Martine in Hamburg
Noël Burch nburch@wanadoo.fr
Judo-wise French nurse must fight the sinister Petra for Léon's life.


MARTINE IN HAMBURG

Martine was tori – the one who applies the hold – and her friend Annie was uke
– the one submits to it ; they sat facing each other cross-legged on the
tatami, their black belts tied around white judogi.

Annie threw a punch at Martine's face; she parried the blow with both forearms
and in the same movement seized the attacker's wrist and elbow: a quick twist
and Annie was pinned to the mat with a wrist-lock and the mild pressure the
pretty nurse was applying to her elbow.

« The hardest part, » said Martine, » is keeping relaxed. In judo we're used
to a tense effort... »

She released her hold and Annie sat up, rubbing her elbow.

« Maybe so, but it sure does work for you, this stuff... »

The two judokates were in the third day of an intensive course in Hakko-ryu
ju-jitsu, taught in their provincial city by a master from Paris.

Both were attracted to a system of defence which emphasized control with
powerful joint-locks that inflict maximum pain with minimum effort and afford
absolute mastery of another person's body without serious injury.

Martine was always interested in enlarging her own arsenal of tricks the
better to deal with situations of violence that were becoming increasingly
frequent in her hospital. Annie, on the other hand, was here out of a real
sense of urgency.

She was a well-paid chief of security in a luxury department store, and her
career was based on her superior judo and karate skills. But only weeks ago, a
clumsy shop-lifter had made the mistake of pulling a knife on her and found
himself on the receiving end of a totally unexpected and spectacular
round-house kick to the temple which had delighted female onlookers... but
sent the poor man to hospital, where even now he lay at death's door.

Annie thought this was too high a price to pay for a 500 fr bottle of perfume
and if this crash-course proved convincing, she had resolved to follow an
intensive course in "jiu-jitsu of the eighth light", reputed the truly
gentlest of the martial arts. She was prepared to sacrifice her two free days
a week for private lessons in Paris.

As she'd put it to Martine: "If I'd known how to take that knife away from him
with a joint-lock and even if I'd broken his arm, I wouldn't have this feeling
I'm a killer."

But right now, both are focusing on the details of their apprenticeship. They
exchange roles: tori throws a punch at uke's face and finds her own face
pinned to the mat.

*

**

When the afternoon session was over, the two friends stopped for a drink.
Martine was worried about her friend.

"You look awfully low to me. You ought to stop fretting over that guy, don't
forget he wanted to cut you! Anyhow, I told you the surgeons say he's going to
pull through..."

But clearly Annie still blamed herself: "I know, I know... but he's just some
poor kid, he panicked, I should have restrained myself... But you
know...actually... that's not really why I'm so down, even if it's related...
My boyfriend walked out on me!"

"Again! He's the third one this year!" Martine gazed at her friend
compassionately: Annie was ten years older than Martine, but her body was
really beautiful in her tight white cotton sweat-suit; the breasts and hips
were still perfect. Her face was not conventionally pretty; she was what is
known as a belle laide: the nose was a bit long, the eyes a bit wide, the
mouth a bit severe, but the high cheekbones were dramatic and together they
formed a singular harmony to which men often responded...

Annie sighed: "Well, what can you expect, they're scared of me! Sylvestre was
never very much at ease with my skills, and when I sent that guy to
hospital... Well, you know what he's like: he accused me of being a fascist!"

"On account of one karate kick?"

"Well... the kid was a North African."

"So what? He still had a knife!"

"Yeah, sure... But I feel awfully... abandoned."

"I know how you feel old girl, I sure as hell do. But you'll find someone
else, don't worry... Why don't you go out with the guys in your dojo? At least
you won't frighten them! You know many more jocks than I do... in karate, it's
mostly men."

Annie made a face: "You know what those guys are like, even the one's who do
the zen stuff and claim they aren't macho... There's always a sort of
jealousy... rivalry... the idea we're competing... With women, it's not like
that... And then there's that other idea if you go to bed with one he owns
you!"

Martine smiled: "Well then find yourself a girl-friend... That's not so bad
either, you know."

""Oh, I tried that, sure... but I can't help it, I like it better with a man,
a lot better in fact..."

"Well, it's true we're better adapted to one other... I mean physiologically."
And the two women burst out laughing."

Martine took a long look at her friend.

"Annie, you know there are men who... well who like us the way we are..."

Annie shot her a questioning glance.

"Yes, I mean... men who admire women who know how to fight... That's why
they're attracted to us..."

Annie guffawed: "You mean the loonies, the masos!"

"In a way, yes but it's not so simple... Listen, I want you to answer me
frankly: doesn't it ever excite you when you defeat a man... you know, when
you drop them on their ass by surprise or when they defy you and you get them
in a hold and they sputter... And aren't there times when that turns you on?"

This time, Annie's laugh rang a bit false: "Of course not!"

"Are you sure? Think about it... I'm someone you can tell..."

There was a pause.

Then Annie dropped her eyelids: "Yes... yes, I've known that."

"When?"

"Well... Several times... Just last month I caught a really handsome guy
stealing razor blades and stuff like that... He looked like he was really
hard-up, but when I spoke to him, he got excited, tried to fight me. So I got
him a very discreet hold I like to use in a case like that – you remember, I
showed it to you, you squeeze the thumb back against the wrist, it hurts like
hell and above all it's very humiliating, since I'm not even exerting myself
and he's paralyzed with pain..." A dark look crept back into her eyes.
"Unfortunately, I'm only good at joint-locks when they're not expecting it..."

She hesitated.

Martine urged her to go on.

"Well, so this guy, instead of taking him to the office the way I'm supposed
to do, I took him into a deserted corridor, jammed him up against the wall and
I kissed him... Then I let him go..."

Annie was blushing at the memory of her "escapade", but she also seemed
relieved to have gotten it off her chest.

"And when did you start feeling excited? As soon as you saw him?"

Annie' voice was growing softer and softer: "No... not really... It was when I
got his hand in that thumb-lock... It's when I felt that power over his
body..." And then, in a feverish breath that was hardly audible: "It's always
exciting then... more or less..."

"What did you just say?"

"Yes, yes!" she raised her voice in irritation... "It always excites me a
little, even when they aren't young and attractive, even when it's a girl..."

"Well, then you're exactly like me..."

Annie threw her a sharp glance but did not appear overly surprised.

"Hmm, I often did wonder..."

"Right... But what you don't understand is that we are exactly like those guys
who enjoy being putty in our hands... More precisely, we are their
complement... Of course, these penchants have a bad reputation... It's only
women who are supposed to want to be physically dominated by their partner,
men never: it's a disgrace to their virility... You and me, it turns us on
being stronger than a man, and that's a pleasure that's supposed to be for men
only, don't you see? We're deviant, us and them, but it it's no more a
shameful disease than being gay or lesbian, for example!"

Annie said nothing, seemingly torn between disgust and fascination.

"Do you really believe what you're saying?"

"Absolutely..."

"But Martine, I've met guys like that, we all have; they're turned on by what
we can do, they invent some pretext or other to have a demonstration, but
then... gone with the wind... You know the kind, wimpy wankers!"

"Well, I for one sometimes like to play with that kind, see how far they'll
go... Sometimes I can make them come out of the closet and that turns me on...
But I'm no more a monster than you are..."

Then, more thoughtfully: "Though it's true, I've known some women who were...
monsters, I mean... But listen, here is what I'm driving at: I have a friend,
a wonderful guy, he's only a few years older than you, who has this just this
thing we're talking about and who lives it to the hilt... There's nothing
weird about him, he's a well-known writer and well... I want you to meet him.
He's all alone, and he's like you: sad."

This was only the beginning. It took Martine a good half-hour before Annie to
agreed to make the acquaintance of Léon Schrub.

Martine bounced out of her chair: "A jeton please!" she called out to the
woman behind the tobacco-counter.

But when she reached Léon's Paris number, she could only leave a message with
his impersonal voice-box: he was to ring her at the hospital after 3 the next
afternoon.

*

**

But the next morning day there came in the mail a most sinister missive.

The last two times Martine had seen Léon, he had seemed increasingly caustic
and bitter. Solitude weighed heavily on his shoulders. And the very existence
in the real world of a Martine, "the woman of his dreams" who could never be
his, had locked him into the idea that he could never content himself with
make-believe...

If Martine had embarked upon a matchmaking venture for which she felt
ill-equipped, it was because she had measured the depth of her friend's lonely
frustration.

For which reason she was only half-surprised – but terribly upset – to read
the words scrawled in pencil on a page torn from a school notepad:

Dearest Sankaku,

I salute you from the bottom of my heart, you gave me many moments of joy but
now I'm off to Hamburg for a happy ending...

Adieu,

Léon

*

**

Martine had made an appointment with Annie at the fashionable hairdressers on
the Grande Place: she wanted to supervise a new hair-style which would show
off to better advantage the shape of her friend's face and head – she had in
mind a page-boy cut she had seen in a fashion magazine.

The session lasted an hour, they chatted about this and that, and Martine said
nothing of the morbid farewell note she had received.

In the Café de la Place, Annie couldn't get used to her new hairdo but Martine
was satisfied because she knew her friend looked sexier now.

"Listen," she said finally, "Léon is in trouble... He's really depressed and
he's gone to Hamburg..."

"Well, then we'll wait till he gets back!" Evidently Annie still had qualms
about meeting this "maso" Martine set such great store by.

"Yeah... But in Hamburg, there's a woman who's ... dangerous... he and I ran
into her once... She's a top ranking kung-fu expert, a lesbian who gets her
kicks beating men, really beating them... she even says she killed somebody
once."

"No fooling?" said Annie, incredulous but shocked.

"Well, that's what she claims. Anyway, Léon was fascinated by this woman even
though she left him in a sorry state that time we met... One time after that
he got drunk and told me could not imagine a sweeter death than at the hands
of Petra (that's her name)... As you can imagine, I gave him hell... But in my
opinion he's gone to Hamburg to get that woman to put him to death..."

"So what'd I tell you? He's a weirdo twice over!"

"No, you don't understand: he's just miserable.... I have to get there quick
before it's too late."

She looked at the envelope: it had been posted at 4PM the previous day... from
the Gare de l'Est. There was no time to lose.

"Are you serious? I mean, you think he's in earnest? You're going to go there,
just like that? You know where to find this chick?"

"Maybe it's the nurse in me talking, but I think women like ourselves have
something like a duty to save a man like that from his demons, from the death
fantasies which the patriarchy pins on strong women. It's fear of us that
causes things like that... Léon associates us with death because... oh, I
don't know, all those Hollywood movies on tv with vicious women who kill...
Anyhow, it's Léon who explained all that stuff to me, but he's right, I'm sure
he's right... As for finding Petra, that shouldn't be hard... She's into
lesbian SM, there are specialized clubs..."

In Annie's mind, curiosity had definitely gotten the better of repulsion:
"That's interesting, what you're saying... Maybe I would like to meet this
Léon of yours... But look, isn't what you're doing kind of dangerous? All by
yourself?"

This was a good question and Martine had no answer: all she knew was she could
not leave Léon to his fate... even if that was what he thought he wanted...

"Well then, listen," Annie resumed after a moment's thought: "Why don't I come
with you? I know a little German, and then... well, you never know... In a
street-fight, I can be useful..."

There was a look of surprise on Martine's face: "You could get away?"

"For a few days, certainly. When do you leave?"

"As soon as I can... There's a train at half past five, I could be there early
tomorrow... It's a few hours quicker than flying on account of the timetables.
I've talked to a colleague who's on leave but who's willing to come in for a
few days as a favour to me... I've replaced her a couple of times before..."

"Is there a doctor you know who could give me a medical certificate?"

"Yes..."

"Then I'll meet you at the station..." She dropped a few coins on the table
and loped away towards the car-park.

Martine was relieved at not having to travel alone to Hamburg. She glanced at
her watch: 3:30, just time to go home and pack.

*

**

The night express to Copenhagen had been under way for five and a half hours.
Alone in their scruffy 2nd-class compartment, Martine and Annie lay stretched
out on the empty seats. Annie was happily sleeping but Martine still lay
awake, tossing and turning on the hard seats. She was too worried about
Léon... and about her own ability to find him before he found Petra!

She stood up quietly, slipped into the corridor and headed for the end of the
carriage: emptying her bladder might help her find sleep.

But when she emerged from the toilets to regain her compartment, an unpleasant
surprise was waiting for her: a young soldier in uniform waiting his turn, but
who, upon seeing this lovely young woman before him at the end of the deserted
corridor, couldn't help coming on to her aggressively.

"Well, beauty, how about a kiss to celebrate this romantic encounter?" And he
stepped in front of her, blocking the passageway.

Martine sighed impatiently: "I advise you to let me by... Otherwise, I could
you very badly."

The soldier was big and strong – and not bad looking, in spite of the dreaded
crew-cut – and of course he laughed. "Ha, I'd like to see that! C'mon, give us
a kiss!"

The soldier put out his hand and the situation suddenly became interesting for
Martine, it made her want to try one the holds she'd learned over the
week-end. Concentrating on total relaxation, the cardinal rule of hakko ryu,
she lay one hand on the all unsuspecting soldier's wrist with almost caressing
gentleness, then gave it a sharp twist and applied lock of the nidan category,
which she knew to be extremely painful, the edge of her hand digging into the
base of his folded wrist, her palm hard against the back of her victim's
hand...

There was an astonished shout of pain :"Leggo o' me ya bitch, you're breaking
my wrist."

Martine smiled up at him: "Effective, isn't it? This is called ko no ha gaeshi
which means falling leaf in Japanese... The leaf is your hand, so to speak...
I hold a black belt in judo, but last week-end I took a crash-course in
jiu-jitsu and I do believe I'm going to take it up seriously... this is fun."

She spoke in intimate, provocative tones, leaning ever closer to the soldier
whom she'd pinned to wall of the carriage, in a half-crouch from pain. They
were eye to eye now and Martine, moved by a sudden impulse, perhaps
remembering Annie's confession, darted forward with her lips and gave the boy
a protracted French kiss. At first the soldier was completely taken aback but
then he was disgusted. He tried to fright her off but the jiu-jitsu grip
rendered him perfectly helpless.

At length, Martine withdrew her lips while still applying, quite effortlessly,
the painful lock.

"You perverted bitch, lemme go and I'll show ya!"

"You and what army? I thought you wanted a kiss? Not any more? OK, then here's
another little souvenir." She cocked her free arm back struck him an atemi
just beneath the rib-cage with her finger-tips, where the jiu-jitsu le master
had taught them to hit.

She saw immediately she'd been on target, the consequences in fact were so
spectacular that she could immediately release her hold: unable to breathe,
unable to react, the big fellow collapsed at her feet, without a sound.

Martine ran silently on her tennis shoes back to the compartment, the divided
skirt she preferred when travelling floated pleasantly around her powerful
legs. As she was about to re-enter the compartment, she glanced back at the
soldier: he'd managed to get up on his knees, vigorously rubbing his savaged
wrist. Then suddenly he clapped his hand to his belly, made a strange noise
and rushed into the toilets. Martine giggled as she remembered one of the
master's passing remarks which had amused her greatly but which she'd
forgotten till now: these holds have a powerful effect on the large intestine,
and can have consequences for one's opponent as disconcerting as they are
harmless. She had nothing more to fear from Romeo!

Annie was still sleeping peacefully and Martine, satisfied with the elegant
way she had managed this unpleasant encounter, her first practical use of
jiu-jitsu, soon drifted off to sleep herself, five hours away from Hamburg
where they would arrive around sunrise.

*

**

Léon had taken that same night train to Hamburg, 24 hours earlier.

The hotel porter had obligingly provided him with the list of lesbian clubs in
that European sex capital. He'd already begun his tour but the list was long
and his first evening was fruitless.

On the second night, he enticed a French-speaking barwoman into conversation
with a generous tip and obtained the addresses of clubs, some more or less
clandestine, specializing in lesbian S&M.

He hit pay dirt with the third one he visited.

In the cloakroom of "Die Kämpferin" (had Léon known German, he would have
found it sooner) he entrusted his coat to a person of indeterminate sex and
for the umpteenth time peered around a dim-lit room, inspecting the customers
one by one: he was sure he would recognize at once the silhouette he sought.
Standing behind a pillar for the moment, he was only dimly aware of some kind
of show under way on the bright-lit stage.

Proceeding now to look for an empty table, he finally turned his attention to
the show... and a shiver ran down his spine.

For there, in regular wrestling ring, he saw two women engaged in singular and
acrobatic combat, two women garbed in black leather from head to toe: the one
he instantly recognized as Petra, and after a moment's hesitation decided the
other must be Helga, the petite blonde lover seen in her company at La Croix
Valmer two summers ago.

Leon finally sat at a table not far from the stage with its forthrightly kinky
exhibition and ordered a double whisky: he could hardly believe this was for
real.

A cat-suit of soft black leather, moulding her opulent volumes, ebony hair
gathered in a pony tail which protruded from a small opening at the back of
the leather hood that enveloped her leaving visible only the cruel oval of her
face, gloved the elbows, booted to the knees, the sculptural Petra was
executing her usual kung-fu moves - more ostentatiously acrobatic here than
when Léon had watched her make short shrift of two punks in a street fight on
the Riviera.

Helga, on the other hand, who had only appeared to him that night as the
gentle and submissive lover of the intimidating amazon, turned out now to be a
highly trained expert in the mysterious and elegant art of Aikido. The long
skirt and sleeveless jacket ensemble she wore over a light cotton kimono was
tailored in that same soft black leather but otherwise was an exact copy of
the traditional hakama, which Léon had often seen in public demonstrations at
the Salle Wagram in Paris.

It was easy to see the match had been choreographed in advance: at present it
was the aikidist who had the upper hand, invariably parrying the punches and
kicks launched by her opponent and with each counter-lock sending her flying
head over heels (a spectacular fall which Leon knew to be a convention of the
art: in a real fight, shoulders would be dislocated, arms would be broken). In
the end, complicated series of shifting arm locks finally pinned Petra to the
canvas and a very swish MC with a radio mike appeared from nowhere to declare
Helga the winner.

When the applause died down, the MC addressed the audience, first in German –
Léon couldn't understand a word – and then in English, with which Léon was
more familiar. And here is what to his amazement he thought he understood:
"Ladies, and especially you gentlemen out there, here is the opportunity you
have been waiting for, I'm sure... Ah, but how many of you are prepared to
grasp it? After that splendid demonstration from our two beautiful martial
artists – who are also the house bouncers, so let troublemakers beware! (a few
tourists laughed). Anyone who feels man enough to take on one of these
highly-trained ladies can try his luck right now! Who'll volunteer? Raise your
hand!"

Immediately, several hands were waving for attention. One in the front row of
tables belonged to an athletic looking forty-yea-old who was immediately
elected by the MC. He wanted to take on Helga, the aikido specialist. He
climbed onto the stage and was told to remove his shoes and jacket.

Petra lay on the edge of the ring, arms to her sides, eyes closed. Her younger
friend was seated in a lotus position at the centre of the ring.

The "brave" spectator was soon ready and moved towards his slender but
formidable adversary who still sat motionless...

She kept him waiting many long seconds.

One could feel the tension mounting in the room (no doubt a deliberate effect,
Léon said to himself).

At length, Helga rose smoothly to her feet and faced the man with a faint
smile on her lips. Her arms hung limp and she was shaking her hands to limber
up the wrists. Finally, she gave a faint nod, indicating she was ready to
fight.

The man began circling his opponent cautiously; her feet slid invisibly
beneath the long leather skirt as she turned with him.

Thinking he saw an opening, the man lunged... but encountered only then air!
The woman had suddenly crouched down, hugging her knees to her breasts, and
her opponent could only trip over her compact frame and fall flat on his fac.
Despite the foam rubber matting, there was a shout of pain and the audience
shouted for joy. The women, who far outnumbered the males, were especially
pleased, clapping to bring the house down.

Springing supply erect, the aikidist gazed down at the man she had humiliated
as he clumsily regained his feet, ambiguous anger shining in his eyes... She
stared defiantly at him and beckoned him to try again. With infinite caution,
he stalked the robed figure in black and white, feinting a grab now and then.
Helga made no move to fend off her attacker, or to attack, but the man hung
back a long time, looking for an opening...

Suddenly, he tried his chance again, counting on his superior size and
strength: going for his slender adversary's forearms thinking to throw her off
balance...

But he couldn't even begin get a good grip...

The woman's riposte, so elegant, so magically effective, took Léon's breath
away... and he was certainly not alone for he heard gasps on either side:
supple as a dancer, quick as a rattle-snake, the German woman had somehow
already gotten hold of her attacker's hand and wrist and had clamped on an
irresistible two-handed lock: pivoting with deliberate slowness, the aikidist
obliged her would-be attacker to revolve in the opposite direction so that how
she was standing behind the man whose captive arm was drawn across his face so
that he was effectively blindfolded by his own forearm. Drawing him backward
by the locked wrist, she dropped into the "horse position" and almost gently
laid her bold challenger across one thigh. The man was helpless now, his spine
stretched to breaking point, unable to see his tormentress, unable, to reach
her with his free arm: he could only admit defeat, which he did... quite
loudly..

But the lovely athlete was through with him yet: crooking her free arm, she
brought the tip of her dainty elbow down on her victim's sternum with
considerable force at the same withdrawing the support of her thigh. Though
the atemi had not been struck full force – Léon knew it could be fatal – when
the man hit the mat again, the wind had been knocked out of him and he lay on
his back gasping for air like a fish out of water... But he was smiling, which
came as no surprise to Léon: the man was obviously a "brother".

The clapping lasted a while and long before it had ceased, Léon's hand was
raised but so were those of several other male patrons. However, Léon now saw
Petra rise to her feet and whisper in the MC's ear, all the while looking in
his direction!

Had she recognized him?

Whatever the case, the MC came over and asked him which of the ladies he would
like to challenge. He pointed at Petra, saw her smile at him, and bent down to
untie shoes.

Of course she'd recognized him indeed, even seemed pleased to see him... or
rather at the prospect of beating him up again perhaps? Here, in any case, it
was unlikely to be as painful as his previous experience of her skills,
judging by the restraint exercised by the aikidist in dealing with her
"unfortunate" challenger.

This evening, his mind was not focused on the ultimate purpose of his journey;
yet as he climbed into the ring, he knew the thrill of excitement he felt was
like a foretaste of that final confrontation for which he longed.

So here you are klein Léon, "she murmured, black gloved hands dangling loosely
at her leathern thighs. "What are you doing in Hamburg?"

He made no reply, put out a pathetic hand to seize hold of he – " might as
well get it over quickly", he said to himself as fear and excitement fused
together. When his hand was within her reach, Petra gave it a disgusted look,
and then almost negligently, her own gloved hand darted out, snatched at two
of his fingers and gave them a knowledgeable twist. A most unspectacular move,
which the audience could hardly see, but which immediately placed Léon at her
mercy without even the beginning of a fight. To relieve the pain she caused
him so effortlessly, he had to bend his knees, but since at the same time she
was pulling him towards her, he could not drop to the mat, but had to shuffle
towards her with his ass in the air, a deliciously humiliating position in
front of all those pairs of eyes...

People began to hiss.

Petra seized his wrist and folding inward one of his captive fingers squeezed
it between the pincers of her thumb and forefinger. The pain was excruciating
and Léon thought his finger would break. His captor leaned forward, her eyes
shining wickedly beneath the leather hood and spoke softly, for him alone: "A
wimp like you will never so much as lay a hand on me, it would disgust me too
much!" Léon dreaded a blow that might punctuate this declaration of hate, but
at the same time he seemed momentarily safe, since both the terrifying
creatures' hands were occupied.

Wrong... Hardly had she finished her brief diatribe when leaned back just
enough to execute a vicious head-butt which exploded at the base of his nose.

Léons saw stars and fell on his back in a semi-faint, holding his forehead,
unable to stifle a whimper.

Hissing and booing had spread through the audience. There flashed through his
mind that pathetic scene he had watched many times in the art-houses of the
Latin Quarter, Emil Jannings as an old professor in a clown suit, letting an
unctuous magician break eggs over his head whilst the rowdy Blue Angel
audience booed ... but whom were they booing, he'd always wondered, the
persecutor or the persecuted?

The MC and a female attendant hastily appeared and helped Léon back to his
seat with comforting sounds. They wiped away the blood from his nose, advised
him to hold his head back, promised compresses...

To be sure, Léon certainly had a severe headache, but he soon became aware of
another pain... in his crotch: a massive erection was straining against the
tightness of his trousers.

The recent memory of that leather-clad silhouette bending over him like Lady
Death coveting her prey abolished every other thought: now he knew he would
pursue his quest to the end.

*

**

Six hours later, Annie and Martine arrived at Hamburg station. Annie had slept
through the night and only just learned of the episode with the horny soldier.
She laughed: "Didn't I say you were gifted for jiu-jitsu?"

The train was behind schedule and Martine fretted about the time: perhaps they
should have flown after all? She examined the drivers in the taxi queue and
set her sights on a butch-looking woman. They stood aside to let others pass
ahead of them, until it was the woman's turn.

Martine gave her the name of a hotel seen on a poster at the station.

But as soon as the taxi was moving, she took out a notebook and a pen and
handed them to Annie: "Ok, here's your chance to use your German."

And Annie set about pumping the lesbian driver.

In five minutes they learned the address of a club where two women "who really
know how to fight" gave a nightly show which "attracts every pervert in
Hamburg!" They even changed the club name in their honour: "Die Kämpferin".

Martine congratulated herself on her choice of a taxi.

*

**

At that same hour, Léon and Petra were having a copious breakfast in an
all-night eatery not far from the club. The amazon wore black as usual –
tailored wool slacks and a turtle-neck sweater.

She was gazing intently at her interlocutor. Her expression was a mixture of
incredulity, amusement and something like compassion: "So that's it? You want
me to be your executioner? You've got an incurable disease and you want to die
by a woman's hand? Right?"

Léon had made up that incurable disease – although in fact his viragophilia,
he knew, was exactly that! – figuring it would help him plead his cause if
Petra turned out to be less of a psychopath than she had appeared on the
Riviera.

He nodded: "Right..."

Petra leaned back staring at him, took a cigarette out of her pants pocket
without showing the packet, a habit Léon had already noticed at la Croix
Valmer and which had excited him greatly: it was something soldiers do. Just
lighting her fag for her was a thrill...

"You mentioned money... How much?"

"One hundred thousand francs."

Petra made a quick mental calculation and appeared satisfied.

Léon took a fat envelope from an inner pocket and handed it over. She opened
and made a face: "These are worthless, they've been cut in half."

"The other halves are in my hotel room... I'll have them on me when the thing
is done... And they're worthless to me while you're holding the other half,
aren't they? Nor could I imagine taking them back forcibly, right?"

Petra gave him a long, hard look, and said: "OK, I'll trust you..." She smiled
fleetingly: "You certainly are one sick man, Léon... So how do you want me to
do it?"

"That's up to you... but I hope you'll make it last a bit, the way you like to
do, I think..."

He leaned forward and spoke in a whisper: "Is it true you killed that sailor
on the docks?"

She grinned: "And two more men since... Don't worry, I know how... Ever heard
of qin na?" She seized his left wrist and raising his arm above his head,
jabbed him in the armpit with her fingertips. Léon gave a little shout of
fear: he has just felt a cardiac spasm: "You get the message? Your heart
skipped a beat, didn't it? That's a pressure point called jiquan, the
"ultimate source". If I hit you a bit harder there – at the right time of day
– you'd have a fatal heart attack."

Léon had a powerful hard-on, he was experiencing a mixture of intense
excitement and deadly fear, but he feigned an Olympian calm.

"What do you mean by "the right time of day?"

"That's none of your business."

She looked thoughtful for a moment, then borrowed his pen and wrote an address
on the paper table-cloth and tore it off..

"Be there at 3 AM tomorrow. I promise you your money's worth... before I let
you taste a certain qin na technique."

*

**

Annie and Martine spent part of the morning in a large park, loosening up
stiff muscles after their night in the train. They even engaged in a bit of
randori, which attracted a handful of bystanders... and a few wolf-whistles,
as well. But none ventured to chat them up...

*

**

Léon awoke around noon, had a copious breakfast, then went back to his room
and smoked a joint. Next, he lay on the bed, opened his flies and gently
caressed himself, thinking of Petra and her lovely girl friend. Their
expertise was astounding. He remembered the graceful ease with which Helga
rendered her opponents helpless, the contemptuous finger-hold which Petra had
used to humiliate him in front of the snobbish clientele at "Die Kämpferin".
But most of all, he wondered about the mysterious qin na... It took an effort
of willpower to prevent himself from coming... He smoked another joint and
went back to sleep.

*

**

Soon after they were seated at a table in Die Kämpferin, Martine and Annie
witnessed in turn a demonstration of the two women's extraordinary
proficiency. But this time the exhibition did not take place on stage – where
an all-female Dixie-land jazz band was holding forth – and the victims of the
two formidable lesbians were not volunteers.

Seen from the table where the two friends sat, the incident began with a
commotion near the bar and a confused jostling. Two black clad silhouettes
emerged from nowhere with impressive velocity and determination: a long
leather-clad leg struck out twice in quick succession and two bodies fell to
the floor while a third was mysteriously hurled through the air with a shrill
scream...The crowd stepped back revealing the two figures clad in black
leather that gleamed under the soft spotlights: they were bending over three
men who lay squirming at their feet... Practised hands imprisoned their
victim's flailing arms, brought them forcibly to their feet and steered them
towards the exit.

The bouncers were female – normal in a place like this, Martine thought to
herself. The smaller of the two – a blonde aikidist that Martine had not yet
identified as Helga – easily controlled two of the troublemakers with a
complicated grip that twisted both their arms together behind their backs.

But to the rear this somewhat comical trio, Martine immediately recognized the
blonde's partner. The voluptuous body in that black leather cat suit
unquestionably belonged to Petra, who was controlling the tallest and heaviest
of the three males – who appeared to have a broken jaw – with an even stranger
grip: she was holding his wrist rather loosely, Martine thought, but seemed to
be pinching his collar-bone. The grip seemed scarcely powerful enough for such
a mastodon, and yet he was clearly helpless.

"Look," Annie exclaimed: "a qin na technique, the executioner's hold! That's
how they took condemned men to the chopping block!"

"No fooling? The things you know about! Anyhow, take a good look at the
executioner: that's our Petra."

Annie let out a low whistle. "Looks like a tough customer... But still, you
should try reasoning with her... After all, she is a woman..."

"The jury is still out on that..." Martine murmured.

Soon an attractive "lipstick lizzie" approached their table and asked if one
of them would care to dance. Ever available for erotic adventure, Martine
found the young woman very much to her taste. But 1) she didn't want to risk
being recognized by Petra and 2) neither she nor Annie wished to reveal that
beneath the long coats the wore, they were dressed for quite different
activities.

Quite a while went by before the bouncers returned. "Probably beat them up
some more" Annie opined.

"Well, I wonder... Judging by the time they spent out there..."

The two friends fell silent, each with her own thoughts.

And then it came time for the show, identical to the one Léon had seen the
night before and which Annie and Martine immediately saw was faked from
beginning to end, however much they admired the two women's technique.

But the rest of the show was less conventional. Annie's optimism was swept
away and Martine's worst fears confirmed. The two athletes clearly enjoyed
rendering their "unfortunate" volunteers helpless – but Martine wondered just
how appropriate those inverted commas were: at times, she was sure the
beat-down far exceeded every known threshold of pleasure!

This complacent display of cold-blooded sadism hardened her own resolution and
convinced Annie to fall in with her friend's plan to trail these dangerous
females on the assuption they would lead them to Léon. And then, as soon as
they could separate him from them, convince him to return to Paris... kidnap
him if necessary... which would be "easy-peasy", Martine added: "He'd love
it!"

"What if they've already made their deal? Suppose the next time they meet
is... is the last... you know...?"

"Then we'll have to take on Petra... she's very fond of money."

"Take on the other one too, maybe."

"The other one too, no doubt!"

"It won't be a piece of cake... qin na is bad stuff..."

"If you say so... Scared?"

"A little."

"Me too... You want out of this?"

Annie put her arm around her friend's shoulders:

"You know I don't..."

It was week-day and Die Kämpferin closed at 2 AM. Martine and Annie slipped
away as soon as they saw Petra going alone towards what they assumed was her
dressing room. They realized the two lesbians changed into their
street-clothes separately in order not to leave the departure of the last
drunks unsupervised.

In the street they hailed a taxi and asked the Turkish driver to park with his
lights out some thirty meters down the street from the club entrance.

After a half and hour and some thirty marks on the meter, they saw the two
bouncers leave the club and walk to a Golf parked across the street. Both wore
black and what seemed to be basket-ball shoes. Martine felt a painful tension
in her chest.

The Volkswagen drove past them: after a few seconds, Annie told the driver to
turn around with his lights off and turn them on only when he was headed in
the right direction. Martine was amazed at her friend's resourcefulness, as if
she'd been doing this all her life. The driver, who'd already been given a fat
tip, showed no surprise at these melodramatic instructions.

*

* *

"And the condemned man ate a hearty supper". The cliché ran through Léon's
mind as he sat in the dining room of the luxury hotel where he had elected to
spend his last hours on earth. Was he frightened, he wondered? No doubt... But
at the same time the extraordinary excitement that had come over him since he
had once again seen Petra doing her thing was actually overcoming his fear of
death... a fear considerably attenuated these last few years, in any case.

Since that night in a hotel room on the Riviera when Petra had rendered him
helpless for hours with a few all but effortless strikes the more quickly to
take Martine to bed with her, the dangerous lesbian had been like a huge
shadow hanging over his life, one which had gradually fused with the shadow of
death itself.

And in the depths of the solitude he had known for years now, death itself had
fused with the idea of peace at last...

How would she do it? He imagined a series of enervating blows, from fists,
feet, her elbows, finger-tips... a few throws perhaps, some of those locks
that dislocate joints, and finally the coup de grace ... Perhaps she'd pin him
between her legs and break his neck against her stomach, he'd seen that
exciting hold in a British self-defence manual... and the thought gave him a
powerful erection... But now there was this qin na... death by pressure-point!

At one wild moment, he regretted not being able to video-tape the scene and
jerk off watching it afterwards. The impossible fantasy of watching one's own
death. But what a "snuff movie" it would make! And Léon recalled Martine's
almost unbelievable account of that American producer and the female
nin-jitsuan who was his evil genius.

He looked at his watch. It was after midnight, the dining room was closing. He
would leave in half an hour. Once again, he marvelled at his own calm, seeing
it as proof he had chosen the right way to go..., considering his lifelong
attachment to women in the martial arts.

*

**

The two cars had left the downtown area for some time now and traffic was
almost non-existent. It was after midnight. For fear of being spotted, Annie
had asked the driver to fall well behind in the straightaways. But the two
lesbians had given no sign they were aware of being followed, and after each
turning the taxi managed to keep them in view.

Now they were driving through an industrial zone.

Suddenly, far ahead, they saw the Volkswagen draw up in front of a huge
open-work structure in the middle of what looked like a vacant lot surrounded
by a wooden hoarding. At a word from Annie, the driver turned into a side
street and stopped the cab. They considered keeping the vehicle, but the Turk
put an end to their discussion by peremptorily declaring he had no intention
of lingering in such a place.

They gave him their coats and the name of their hotel. Annie paid the fare
plus a big tip and ostentatiously noted his license number. The taxi
disappeared leaving the young women alone – or nearly so! – in the deserted
neighbourhood.

They were dressed for battle: Annie wore a leather windjammer and heavy-duty
stretch tights. Rolled wool socks protruded from the tops of her ankle-high
sneakers. Martine wore an old judogi jacket in black cotton and Turkish
trousers bound tight around her ankles over a pair of soft leather jazz boots
of which she was particularly fond. The moon was out and the hoarding cast a
shadow which hid the two women as they ran nimbly and silently towards Petra's
parked car.

Soon they saw that the vehicle was empty now: the two lesbians had presumably
gone inside. They also discovered that what lay behind the hoarding was not a
vacant lot at all but a kind of labyrinth of low sheds, mostly of corrugated
iron.

The Golf was parked by the entrance to a wide alley between two rows of
hangars. Peaking around the end of the hoarding they examined the ground: the
alley led straight to what was no doubt the main entrance of the big central
building. Strangely enough, the alley was lit by street-lights: anyone using
it to approach the abandoned factory would be in plain sight. And yet it was
certainly there Helga and Petra were to be found... And Léon too, perhaps...

In silent agreement, they retraced their steps and circled the hoarding,
looking for an opening and another path of approach between the sheds.

Annie soon spotted a loose board and a few seconds later they were in a narrow
passageway leading in what seemed the right direction.

"What's that smell? A camp-fire?" Martine whispered. They made one last turn
and found themselves in a kind of courtyard.

When they saw the camp fire, it was too late to turn back.

Two homeless males sat on sleeping bags surrounded by empty food-tins and
beer-bottles. They'd heard them coming and now were leering at them
suggestively. One was tall and thin, the other short and stocky. And both were
pretty ugly, Martine said to herself.

"We're just passing through," she stuttered. They were drunk of course, but in
a friendly mood... That won't last, Martine predicted... Good-hearted Annie
addressed the two men in German, trying to make a joke of the situation ... As
luck would have it, this was not a language the young men understood, most
likely they were Slavs from Eastern Europe country, there were so many of them
about now that the Wall had come down. But lack of verbal communication was no
obstacle for the two Slavs, they were content with an age-old lingua franca.

"Every Jack has his Jill" they seemed to say as each threw his arms around one
of these heaven-sent females... Martine's judo gear seeming not to have
signalled any danger to their drink-befuddled minds.

Martine sighed: "Shit! This is all we needed! Let's take care of this fast,
but don't hurt them, they're just down-and-outs and they're drunk!"

"Don't worry, "Annie answered," I know what to do..."

Fending off the stocky one who was trying to kiss her, Martine saw her
formidable friend silhouetted against the sky raise her open hands on either
side of her would be "lover" 's head.

"She's going to burst his eardrums" Martine worried: the screams would give
them away! But Annie struck the man's head on both sides at once with
palm-heal strikes; the blows made a single dull thud, which was followed by a
faint sigh, and Martine saw her friend deftly catch the flaccid body of
Tall-and-Thin in her arms and lower him gently to the ground.

Sensing something wrong, Short-and-Stocky momentarily gave up trying to insert
his tongue between Martine's reluctant lips and turned to look... The young
woman took advantage of this to seize the lapels of his jacket and apply a
quick hip-throw. Clinging to her victim's body she fell on top of him,
shifting her grip on his cheap, dirty jacket to a strangle-hold.

The young Slav was strong, he struggled, arched his back and Martine used his
efforts to slip her delicately shod feet beneath his buttocks, removing his
base of support: pressing her pubis into his stomach, she had him at her
mercy. Her wrists were crossed, her knuckles digging into his carotid
arteries, "cutting off the blood-supply to the brain" as her judo manual
phrased it.

Already the young Slav's big hands clung less forcibly to her arms, his
efforts to escape grew weaker. A few more seconds and his body went limp.

Martine patted her victim's cheek and turned to see Annie feeling her own
victim's pulse. She rushed to her side.

"Is yours OK? Christ, what did you to him? He dropped like a slaughtered ox."

"Just a little Penchak Silat: palm-heel strikes to the temple and the
jaw-hinge: it puts them out cold for at least two hours! Indonesian women use
it when their husbands bug them... No kidding!"

"And you're surprised your boyfriends are scared of you? Ha! You've got to
teach me that stuff, it's a lot quicker than strangle-holds! But come on,
we've got to hurry..."

And they took leave of the unconscious Slavs, punished for a making a heavy
pass at the wrong women at the worst possible moment.

*

**

Léon's cab-driver had difficulty finding the address he was shown on a slip of
paper. And when he did find it, had drawn up to at entrance to that strangely
lit alley that led to an abandoned factory, he was sure it was all mistake. He
certainly wasn't going to leave his fare in a place like this at 3 o'clock in
the morning!

It took a sizeable tip to persuade to go on his way, shaking his head...

"There goes a precious witness for a bizarre article in the "crimes and
accidents" column, thought Léon, who hoped with all his heart Petra had made
sure they wouldn't be disturbed: the author of rather immoral thrillers would
have been as distressed as the viragophile in him had Petra failed to get away
with another perfect crime!

And once again, at the thought of Petra and her very real threat to life and
limb, he thrilled with an indefinable sensation, an inextricable blend of
terror and ecstasy...

He walked up the alley, feeling the invisible women's eyes upon him, satisfied
that the mise en scène of his demise had a certain surrealistic panache: he
saw himself as the anti-hero of some classical film noir.

The devastated ground floor of the huge factory building was shrouded in
darkness. He called out in a hushed voice: "Petra?"

Silence.

Again he called out the name of his death. Louder... And again... and again...

Finally the answer came:

"Upstairs... Léon, come and find me..."

There was a theatrical note Petra's voice falling from the floor above. Léon's
eyes were accustomed to the darkness now and he saw an iron staircase in the
far left corner of the huge factory floor.

His footsteps on the metal treads echoed across the silence of the night.

On the upper level, it was even darker: he didn't dare take another step...

"Keep coming Léon, we're right, in front of you...

He took one step... then another... and another...

And suddenly, the scene was a flood of light.

For a moment, he was blinded...

Then, gradually, he saw them: Petra stood some 20 meters ahead, magnificent in
black leather. A bit further back, her hand still resting on a big wall switch
stood the blonde Helga, wrapped in a floor-length red satin cloak.

Petra had gone to some lengths for the occasion: tight-lace booties,
exquisitely cut black kid trousers with a high waistline that clung to her
legs like a second ski;, a low-cut bustier in the same material with narrow
shoulders which could scarcely contain her imposing bust. On her hands, he
recognized the driving gloves which she favoured for fighting: from the
cut-off leather there emerged black varnished nails he knew to be filed sharp
as razors.

"You like this outfit? I'm sure you do... You know Léon, even if I thought you
didn't have the other half of the banknotes with you, I‘d go through with my
share of our deal. For me, it's as pleasurable as it is profitable..."

She came gradually closer as she spoke.

"But I want to take all my pleasure... And maybe at the same time let you have
a little supplement, who knows?"

Suddenly he realized he was within reach of her deadly hands and feet. But
nothing happened. She simply went on talking.

"So, before I hit you in way that will end your life, before I burst you
spleen, for example..." and with absolutely no forewarning she lashed out with
her foot but only to graze what he supposed to be the relevant of region of
his anatomy ... "Or your heart!" whirling with lightening speed but only
touching his breast with her deadly elbow, while her smile seemed almost
tender. "Or else... a qin na death point... "a deft pull at his jacket caused
him to spread his legs to keep his balance, and she slipped her hand beneath
his crotch. He was momentarily afraid for his "manhood"! But she merely struck
him a token blow, a strange finger-tip strike between scrotum and anus.
"That's the huayin cavity, a delayed death stroke: the victim dies after 24
hours or so, you'd have plenty of time to remember what I did to you, but I
doubt your cock would be as stiff as this..." and before removing her hand,
she stroked his erection provocatively. Then she backed away laughing.

Exciting prospect, no?" That's what you want isn't?"

Léon could only nod.

"But before we get round to that, I want another show, just for me... Helga,
kommst!"

And the frail looking blonde Valkyrie came forward, still wrapped in her
crimson cloak... But then the garment fell to the floor and Léon gasped, for
Helga was naked as the day she was born, except for a pair of sneakers against
the scattered broken glass and other detritus on the cement floor.

This was getting even weirder than Léon had expected! He couldn't really
complain, and yet still...

"Lovely isn't she? Admit she's lovely... I'm sure she turns you on... But she
hates men even more than I do; she loves to hurt them... And at the club you
saw what she can do... isn't it a wonderful thought, that innocent body,
smooth and whit, with the ability to inflict paralyzing pain on an opponent,
cripple him for life, oh yes, I've seen her do it, or kill him in a fraction
of a second... Surprised? There are aikido neck-locks which can be fatal...

"S, knowing you hope to die, knowing you want to die, Léon, knowing you claim
to enjoy being beaten by a woman, Helga asked me to let her work you over for
a few minutes... And since I love Helga dearly, I granted her the favour
provided she'd do it in the nude...I've never seen her operate in the nude...
See how lovely she is and think how much she's going to hurt you...

And to Helga: "Funf Minuten, Liebschen, nur funf Minuten..."Léon, of course,
was very excited... And yet strangely enough, Helga frightened him even more
than Petra... There was something in her eyes...

"This wasn't part of the deal," he protested feebly.

"What's this? You're turning up your nose at such beauty? Why Léon, you
disappoint me! Anyhow... it's not for you to decide..."

Knees slightly flexed, arms dangling at her sides, the blonde Venus glided
towards him on her rubber soles. She seemed to hardly move her legs, and yet
on she came, inexorably...

Léon shrank back, tried to retreat, but collided with an iron pillar. He
started to back around it, but in a single graceful leap Helga was at his
side: she closed with him and he could smell the sweet scent of her hair...
She slipped her hand along his shoulder caressingly, almost amorously... and
then seized the back of his neck at the base of the skull: a sudden squeeze of
her steely fingers and his shoulders went numb: was this how she killed? he
wondered in a sudden panic. By reflex, he leaned forward to escape the
debilitating grip but this was exactly what the naked aikidist wanted: using
his own momentum she bent him forward, holding him now in a humiliating
position, his face only half a meter from the floor, unable to stand, obliged
to waddle forward in order not fall. His arms flailed weakly, unable to reach
the dainty hand clamped around the base of his skull like a steel vice.

" Schön, Helga, sehr schön, dieses Handgriff... You see how very skilled she
is, my Helga, that is a difficult grip to master, one much catch the nerve
centres right away and you need a keen sense of balance. Just look at you: a
puppet and its mistress! You have to go wherever she wants, that should excite
you!"

She laughed evilly, for Helga was indeed walking her "puppet" back and forth
in front of her admiring lover.

At one point in his forced march, one of Léon's pathetically waving hands,
accidentally brushed Helga's tight buns: instantly her knee flew up and "just
happened" to hit him square on the cheek-bone, causing intense pain which
seemed out of all proportion with the moderate force of the strike: he saw
stars and continued his involuntary waddling in a dazzled blindness, on the
verge of unconsciousness.

"Fixed you good, didn't she? She never misses that point; it's on the meridian
of the optic nerve, one of her best shots... You're lucky... She' could have
done it harder, and you could be blind for what's left of your life. And that
would be a shame, would it not?"

It wasn't until an expert thrust sent him sprawling that he began to recover
his sight and found that Helga had dropped him at Petra's feet, staring at the
high-laced leather basket-ball boots that Petra had chosen for his execution.

Helga's voice barked at him incomprehensibly. Looked up Petra questioningly
and she translated with a laugh, at the same time touching his lips with the
tip of her boot "She's telling you to lick the foot of your death.". Léon
hesitated... This kind of game was new to him... And the circumstances were so
special...

Seeing his reluctance, Helga swore at him in German and kneeled by his side in
a rage that Léon found disquieting; again he smelled her perfume, felt the
presence of her naked body... but already the expert aikidist had seized his
wrist: twisting his arm away from his body she laid it out on the concrete at
a painfully vertical angle while her other bent his captive hand towards his
wrist, squeezing the metacarpal bones mercilessly, bent it towards his wrist
and locked the elbow brutally against her knee. All of this took no time at
all, of course, and as soon as the grip was applied, Léon screamed with pain:
fire coursed through his arm, from the armpit tendons, seemingly about to snap
to the frail bones of his hand, crushed together and twisted by a steel claw.
Never would he have thought the reputedly "gentle" art of aikido could be so
excruciating.

And he observed, too, that the pain had shrunk constant erection he'd had
since the two women had appeared out of the night.

The dark Valkyrie spoke in soft mocking tones: "That's a very painful hold,
isn't it? You'd better satisfy her little whim, you know," and again the
leather boot-tip pried his chin off the floor. "You see that dirt around my
laces? Clean it off with your tongue..." He hung back a second longer, but now
Helga's thumb was probing the hollow in his locked elbow and again he
screamed.

"You see? The funny bone isn't funny when Helga presses it... She has a stock
of tricks like that... And she can do irreversible damage to your ligaments,
for example... "

With tears of pain running down his cheeks, Léon applied his tongue to the
distasteful – and to him, unexciting – task.

*

**

"Listen!" whispered Martine, "Did you hear that? Someone screamed!"

Wending their way through the huge building, they had yet to encounter any
sign of a living soul. But now they knew it was upstairs that "it" was
happening... But were they in time? What had that scream meant?!

They found the iron staircase and took it steps three at a time... as silently
as they knew how.

It seemed even darker here than on the ground floor and at first they saw
nothing. But then Annie looked behind them and nudged Martine: "Look, there's
light over there..."

There resumed their silent run.

A few seconds later, from behind a large tank of some sort, they watched what
was taking place in a space that look strangely like an arena, under ramps of
neon, unaccountably supplied with electricity.

Leather-clad Petra stood with hands on hips, laughing.

Léon was on his feet, but bent sharply forward on account of a painful aikido
arm-lock which a young blonde, clad only in tennis shoes, was using to parade
the novelist back and forth before Petra, laughing and cheering. Suddenly the
blonde aikidist – whom Martine and Annie soon recognized as the bouncer in a
hagana, Petra's lover Helga – executed a large spherical movement which hurled
Léon brutally to the littered floor. She rolled him over and over again, like
a floor-cloth at the end of a mop-handle, then planting one rubber sole on a
particular part of his shoulder; she leant forward... and broke his elbow
across her shin as if it were a matchstick.

Léon let out a scream that was scarcely human and his body went limp.
Presumably, he had passed out...

Petra laughed even louder: "Have you still got that hard-on, mein freund?"

Annie looked at Martine: "We go in?"

Martine was so horrified by what she had just seen that she could only grunt.
The cruel aikidist was clearly about to repeat the operation on Léon's other
arm...Martine leapt to her feet, prepared to rush in, expecting Annie to do
the same, but instead her friend whipped something from her windjammer pocket
and flung it: the slender nude cried out in pain, clapping her hand to her
shoulder. As she turned to peer into the shadows behind her, Martine saw a
steel throwing star that protruded from the naked flesh.

Martine "Annie!" A shuriken... How in the world...?"

But Annie was already up and running.

*

**

Through the veil of pain from his broken arm, Leon, on the verge of
unconscious, confusedly realized that the circumstances were evolving... For
many long minutes now, he'd come to regret having delivered himself into the
hands of these crazy Krauts... he had no idea what was going on, but he was
immensely relieved that some outside intervention had prevented Helga from
breaking his other arm...

He heard running footsteps... heard Petra call out in German...

With great difficulty he rolled over on his side and thought he must be
hallucinating: two fights were going on simultaneously before his bleary eyes:
a woman in a leather jacket whom he had never seen before, a woman no longer
in the bloom of youth but whom he found terribly attractive with her boyish
haircut and dramatic cheekbones, this woman was actually holding her own
against Petra with breath-taking drop kicks, spinning kicks, fending off the
formidable Hung Gar expert as he had begun to imagine no one could...or at
least no woman...

Not far away, the other newcomer – Martine? yes, it was Martine in that old
black gi she sometimes wore for him – having it out with the dangerous Helga.
Despite an incapacitating shoulder injury, the naked blonde had managed with
her good hand to trap Martine's wrist in one of those powerful locks which
were her specialty... But Martine was no nightclubbing wimp: immediately, she
found the riposte, diving forward in a graceful double somersault which
neutralized the hold and allowed her break free. After an acrobatic pull-up,
she dropped onto her hands and her long legs shot out and swept the ankles of
her adversary who took an educated break-fall, but Martine was on her in a
flash: groundwork was her forte and she pinned the naked aikidist on her belly
with a leg-lock and struck her on both sides of the neck with the edge of her
hands and was preparing to repeat the blows with even greater ferocity...

Léon was horrified: against all her principles, his friend was about to kill:
"Martine, stop, that's enough!" he shouted hoarsely. The nurse raised her
head, looking dazed... glanced at Léon and shouted a warning... but it was too
late.

Suddenly he felt a gloved palm jammed against his jaw, razor sharp nails
digging under the orbital rims at the same time as his neck was given a
terrifying twist and he was forced to his feet: he felt Petra's breath on his
cheek, her ample bosom against his back, her taut belly against his
buttocks...

"Get back or I'll break his neck like a stick of wood," the German woman
barked hoarsely. "And all your stars won't make any difference, you bitch:
another millimetre will do it... Get back! I'm taking him with me..."

Like a great cat with a mouse in her maw she began moving towards the iron
staircase. Léon was terrified, he could only let her steer him helplessly: his
right arm hung limp and hurt terribly, to those steel fingers clamped over the
arch of his eyebrows, nails digging into his closed lids and the pressure on
his cervical vertebrae had him paralyzed with fear... All he knew at that
moment in time was that he no longer pined for death at the hands of the
terrifying lesbian...

But the German had not forgotten their pact, not even in this dramatic moment.
"I'll kill you later, as promised..., she whispered to him. " For now I need
you alive to get rid of your two females... If your girl-friend has hurt
Helga, I swear I shall settle her hash later..."

Once the iron stairs had been successfully negotiated, the awkward "couple"
proceeded down the lamp-lit alleyway without mishap.

When they reached the car which Léon assumed was Petra's, he sensed she was
examining the shadowy darkness behind them. Then she whispered into his ear
again: "Time for a nap... This won't hurt..."

She released her terrible grip but kept him close with one hand on his back
the other on his rib-cage and just at the moment as her hostage emptied his
lungs, she gave a sudden powerful squeeze. The result was overpowering, a kind
of explosion in his lungs and he fell into a bottomless black pit.

*

**

Helga was still been unconscious when they left the scene of the ill-fated
confrontation. Annie rang the police from the nearest call-box to send help
for the injured woman. The official at the end of the line plied her with
questions but she rang off abruptly.

Now they had to get away from there as fast as they could.

After a long and complicated journey by U-bahn, they made it back to their
hotel, had a quick shower and a hearty breakfast ("he who eats forgets to
sleep" said Martine reversing the French proverb qui dort dîne).

After which, they took stock of the situation.

"So what do we do? She'll kill him for sure, now..." said Annie.

"I'm not so certain... First of all, she knows we know about their deal, if
she kills him she'll have to kill us... I'm sure the original idea was it
would never get out... Even if we assume Léon is still a willing victim, I
don't think she'd take the chance... Also, I'm sure she only agreed to do it
for the money, she's not that crazy... And the money, she probably has it by
now."

"Petra may not be insane but I wouldn't vouch for her girl-friend!"

‘Nor would I, but she's out of the picture, now. The important thing is to
track down Petra."

"Maybe she just went home..." Annie suggested.

"Maybe... but where's that? I don't even know her surname, even assuming Petra
is her real Christian name.

"They should know at the club..."

"You're right, I hadn't thought of that... Think there'll be anybody there at
this time of day?" It was 9:30 AM by her watch.

"We can always try," said Annie picking up the phone.

There was only a cleaning woman at the club: the manager generally came in
around noon.

In the meantime, Annie rang through to the police station closest to the
factory district and managed to get the name of the hospital where Helga had
been taken. Another cautiously brief call to the hospital told her she was out
of danger.

*

**

Léon awoke in an attic loft, lying on a king-size bed. His arm hurt terribly.

"Where am I?"

Petra's intimidating figure, still in her combat gear, loomed above him.

"My place... Mine and Helga's...No man ever set foot in here, consider your
self lucky. » And she laughed her wicked laugh.

Léon remained silent...

Petra bent over him threateningly: her bustier was too tight and her ample
breasts seemed ready to jump out at him.

"Where are your girl-friends staying?"

"I‘ve no idea, I didn't know Martine was in Hamburg... And that other woman! I
don't even know who she is!"

Then he screamed: Petra was pinching him under the chin, another one of those
mean tricks of hers! "Don't ever lie to me, Léon, you still don't know all I'm
capable of...!"

He could hardly with her pinching some tendon under his jaw: "But it's true!
When I decided to come here and find you, I did send her a little note, but I
never thought she'd come after me!"

Petra pinched him even harder, as if this revelation made her angry.

"Owww! Stop! Why are you hurting me?"

The pressure eased ever so slightly.

"So go one: what was in that letter?"

"I told her I was fed up with living and that I was going to end it all in
Hamburg! Let me go now, that hurts!"

Petra paid no attention to his entreaties.

With his good hand, he tried to pry away the cruel fingers, but it was like
trying to open a wolf-trap with his teeth.

"Did you talk about me?"

"No, I did not, but she could guess I was looking for you... I've often talked
about you since that night in La Croix Valmer!"

Petra withdrew her punishing fingers at last, stood up with a faint smile:
"Took your fancy, did I?"

She turned away and stared through the bay-windows into the night. She was
thinking.

After a long moment, she turned back to Léon and unbuttoned his jacket. The
injured man shrank instinctively from her grasp, fearing more torture. But the
amazon was merely after his wallet. She removed the wad of cut banknotes, went
to a drawer and compared them with the ones she'd already received. Satisfied,
she returned to the bed and stood over Léon.

"All right, I've been paid for my trouble... Do you still want to die?"

Léon remained silent.

Petra laughed: "Maybe that little session with Helga changed your mind?"

She turned back to the windows.

"Anyway, it's out of your hands... I'm the one who decides now, and I haven't
made up my mind. But I promise you it'll be quick and relatively painless,
you'll scarcely feel a thing. That trick I showed you at the coffee-shop, for
example, leaves no trace, just an ordinary heart-attack... Of course, the cops
will wonder about that broken arm, but let them wonder...

*

**

The manager's secretary at Die Kämpferin had only a phone number for Petra and
Helga, and it wasn't recent...

The number turned out to be that of a martial arts gym. The Chinese male who
answered the phone could scarcely speak German, but as his English was better,
Martine took Annie's place.

And indeed, the gym had a recent number for Petra.

*

**

After deftly binding the thumb of his uninjured arm to the opposite big-toe
behind his back with a length of thong – "Chinese knots... struggling makes
them tighter..." - Petra withdrew to the bathroom. He heard the sound of a
shower...

When the phone started ringing a few centimetres from his ear, Léon gave a
start... and let out a gasp of fear! Petra hadn't lied: that slight movement
of his body had drawn those Chinese knots tighter indeed.

His exclamation was followed almost immediately by a guttural curse from
bathroom. The phone went on ringing. Petra soon appeared in a terry-cloth robe
– black, of course.

With obvious annoyance, she picked up the receiver and said "allo" in the
German manner... But suddenly she became more attentive:

"Martine! Where is Helga." and there was a touch of genuine anguish in her
voice.

...

"Which hospital?"

She made a note on scrap-paper.

"She can't have visits? Why?"

...

All right... Tomorrow? What are the hours?"

She took another note.

"Léon?" She chuckled..." He's fine, except for his broken arm, and even that's
not serious, it's a clean break, I had a look..."

"While she spoke, she examined her prisoner's bondage, gave him an "I told you
so" look, and with what to Léon seemed a magical twirl of her fingers,
delivered him of the diabolical thong.

"All right, I'm listening: what do you propose?"

...

What's that? You want to fight me? You? With your friend, maybe, she's pretty
good! But you wouldn't last ten seconds, your judo is useless against my kung
fu!"

...

"Personal? Between you and me? Because we fucked once? You must be kidding..."

...

"Well, if you insist... But it's your funeral! With me, it's a fight to the
finish!... I agree if you come alone, right? You don't bring your girl-
friend, you're the one who wants to fight... I f I win, you won't be around to
worry about what I do with Léon and the money... You knew about the money,
didn't you?

...

"No? You mean yes-and-no... And if I lose, I'll have the address where you'll
find Léon and the money in my pocket. How's that?"

...

"Ring me back in an hour; I have to think where we'll meet..."

Petra rang off and there was exultation in her voice as she looked down at
Léon: "She wants us to settle this between ourselves, ‘fair and square' as she
puts it. And I'll bet she's so proud and naïve she will come alone. And of
course I won't need any help! Too bad I can't take you along to see your
girl-friend get the beating of her life... and maybe her death..."

She held out her right hand.

"Go on Léon, kiss the fingers that may well pierce your girl-friend's heart."

And Léon, dying of fright, hastened to obey for fear of another vicious trick
from her seemingly endless repertoire. Besides which, he was still aroused by
Petra's presence and deadly powers, and the taste of those murderous nails
caused him an undeniable thrill...

*

**

In their hotel room, Annie and Martine were arguing.

"You're mad to want to fight that woman by yourself, I fought her, I know what
she's worth, she knows qin na, I'm not at all sure I could beat her, and I've
been in karate for fifteen years, including five years professional
competition!"

Annie took a deep breath and went on more calmly.

"Martine, you are a good judokate, but that's a sport! This woman is a
street-fighter, there're no referees, no rules, nobody to keep her from giving
you the beating of your life, maybe killing you!"

At first; Martine said nothing.

Then: "I have to do this; it's a question of honour, a thing between her and
me... I'm not really sure why I feel that way, I can't explain it... It's for
Léon, of course, god knows what she'll do with him if she wins, but it's too
risky to just let her make off with him without lifting a finger..."

"Well then, let me go instead of you, she won't be able to back out..."

"No, what if you lost, what if she hurt you... badly... I'd never forgive
myself... Listen, Annie, it's not just about Léon, it's that... I hate
everything, absolutely everything that woman stands for, and I have the
feeling if I don't fight her, I'll be betraying my nurse's oath..."

Annie thought this over for a minute. Then, with a gesture of resignation, she
stood up and began pushing the furniture back. "OK, at least I can show you a
few Penchak Silat moves: you learn fast and they can come in handy in a street
fight."

*

**

An hour later, Petra was on the phone again.

"That's right, just across the street from the fire station... You go round to
the back... The gym is closed at night, but I have the key... The stroke of
midnight, that's right... See you then... poor girl..."

She rang off and sat deep in thought.

She muttered a few words in German and turned to Léon. She looked like someone
who had just had a good idea. Her tone became more friendly, which Léon
immediately found suspect.

"I'm going to rest for a few hours before the "big fight", you must be tired
too, we're going to relax together." All the while she was adjusting the
Venetian blinds to darken the room, put some soft music on the mini-stereo and
flicked a switch on one of those gimmicky 70s lamps of transparent plastic in
which a phosphorescent liquid slowly swirled.

She placed this rather ugly object on the table in front of Léon and laid her
opulent athlete's body close to him on the king-size bed, carefully avoiding
his injured arm.

"Now let's just rest."

She wore a sort of kimono-pyjama of black silk. He felt his repugnance and his
fear subsiding. "She smells good" he said to himself, and Petra seemed to read
his thoughts... "You like my perfume?" she whispered hoarsely. Here, get a
good whiff," and he heard the sound of a vaporizer.

A fragrance filled his nostrils, which seemed slightly different from the one
she wore, but it too was pleasant... He breathed it in...

"Yes, Léon you must be very tired after such a night... Lay your head here..."

And suddenly Léon did feel much more tired, and even a little woozy... So when
the woman took his head between her cool, suddenly gentle hands and laid it
against her ample breasts, he put up no resistance. She positioned his head
comfortably facing the lamp and its slowly eddying colours...

She began murmuring into his ear; the voice seemed to caress his every nerve.

"Do you like my lamp? It's strange, isn't it...? If you watch closely you'll
see shapes appear: birds, fish, reptiles... Look closely, it's fascinating...
No ,no, don't turn away... keep looking... that's right... you must not look
away, you cannot look away, you can only look at the colours... moving...
slowly moving, so slowly, so very slowly... Now your whole body is relaxing,
all your weight rests on me, on my breasts, on my stomach, you are slowly
sinking into my body, your body is part of me, you hear only the sound of my
voice..."

Léon could scarcely keep his eyes open and he felt far, far away...

"I shall count to ten... with each number you must shut your eyes and open
them again... close, open... You will feel sleepier and sleepier and at ten
you will go into a deep sleep. Ready? One! – close and open – two, close and
open, - three... four... five... six... seven... eight..." Léon found himself
obeying these gentle injunctions to the letter. Vaguely, he wondered why... At
"nine" two cool finger-tips brushed his temples, there was a delightful
electric thrill... and when the insinuating, hypnotic voice spoke the word
"ten", he did not hear it...

*

**

A taxi deposited Martine in front of the fire station, just across from the
Kung fu gym which turned out to be the one she had phoned that morning in
search of Petra.

She crossed the street and headed for the back of the building just as a
nearby church-tower was chiming midnight.

Petra was waiting in dim-lit doorway. She wore black leather overalls cut wide
around the hips and shoulders, not as sexy as her club outfit but no doubt
better suited to a street-fight. Martine also noted the black cowboy boots
with hard, pointed toes.

They did not shake hands and it was side by side that they entered the gym in
the centre of which stood a bright-lit ring.

Martine shed the long wool coat that concealed her judogi, and climbed into
the ring for some limbering-up exercises. Petra laughed.

"If you think that's going to help!"

She pulled a cigarette out of her pocket, lit it, and stood smoking and gazing
with undisguised lust on Martine's body, sculpted by the tight black judogi –
it dated from slenderer years. On Petra's lips there was a pout of regret.

When the cigarette was finished, she asked with a note of impatience: "Well,
are you ready for the massacre?"

"Not quite: what proof do I have that you'll let me know where Léon is if I
win?"

Petra took a paper from a pocket and showed it to Martine. "It's my last
gas-bill, it's three weeks old... Hang on, I'll fold it so you can't see the
address, there... you see my name... the date..."

Martine nodded and Petra put the bill away.

The women faced off. For several long minutes they circled the ring, watching
each other. Had this been Die Kämpferin, the whistling would have begun...
Then suddenly Petra feinted a strike to the face – which did not fool Martine
– followed by an arching kick which she did not succeed in avoiding completely
but was able to absorb it with a backward somersault that carried here out of
range.

"Very pretty" Petra jibed," but not very dangerous."

In the same way Martine managed to avoid several other equally deadly kicks,
aimed at her head and at various vulnerable parts of her anatomy... It was
scarcely an even fight, but in the long run, the patience gained in judo
tournaments was to serve Martine in good stead: with this monotonous sequence
of vicious kicks and artful dodges, she managed to lull Petra into a regular
rhythm which was to be her downfall. For suddenly, instead of dodging out of
the way, she caught Petra's leg with a Silat grip learned three hours earlier,
and threw her opponent face down on the concrete, sat on her backside facing
her feet and tried to pin her with a leg-lock...

But it would have been too easy: when you have hold of a scorpion, you have to
watch out for the sting. Extraordinarily flexible for her size, Petra was able
to grab Martine's earlobe, inflicting unbearable pain and pulling her off
balance... Martine rolled away and over, leapt to her feet, but was unable to
avoid completely the lesbian's lightening riposte: the tip of her boot caught
Martine on the left shoulder and her arm went worrisomely numb.

Once again the two women stood face to face. Martine sensed that she was not
going to be able to hold out much longer, she had to go for broke... She dived
to the floor, executed a lightening somersault and drove both her heels into
the target she had been eyeing ever since the fight began: the redoubtable
German's ample bosom. Petra screamed and miraculously fell on her arse!
Following through with her acrobatic move, Martine was now sitting on the
amazon's taut stomach and knew she had only a fraction of a second to end the
fight: she drove the heels her hands into the temple and jaw-hinge of the
astonished lesbian... and was relieved to see that the blow Annie had taught
her and which she had practiced for nearly an hour, was as effective against a
mistress of the martial arts as it was on a poor Serbian down-and-out...

Martine climbed painfully to her feet, drew the precious paper from Petra's
leather pocket and found a pay-phone in a corner of the gym.

"Annie? Come on, don't cry, I'm fine... It was your Penchak Silat that saved
the day... Otherwise, I'd have had it... "She read Petra's address to her.
"Wait for me in front, I'll have the keys. I'm going to bring Petra back in
her car... Yes, yes, but she's out for the count... Why am I bringing her?
Well, because... you never know, I just don't trust her..."

Annie was waiting in a taxi in front of the mansion block. As soon as she saw
the Golf, she paid the driver and hurried to join her friend.

Martine jumped out of the Volkswagen and locked all the doors behind her...
"We'll leave her in there for the moment..."

Annie glanced inside at the back seat and saw the imposing figure of Petra,
still unconscious.

In the top-floor loft, an unpleasant surprise awaited them: lying on a huge
bed in the middle of the space, Léon seemed to be staring at a point in the
ceiling, and he was counting aloud, on and on: "...10 534, 10 535, 10 536, 10
537..."

"Léon", Martine cried out shaking him. "Léon, it's me, Martine!"

But it was no use.

The two women looked at each other and without a word but with a single
thought, rushed onto the landing and down the stairs.

"That bitch!" cried Annie," what did she do to him?"

It didn't take long to carry Petra up the three flights and then to bind her
wrists and ankles with the duct-tape Annie had had the foresight to buy in a
shopping mall near the hotel. Then Martine began slapping her as hard as she
could, shouting her name. But Annie pushed her gently aside, squatted above
the amazon's prone figure, and pressed her thumbs into the cenre of her
eyebrows. "Believe it or not, this is a trick I learned on a first-aid course,
but you'll see, it's bloody effective."

And indeed, after only a few seconds, Petra started to moan. She shook away
the punishing thumbs, and as she awoke, she realized she was bound hands and
feet..

"What's up? Where am I?" Then suddenly she heard Léon's voice counting in the
background and she gave a knowing laugh.

"What's wrong with him?" Martine asked angrily. "What have you done to him?"

"Me?" said Petra innocently. "Hardly anything at all. I just told him he was
to count to one trillion before he can wake up... It should take him something
like ten years... "

"You hypnotised him!" Annie hissed. "Well, now you're going to bring him out
of it or you're dead meat!"

"Hypnotised! Let's not exaggerate! I just whispered in his ear a little, I'm
told I have a great deal of fluid... In any case, girls, Léon is my last card.
It's up to you whether or not I relieve him of his endless task. .. I want
half the money – only half, you beat me in a fair fight, Martine, but I need
that much... I have to take Helga far away from here, start life over again
somewhere... If you leave me the money, I'll bring your Léon out of his
trance... It will take a little time, but I'm the only one who can do it, I
spent all last evening putting him in that deplorable state, it's pretty close
to a coma, his... how do you say it, his "ich"... is buried somewhere far, far
away."

Annie had to forcibly prevent Martine from kicking the bound woman's head.

"That won't help..."

"Maybe not like that, but some more organised form of torture might do it. I
bet you know stuff like that..."

Despite her helplessness, Petra laughed: "I'm also very good at self-hypnosis,
I need say just one word and I become impervious to pain."

Annie took Martine into the bathroom and shut the door.

"Listen to me," she said, "the woman has got us by the short hairs. But that
money is Léon's, he was will to throw it away, we're saving half of it and
above we're saving Léon! From what, I wonder? Insanity maybe, insanity for
sure! So we don't have any option."

And Martine had to admit she was right.

Ten minutes later, Petra was free and our two friends were dividing up the
banknotes which Petra had already sellotaped together.

When the split was finished, the lesbian turn her attention to Léon, who still
lay pitifully reciting his numbers. She dropped down beside him on the bed and
laid his head against her breasts.

She began by gently caressing his forehead, his cheeks, his throat and his
chest, all the while whispering in his ear... This lasted over a quarter of an
hour... He went on counting unflaggingly but the two women watching this
unusual display heard the tenseness slowly go out of his voice...

"Now hear me, Léon, listen to me... You know who this is speaking, don't
you?... Stop counting for a second and tell me who's talking to you..."

He paused long enough between two numbers to whisper: "Petra."

"Right! Now everything's all right, you're very happy because Petra is here,
aren't you?"

And she began massaging his neck with evident expertise. This phase lasted
another ten minutes.

Annie and Martine looked on with horrified fascination: to think this woman
had been able to paralyze a mind as sharp as Léon's...

"And now I'm going to speak a certain word, a word which you know very well,
Léon, it's a word which only Petra can speak, and when you hear that word
Léon, you will wake up very gently, very pleasantly and you will feel
completely relaxed, perfectly happy... And the word is Schickelgruber!

And indeed, Léon slowly opened his eyes and seemed quite calm and contented.
He immediately recognized Martine and her friend and he greeted them. But when
he tried to move, his broken arm made him cry out with pain.

"You'd better get him to hospital, I think I set the fracture properly with
adhesive tape and chopsticks, but he needs a proper cast."

Petra separated herself from the man whose personality she had just restored,
stood up and pocketed her money: "I'll leave you the flat, I'll crash at a
friend's until Helga is well... Then we'll leave Hamburg, I'm fed up with that
shitty club..."

She held out her hand to Martine: "No hard feelings? After all, I didn't start
all this, Léon who came looking for me! Personally, I kind of like him,
anybody who's willing to take his fantasy all the way like that... well he's
somebody! But you'd better take care of him before he finds another
"psychopath" like me..."

Without warning, she threw her arms around Martine and gave her a vigorous
French kiss...

Then she picked up a back-pack, turned her heels and disappeared down the
stairs.

Annie looked at Martine who seemed deeply troubled.

"Well, at the end of the day she's not such a bad sort as all that, Petra."

"Yeah, she just has a bad image," Martine replied, only half-convinced.

"Petra, Petra, come back!" Léon screamed. Though still half-asleep, he
realized his adored Nemesis has gone.

*

**

Forty hours later, after prolonged sedation, Léon awoke in a hospital room:
beneath the cast he wore from wrist to shoulder, his arm still ached badly.

The first thing he saw was Martine watching at his bedside. She was wearing a
long dark coat which only partly concealed her black judogi, a strange costume
for such a place he thought. On the other side of the bed was a woman he did
not know, but whose page-boy bob and dramatic bone-structure seemed
familiar.... Had he not seen them in a dream, in the exciting role of one of
those impossibly skilled Hong movie stars? But was it a dream?

"Léon, I want you to meet Annie... We saved your life last night, you damned
idiot! I hope you're going to show us some gratitude!"

Little by little, the events of the previous night came back to him, little by
little his suicidal folly appeared to him in its true light...

"So now you old fool, I'll bet you're cured now! Haven't you had enough of
your super-heroines?" Martine inquired.

In spite of the haze that still enveloped his mind, Léon seemed to understand
the question perfectly and gave it some serious thought before he answered.
And as he thought he saw in his mind's eye, and in spite of everything,
Petra's implacable silhouette looming over him in that loft... He looked
Martine straight in the eyes and said quietly: "No, I don't think so..."

The two women laughed prettily.

Then the woman called Annie spoke for the first time. She took Léon's hand in
hers and pronounced very softly and gently words that astonished him no end:
"Keep your passion, Léon, it's sweet..."

Léon stared at her without quite realizing what she meant, but at the same
time he was deeply touched, because here was a woman whom he didn't know from
Eve but who, for reasons he could not begin to fathom, seemed to be taking an
interest in him. And that had not happened for a long time.

Martine started to laugh...

"I forgot," she said.

And from inside her judogi drew a wad of banknotes notes that had been cut in
half and sellotaped again.

"But I have to tell you we gave half of it to Petra... You owe her that for
the inconvenience... Ands for Helga's medical costs..."

And there burst into his mind an image of Martine, a Martine he had never
known before, venting her rage on a frail blonde who lay helpless on the floor
of an abandoned factory.

"Petra stuck them together again, wasn't that nice of her? And if you promise
to behave, stop thinking about dying, get back to work, we're going to help
you stick your life together again... Annie and me, OK?

Léon closed his eyes and pictured the dramatic fights of the other night. Oh
yes, that will be very OK, he thought, these two women taking care of me...

But for the moment, he couldn't help thinking about Petra and Helga who
narrowly missed dispatching him into the next world, in beauty and joy... How
many viragophiles could" boast" a death like that?

But then he looked at Annie standing there in the flesh, he remembered the
athletic feats he had seen her perform and he smiled weakly at her... Annie
smiled back.