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  “I told you that I wasn’t rowing all the way to Finland.”

  He shipped oars and leaned back, looking at the black waves. Somewhere down there Captain Sinclair and his submarine had been waiting for his signal and now were homing toward it.

  “I am a little afraid,” Natalia said. “I wonder what will become of me.”

  “You’ll go to America and we’ll find you a good job. You’ll have a car and a color television set like all other Americans. You’ll be very happy.”

  “But I miss Russia already,” she said sadly.

  “Life is hard and we must learn to adjust to new circumstances. You’ll probably marry an American millionaire and live happily ever after.”

  “I’ll never be happy, because I’m worried about my father.”

  “Your worrying can’t help him. I told you that. He knew what the odds were when he decided to work with us. He was ready for this contingency, I’m sure. And he might even get out of it.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  There was a swoosh sound to starboard and they looked to see the nose of the submarine break through the waves a hundred yards away. Butler grabbed the oars again and rowed toward it. The submarine surfaced completely and lay on the water like a big black cigar. Its hatches opened and figures could be seen coming onto the deck.

  “My goodness!” said Natalia.

  Butler rowed toward the submarine, an old World War Two American model, upgraded and modernized by scientists from the Institute. As the rubber boat drew closer, a sailor threw out a line. Butler caught it and tied it to a cleat on the rubber boat’s gunwale. A group of sailors pulled the rubber boat against the hull of the submarine. They threw down another line, and Butler handed it to Natalia.

  “Hang on to it,” he said. “They’ll pull you up.”

  She gripped the rope tightly and the sailors pulled her to the deck of the submarine. Then they threw the rope to Butler and pulled him aboard. Lastly they pulled the rubber boat aboard.

  Captain Sinclair was among the sailors on deck. “Glad you made it back, Butler.”

  “Thanks. This is Natalia Kahlovka.”

  “How do you do?” said Captain Sinclair with a gracious bow.

  “Hello.”

  “We’d better get below.”

  The sailors already were scrambling to the hatches, and Butler and Natalia followed Captain Sinclair into the conning tower and down the ladderwell. They descended into the submarine next to the periscope which was in its down position. They were surrounded by navigation officers and sailors sitting at electronic consoles with flashing, colored lights.

  “Batten down the hatches,” ordered Captain Sinclair, who had a white beard.

  “Batten down the hatches,” repeated Lieutenant Jordan, the executive officer of the submarine.

  The sound of metal clanging could be heard throughout the submarine.

  “Take her down to two hundred feet,” Captain Sinclair said.

  “Take her down to two hundred feet,” Lieutenant Jordan repeated.

  At the consoles, sailors pulled levers and threw switches. Butler hung onto a railing as the submarine angled downward. His body brushed against Natalia, still in her kerchief. She wore black wool slacks and a dark brown overcoat. The submarine leveled off.

  “Bring her right forty-five degrees,” Captain Sinclair said.

  “Bring her right forty-five degrees.”

  “Steady as she goes.”

  “Steady as she goes.”

  Captain Sinclair turned to Butler and Natalia. “I imagine both of you will want to freshen up a bit. Lieutenant Jordan will show you to your cabins.”

  Chapter Two

  Butler stood before the mirror in his cabin and pulled off his stocking cap, revealing his black hair parted to the side. He took off his turtleneck sweater and the rest of his clothes, then stepped into the small shower stall to wash away the black camouflage on his face and hands. He had to scrub hard with soap and washcloth, because the stuff was designed to stay. But finally it came off and you could see his bushy eyebrows, square jaw, and roguish lips. People occasionally remarked that he looked like the young Clark Gable, and that always amused him. He didn’t think he looked like Clark Gable at all. He thought he looked only like himself.

  He came out of the shower, dried himself off, and brushed his hair. He thought it odd that he was getting dressed beneath the waters of the Baltic Sea. Science never ceased to amaze him. It could do anything. He put on a pair of dark-brown worsted slacks, a tan shirt, and a rust-colored sport jacket. Into his belt holster he stuck his Colt .45. He never went anywhere without it.

  He left the room, walked down the narrow corridor, and knocked on the steel door of Natalia’s cabin. He stood there, listening to the whirring sounds of the submarine.

  The door opened a crack. Natalia stood there, wrapped in a robe, with damp blonde hair and freshly scrubbed face. “Hello,” she said.

  “Remember me?” he asked.

  Her eyes searched his features. “So this is what Butler really looks like.”

  He smiled. “Uh-huh.”

  “Very nice,” she said.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “What would you like?”

  “Anything.”

  “I’m glad you said that, because there probably isn’t much of a selection aboard this submarine. I’ll see what I can rustle up.”

  Butler continued down the corridor to the navigation room, where Lieutenant Jordan sat at a console, watching flashing lights. Lieutenant Jordan looked up as Butler approached. “Hello, Butler, how are you feeling?”

  “I’m hungry, and so is Ms. Kahlovka. Can we get anything?”

  “There’s a cook on duty in the galley. Ask him to put something together for you.”

  Butler walked forward to the galley, feeling out of place among the uniformed sailors that he passed along the way. They all had been recruited into the Institute just as he had been. They were opposed to the military-industrial-CIA complex that dominated the so-called free world, and were equally opposed to the totalitarian dictatorships of Communist countries. The Institute was the only force in the world that tried to moderate between both extremes as it worked toward a better world of freedom and justice for everybody.

  The cook sat in. a corner of the galley reading a copy of Popular Photography. The galley was a small area with a grill, oven, workbench, and stainless steel refrigerators.

  “What can I have to eat?” Butler asked.

  The cook got up, took off his white hat, and scratched his head. “What do you want?”

  “Something fast.”

  “Hamburgers all right?”

  “Yes, and a salad. Enough for two. Some coffee and a glass of milk.”

  “Gotcha.”

  The cook took the food out of the refrigerator and proceeded to prepare it. Butler leaned against the bulkhead and wondered if Natalia really was who she said she was, and why her father had got nailed by the KGB. Although Butler knew from his own experience in such countries as Chile and Nicaragua that the CIA was a corrupt organization, he thought the KGB was even worse. But of course that was because the military-industrial-CIA complex was firmly in control in America, whereas evidently the commissars felt a little uneasy in the Soviet Union and therefore had to crack down harder.

  In the jargon of the Institute, the military-industrial-CIA complex was known as Hydra, the seven-headed dragon of Greek mythology. It had corrupted and subverted governments throughout the free world in its never-ending quest for wealth and power, while in Communist countries the commissars had done basically the same thing. Hydra did it in the name of free enterprise, and the commissars did it for Marx, but it all was the same: in each region of the world a small ruling class was subjugating and brainwashing vast populations. And each ruling class was anxious to go to war against the other ruling class, using other people as cannon fodder of course.

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nbsp; The cook placed the food on a tray and Butler carried it back to Natalia’s room, knocking on the door. She opened up, wearing a blue robe too big for her.

  “Come in,” she said.

  He entered her tiny room and placed the tray on her bed. “I guess we’ll have to eat here,” he said, sitting on the bed.

  “Yes, there’s not much room,” she replied, sitting on the other side of the tray.

  He watched her move to the bed, and noticed that she was long-legged and svelte underneath the robe. Nice breasts too.

  “What is this?” she asked, picking the top off a hamburger.

  “Ground meat. A hamburger.”

  “Oh.” She lifted it to her mouth and took a bite, chewed, looked at the ceiling, and swallowed. “Very good.”

  “I’ll tell the chef.”

  He picked up his hamburger and bit off a chunk of it. They dined in silence, the submarine’s engines providing background music.

  “Where are we going?” she asked during her second hamburger.

  “Sweden.”

  “What’s there?”

  “The Institute maintains its Scandinavian office near Stockholm. You’ll be debriefed there, then I imagine they’ll fly you to America and get you a good job. You’ll have that color television set before you know it.”

  “I’d rather have my father back,” she said ruefully.

  “That could happen. You never know.”

  She shook her head. “No, they’ll never let him go.”

  “Times change. Things happen. You can’t be sure of anything these days.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “The important thing is to keep hoping.”

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  “By the way, I’ll take those papers your father gave you. Where are they?”

  “On the dresser.”

  Butler rose, went to the dresser, and picked up the papers. There were mathematical formulae written all over them, plus chemistry symbols. He folded the papers into his jacket pocket and returned to the bed, where he ate the final pieces of his salad and drank his milk. He always drank milk in preference to coffee because he was concerned about his protein intake. An active person like himself needed all the protein he can get.

  “Mind if I smoke?” he asked, reaching for his pack of Luckies.

  “May I have one?”

  “Sure.”

  He held the pack out to her and she took one, which he lit. Then he took one for himself as she moved the empty tray onto the floor. Side by side, they leaned against the bulkhead, smoking their cigarettes.

  “My head is spinning,” she said. “Everything is happening too fast.”

  “You’d better get used to this sort of thing, because your next few days will be hectic. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been out of the Soviet Union before.”

  “No. They don’t let you leave unless you’re a very high official, and maybe not even then.”

  “Your father left a few times though, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, to attend various international scientific conferences. At one of them he became part of the Bancroft Research Institute.”

  “He told you all this?”

  “Yes. Two weeks ago. He thought the KGB was following him, and suspected the worst.”

  “Until two weeks ago you didn’t know about his connection to the Institute?”

  “That’s correct. I’d never heard of the Institute, in fact.”

  Butler puffed his cigarette. “That’s interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “It just is.”

  “You think I’m some sort of KBG agent myself, don’t you?”

  “You could be.”

  “Those papers will prove my story.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Why do you hope so?”

  “Because I’d hate to shoot you.”

  “Shoot me!”

  “If you were a spy, that would be one way to handle you, don’t you think?”

  She shrugged unhappily. “I suppose so.”

  “But if you’re what you say you are, I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about.” He stood up. “Well, I imagine you’re tired. We should be docking sometime in the late afternoon, so you’ll be able to sleep late. Good night and pleasant dreams.”

  “Good night, Mr. Butler;’

  “If you need anything, just knock on the wall. I’m in the next cabin. And there’s one more thing. I’m afraid I’m going to have to search your clothing and then lock you in your room for the night. Until I know definitely who you are, I have to take normal precautions. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I suppose so,” she said wearily. “My clothes are in the dresser over there.”

  Butler pulled out a dresser drawer and found the clothes. He searched through them, found the knife, and put it in his back pocket. In her shoulder bag there were only her cosmetics and a few identity cards. He tapped her shoes, but could detect no hollow spots.

  “This is very embarrassing,” she said, standing next to the bed, her arms crossed. “I’ve never had my personal clothing searched by a man before.”

  “It’s going to get worse,” he replied, turning around, “because now I’m afraid I’ll have to conduct a quick search of your person.”

  “My person!”

  “Yep. If there was a lady aboard I’d ask her to do it, but there isn’t I’m afraid. Hold out your arms, please.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked, her brow wrinkled.

  “I’m going to search your person, I told you.”

  “How?”

  “I shall feel with my hands for hidden weapons, radios, or what have you.”

  She sighed. “Perhaps it will be easier on both of us if I just remove my robe, so that you can look instead of touch.”

  “If you prefer.”

  “I suppose I must learn to be strong.”

  “That’s true.”

  “This is as good a time as any to begin,” she said, untying the belt that held her robe together. The robe fell open; he could see the valley between her breasts, her flat white stomach, and the honey-colored hair at the junction of her legs.

  “This is very embarrassing,” she said.

  “For me too.”

  “I think you’re enjoying it.”

  “In a way I am, and in another way I feel like a lecher.”

  “You look like one. Well, here goes.” She removed her arms from the sleeves of the robe. Peeling it off, she tossed it onto the bed and stood blushing before him, her hands behind her back.

  He looked at her firm young breasts, their rosebud tips, her narrow waist and long delicious legs. He wanted to take her in his arms, throw her onto the bed, and ravish her with wild abandon, but he was a professional and he tried to be businesslike.

  “Turn around,” he said coldly.

  She turned around, and he saw the mouth-watering curvature of her buttocks, her graceful back, and those long legs again.

  “Turn around again.”

  She spun and faced him, her eyes downcast. “May I put on my robe now?”

  “Yes. Sorry about all this. See you tomorrow.” He headed for the door.

  “Wait a moment,” she said.

  He looked at her again, and felt weak in his knees. She was shivering, but made no effort to put her robe on.

  “What’s your hurry?” she asked.

  “Hadn’t you better put your robe on? I think you’re cold.”

  “I’m not cold.”

  “Then why are you shivering?”

  “Because I feel strange. To be standing here naked with you looking at me is … well …exciting.”

  “It certainly is.”

  “Do you feel excited too?”

  “I certainly do.”

  “How?”

  He smiled, and now he was the nervous one. “I thought it was very erotic.’“

  “So did I.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “I
think I did.” She blushed redder, and now the color extended to her strawberry nipples. “You don’t see me putting my robe on, do you?”

  He moved toward her, put his hands on her shoulders, and pulled her closer. Their lips touched and their tongues found each other. She entwined her fingers in his hair and he ran his hands over her shoulders to her slim waist and curvaceous buttocks. She rubbed her little garden against his stiffening phallus.

  “I think I’m going to take my clothes off so that you can search me,” he said.

  “Since you searched me, it’s only fair that I should be able to search you.”

  He took off his jacket, shirt, and slacks. He kicked off his shoes and socks and pulled down his shorts.

  She looked him up and down. “Turn around.”

  He turned and stood, wondering what a woman would look at.

  “Face me.”

  He turned again and moved toward her. She looked confused, not knowing what would happen next, and he picked her up in his strong arms, carried her a few steps to the bed, and placed her on top of it. Then he lowered himself on top of her, searched for her lips, and felt her writhing underneath him. She mumbled a few words in Russian, then fastened her lips to his and raised her pelvis. He reached down to her soft wetness and ran his fingers through her hidden treasure. She clasped his phallus with her long elegant fingers and squeezed it hard, stroking back and forth. Then she aimed it at her target and pulled him in slowly. The sensation made his toes curl.

  “Do you still think I’m a spy?” she murmured into his ear.

  “Lady, at this point I don’t give a damn who you are,” he replied as he took her buttocks in his hands and commenced pumping.

  She wrapped her legs around his waist and met him stroke for stroke, as the submarine plowed its way through the Baltic Sea.

  Chapter Three

  The next afternoon, the submerged submarine entered a fiord about fifty miles south of Stockholm. In the navigation room, sailors sat at their consoles making certain the vessel would not collide with the underwater rocky cliffs. Captain Sinclair stood with his arms wrapped around the pods of the periscope, looking at the white stone building that was the Scandinavian headquarters of the Bancroft Research Institute.

  “Down periscope,” he said, stepping back.