer was no White Rabbit, but he was most certainly intent on
meet ing some sort of deadline, and
he was choosing a strange route by
which to do it.
The Saint had already gone beyond suspicion
to active calculation. The eyes of the bartender became his mir
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