Fist of God by Frederick Forsyth

Author:Frederick Forsyth [Forsyth, Frederick]
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: General, Fiction, Modern fiction, Espionage & spy thriller
ISBN: 9780552139908
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2009-11-23T20:00:00+00:00

Leila Al-Hilla came out of the bathroom slowly, pausing in the doorway with the light behind her to raise

her arms to the doorframe on each side and pose for a moment.

The bathroom light, shining through the negligee, showed off her ripe and voluptuous silhouette to

full advantage. It should; it was black, of the sheerest lace, and had cost a small fortune, a Paris import

acquired from a boutique in Beirut.

The big man on the bed stared hungrily, ran a furred tongue along a thick lower lip, and grinned.

Leila liked to dawdle in the bathroom before a session of sex. There were places to be washed and

anointed, eyes to be accentuated with mascara, lips to be etched in red, and perfumes to be applied,

different aromas for different parts of her body.

It was a good body at thirty summers, the sort clients liked: not fat, but well-curved where it ought

to be, full-hipped and breasted, with muscle beneath the curves.

She lowered her arms and advanced toward the dim-lit bed, swinging her hips, the high-heeled shoes

adding four inches to her height and exaggerating the hip-swing.

But the man on the bed, on his back and naked, covered like a bear in black fur from chin to ankles,

had closed his eyes.

Don‟t go to sleep on me now, you oaf, she thought, not tonight when I need you. Leila sat on the side

of the bed and ran sharp red fingernails up through the hair of the belly to the chest, tweaked each

nipple hard, then ran her hand back again, beyond the stomach to the groin.

She leaned forward and kissed the man on the lips, her tongue prying an opening. But the man‟s lips

responded halfheartedly, and she caught the strong odor of arak.

Drunk again, she thought—why can‟t the fool stay off the stuff. Still, it had its advantages, that

bottle of arak every evening. Oh well, to work.

Leila Al-Hilla was a good courtesan, and she knew it. The best in the Middle East, some said, and

certainly among the most expensive.

She had trained years ago, as a child, in a very private academy in Lebanon where the sexual wiles and

tricks of the ouled-nails of Morocco, of the nautch girls of India, and the subtle technocrats of

Fukutomi-cho were practiced by the older girls while the children watched and learned.

After fifteen years as a professional on her own, she knew that ninety percent of the skill of a good

whore had nothing to do with the problem of coping with insatiable virility. That was for porn magazines

and films.

Her talent was to flatter, compliment, praise, and indulge, but mainly to elicit a real male erection out

of an endless succession of jaded appetites and faded powers.

She ran her probing hand out of the groin and felt the man‟s penis. Sighed inwardly. Soft as a

marshmallow. General Abdullah Kadiri, commander of the Armored Corps of the Army of the Republic of

Iraq, was going to need a little encouraging this evening.

From beneath the bed where she had secreted it earlier, she took a soft cloth bag and tipped its

contents onto the sheet beside her.

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