Wednesday, 9 November 2011
Tinker, Tailor, Tyke and Tease part VI.
Act One Scene Six: Thrupenny heads for Israel and Georgina takes stock of her emotions.
Part Five can be found: HERE
Following a long pause Georgina stood up and walked to the window. ‘So all we have at the moment in relation to the mole is conjecture, suspicion, plus elimination based on what limited evidence we have. However, this Johnny Turk that Mossad are holding could and I emphasise could, just be our best lead yet.’
‘So where do I come in then Ma’am? enquired Thrupenny.
Briefly Georgina looked perplexed and then smiled. ‘Simple! I want you to fly out to Israel and interview our modern day Kemal Atatürk. See what he has to say and whether he sounds credible. This has to be kept absolutely secret. Nobody and I mean nobody must know where you are going and why. I’ve personally prepared an identity for you and a passport in the name of Celia Cocktreasure. You are a travelling salesperson in women’s lingerie and fripperies. There are also two fall-back passports should the shit hit the fan. Either way I want you in and out quicker than a tart’s toy….. do you understand?’ Georgina rapped her knuckles on the desk to emphasise the point.
‘Yes Ma’am,’ replied Thrupenny interleaving her fingers looking thoughtful. ‘When you say fripperies do you mean portable electromechanical devices designed for women’s personal and private pleasure?’
Georgina rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, yes if you insist, if anyone asks you can say your mission is to open up the Middle East.’ They both laughed.
‘Seriously ma’am is that kind of thing kosher out there?’
‘The Middle East is a huge market. While their men folk are over here tromboning high class hookers in Mayfair flats, the women are back home jilling themselves senseless any way they can. Our research shows that they own even more toys than the Americans.’
Thrupenny opened her mouth to say something but in the end could only say: ‘Wowww!!!’
‘Back to business. I want you to fly out to Sarajevo with BA, where our old pal Caravan Clubski will be waiting for you with your range of samples. He will also have tickets for you on an El Al flight to Ben Gurion. Once there you will be met by someone from Mossad. I’ve arranged this personally, so remember your visit is unofficial. That way we have maximum deniability on all sides. You don’t exist, capiche? ’
Thrupenny nodded. ‘When do you want me to go Ma’am?’
‘Now! Your suitcase and in-flight bag are in your office, packed and ready to go. There will be a taxi waiting for you around the corner opposite MacDonald’s. It’s booked in the name of Witherspoon. The driver is a Jamaican called Daniel Donga. I don’t want to use any of our pool drivers on this. The fewer people who know you are out the country the better.’ Thrupenny nodded, stood slowly and headed for the door. Pausing she turned and smiled. ‘Leave it to me ma’am I’ll sort it.’ Briefly she looked misty eyed at Georgina and then silently closed the door behind her.
‘Take care,’ Georgina called after her. She wanted to say more but couldn’t. As the door closed Georgina walked back behind her desk and cursed her stupid sense of reserve. Lost in thought, almost as an unconditional reflex, she extracted a silver-framed photo of Thrupenny from the bottom drawer of her desk. Taken in the South of France the previous year, Thrupenny was posing provocatively, hands on her sensuously cocked hips, stark naked apart from a straw hat and a very saucy grin. Georgina dwelt briefly on the luxurious quiff of black hair between Thrupenny’s legs and smiled. She remembered that afternoon like it was yesterday.
They’d risen late and begun the day with a leisurely barbecue lunch. Sirloin steaks grilled over old grape-vine embers, with fresh salad from the morning’s market. She smiled wistfully as she remembered the mouth-watering aroma of the steaks mingling with the lavender and rosemary drifting up from the fields. The day had been roasting hot and their meal had been slow and leisurely accompanied by two bottles of chilled Tavel rosé, or was it three? They followed the main course by feeding each other fresh Cavaillon melon soaked in brandy. Then inexplicably they found themselves reduced to giggling. So easily losing their clothes they chased each other naked around the pool like schoolgirls. Walking on the Moon by the Police had been playing in the background and they had thrown each other in the pool and bounced up and down pretending to be spacewomen. Thrupenny decided to do hand stands in the pool while Georgina held her legs and admired the view. Then, for some totally unexplainable reason, which might have been drink related, they decided to ride bareback down to the beach at Cap du Thon on two Camargue ponies from the field next door. Catching the ponies might have proved problematic had it not been for a bag full of crisp apples.
While Georgina ran back to the house for sun-tan lotion Thrupenny held the ponies and covering each other in sun-tan oil proved a happy distraction for the next ten minutes. The Devil was in the detail Georgina insisted, no part of the anatomy was to be left unprotected and their trip down to the beach might well have ended there had they not been so strong willed.
Riding an unsaddled pony naked, covered in sun-tan lotion down the steep and stony hill-side track proved no easy task. All around the cicadas were singing madly and the resinous aroma of the pines assailed their senses as the late evening sun beat down remorselessly. Clinging to the horse’s manes they rode madly along the deserted beach, cantering through the waves and spray, their hair flying, hollering like Red Indians. For the Camargue ponies riding in the surf was little more than second nature and they seemed delighted to be released from the confines of the field for the afternoon. They had almost reached the end of the beach when Thrupenny fell off her mount with a splash and vanished into the foaming brine. George turned and rode back to help her. For a full nail-biting minute there was no sign of Thrupenny. Then just when it seemed Thrupenny had been swept off into the deep by the undertow, she burst from the waves and dragged Georgina down with her into the pounding surf.
Laughing madly, wet-limbed and unabashed there they made love completely and totally - oblivious to the world at large. It was their first time; having inexorably been edging towards this for over a year and a half. Thus eighteen months of repressed desire exploded that afternoon. Tumbling and rolling, biting, kissing, licking, tossed about by the waves, sand in their hair, the tang of the sea on their lips, limbs entwined, they assailed each other remorselessly as the relentless tide’s lunar pull, rhythmically engulfed and swirled around them. Thrupenny, a jellyfish in her hair, wrapped in bladderwrack, oblivious to whether she drowned or not, finally surrendered her exquisite body to wave upon wave of orgasms. Georgina had never been happier. Little quarter was given that afternoon and none was asked for.
Not that their salty sojourn lacked amusing moments. While on her knees, head buried between Georgina’s thighs, Thrupenny had unexpectedly suffered the rude indignity of something cold and wet thrust deep between her butt cheeks. After thirty seconds of pandemonium and screaming fitfully, the ingress turned out to be a dog’s nose. The owner a short, dumpy, old man in his eighties, with round, old-fashioned spectacles, wearing an immaculate white suit and Panama hat had paused, politely doffed his hat and wished them good day before calling his dog and continuing with his constitutional as though nothing had happened. He called something over his shoulder, but the import of it was lost in the crashing waves. Georgina felt sure it was something about the tuna fishing starting early that year. Much later when they had staggered back out of the surf, to collapse on the warm sun-sucked sand, dishevelled, cold and shivering with nipples like dime pieces they found the horses, perhaps embarrassed, had already made their way home. Undeterred they made each other garlands out of wild columbine and holding hands walked naked back to the villa singing ‘Jerusalem.’ Georgina found it hard to own up to her emotions, but deep down she knew she loved Thrupenny more than life itself.
She scratched her nipple thoughtfully through her blouse. Perhaps Thrupenny was right? Life was too short for this ludicrous, inconsequential, un-winnable game of intrigue. Perhaps they should find somewhere. Maybe not a gay bar in Magaluf, but perhaps a little restaurant up on the Lasithi Plateau in Crete? In the winter they could cuddle and go for long walks and in the summer she could cook sea bass and Thrupenny could do the food service. George sighed and slipped the photo back into the drawer and shut it softly. ‘Take care darling,’ she whispered.’