by Roddy Wix
Frank had too much on his mind to enjoy the picturesque train ride to Geneva. He planned to be at his bank in person when the fee for his work in Bordeaux was paid and he had the contents of several safe deposit boxes to deal with.
Over the years he accumulated caches of supplies ferreted away in strategically located bank boxes around the world. For the most part they contained passports, credit cards, modest amounts of cash and gold, and a variety of easily concealed weapons. Such were the small tools of his trade, though he’d only had to rely on them twice in thirty years. He was willing to abandon most of them if things came to that. However, the boxes he maintained in Geneva required his personal attention. One held over twenty-five pounds of C4. He kept the high-powered explosives in reserve for a special occasion: one he hoped would include Serge Malroff.
Times had changed since he locked the stash away. It seemed like a hundred years ago when he brought the stuff across the border from France in the trunk of a Citroen. Purchased from an old acquaintance, a former MI6 operative, the claylike bricks had a long and sordid history. Now, removing the material would be more difficult, though far from impossible.
Staring blankly out the train window he carefully planned his activities for the following day, memorized his schedule, and alternated between dozing lightly and thinking about Joey. He wanted to call her, but knew she would become concerned. Joey understood. He never called when he took these kinds of trips. To break that protocol could set her brilliant mind in motion and he wanted to avoid that at all costs.
In some ways Joey reminded him of himself, but he credited her with being far smarter. Frank was clever, street smart, and above all else, lucky. Over the years he believed a heavy ration of luck allowed him to pull off some of the legendary stunts he’d attempted. Most considered him modest, but Frank Beretta called it “common sense”. On the other hand, would a man with common sense blow himself up, be resurrected under another identity, and live someone else's life for decades? Clearly skill came into play somewhere in the equation.
In Frank's mind Joey was the smart one. She’d earned a GED at sixteen with the highest score in Alabama, literally fought her way out of a toxic home, and gotten herself halfway through college in eighteen months. When he first met her she was close to graduation and working as a cocktail waitress to pay the bills. In those days, before 9/11, part of the ‘cover’ for Frank’s business included providing security for bars, restaurants, hotels and a couple of strip clubs owned by Hal Marden, a retired New Jersey cop and Rat Pack wannabe. Joey, known as “Joan” at the time, worked at his club in Pompano Beach. The tips were good and the hours fit her schedule. Beretta never cared for those places, no matter how ‘classy’ they tried to be, but one particular night he stopped in to talk to Marden and the visit would change his life.
Frank had played the scene over in his mind more times than he could count. Even a decade later he closed his eyes and imagined the perfume and liquor sodden air of Hal Marden’s Club Indigo. Frank sat at a corner table waiting for Hal to finish an intense conversation with his bar manager. Without halting his assault on his employee Marden raised his hand, snapped his fingers, and motioned toward Frank.
Beretta looked in the direction of the club owner's gesture and saw Joey for the first time. She was about five-six with unusually thick ash blond hair hanging to her shoulders and wearing a different uniform than the other waitresses. Black stilettos, dark hose, and a short, clinging black dress with long sleeves ending in white French cuffs fastened with faux diamond studs. The neckline of the dress descended far enough to reveal she wore no bra and her breasts were firm, real and perfectly shaped. Had those been her only charms he’d have ordered a drink and likely never seen her again, but even the dim lights of the club couldn't conceal something more than beauty. Her skin glowed though she wore little makeup and her smile had an engaging sincerity, but it was the cold depth in her striking, ice-green eyes that riveted Frank. He'd seen the combination of fear and anger before. Instinct told him there was more to this girl than just face and body, a lot more. The gold nametag strategically placed above her left breast read “Joan – VIP Lounge”.
“Good evening, sir. My name is Joan. May I serve you something from the bar?”
He gave her one of his own sparkling, genuine smiles.
"I'm Frank Beretta. Would you bring me a Glen Morangie on the rocks?"
"Of course, Mr. Beretta."
"Call me Frank, please."
She smiled and he enjoyed the way she glided away to fetch his drink. Then his thoughts turned to Katya. She’d had the same look in her eyes when they met signaling a girl in trouble: not the kind of trouble you get fixed in a clinic. Frank, the White Knight, sensed a damsel in distress.
Moments later she returned with his scotch.
“Thanks, Joan.”
“May I bring you anything else, sir?” The sweet smile mesmerized him and he didn't want her to leave.
“My company provides security for Club Indigo, but I don’t come here often. Would you tell me about the “VIP Lounge”?” he asked glancing at the nametag.
“Of course, Mr. Beretta. I can give you a tour if you like.”
Frank anxiously agreed but Hal's impromptu arrival interrupted them.
“Frank, I’m sorry. I need another fifteen or twenty minutes with my guy.” He motioned vaguely toward the beverage manager standing by the bar.
Beretta glanced at his Rolex for effect. “No problem, Hal. I’ll be happy to wait.” The man seemed relieved.
“Thanks, thanks a lot.” Turning to the beautiful waitress he said, “Joan, please bring Mr. Beretta anything he wants and put it on my account.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hal left at a near run while Frank picked up his drink and gave the interesting young woman an appraising look.
“Let's take that tour.”
Joan motioned for him to follow her to the entrance to the VIP Lounge which turned out to be a private bar and garish, velvet upholstered seating area. There were multiple private rooms off to the side. The main room was empty except for a bartender.
“Jeez, did Elvis decorate this?”
Joan stifled a laugh.
“Mr. Marden spent a lot time personally overseeing this project.”
“No doubt. What do you do here?”
“This is for VIP members only. I manage beverage service in this lounge.”
“Well, this room is much quieter than out on the main floor.”
“Sometimes.” Her eyes turned down.
“What are the rooms to the side for?” As if I don’t know, but I’ve got to keep this conversation going. I’m not usually at a loss for words.
“Private dances.” Her green eyes flashed before she again looked away.
“Well, it doesn’t seem terribly exciting in here now. Are things always this way?”
“Sometimes I wish, but no, Mr. Beretta, that's not the case.” Seeing his glass empty she reached to take it and their hands touched. Joan pulled back too quickly to escape Frank's notice then walked over to the bar and had a fresh drink poured for him. Her smile remained, but the sparkle faded a little. She handed Frank the glass and a clean napkin.
“On weekend nights the VIP can stay busy until five AM.”
“That takes a lot out of your personal life.” Frank sipped his scotch and waited for her response.
“I go to school during the week so the schedule is great for me. I have no family and no social life. The money is good and pays my bills. It's ok. At least for now.” Sipping a tonic water and lime she lowered herself into a club chair and Frank did likewise. He'd guessed right on her height. With four inch heels she almost equaled Frank's height of five-eleven. He found himself attracted immediately but her eyes said she was not free.
“I can't imagine someone as pretty as you without any social life.” He was distracted by the view of her legs as she shifted in the chair acros
s from him.
Joan smiled, but otherwise ignored his remark about her looks. “Until I graduate college I’m restricted to work and school. Period.”
Hal Marden walked in.
“Oh, there you are.” He said to Joan, “Good idea to bring Mr. Beretta in the VIP. This room is a lot quieter this evening. Perhaps we should meet in here?” He looked to Frank for a response.
“Fine with me.” Beretta sat back and made himself comfortable.
“Good. Joan, would you bring me another, please?”
Joan brought Hal straight bourbon from the bar and put the heavy glass on the table with a “VIP” embossed napkin. Their meeting was not long, more of a social call to let a client know that the owner of Silver Star Security took a personal interest in them. Besides, Hal was a known source of original quality documents including passports and driver's licenses, a skill Frank always found useful. Hal had no complaints or problems with S3 and seemed to be anxious to get back out to the action. The men parted company with Frank saying he might stay for ‘one more.'
“Please bring Mr. Beretta another drink.” Hal motioned to Joan and headed out the door at a trot.
Frank waved to Joan signaling he had changed his mind. She seemed disappointed. Imagination or wishful thinking on Beretta's part?
As Frank left the room he pressed one of his business cards into her hand and said in a low voice, “If my company or I can ever help you in any way please call me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Berretta, I will remember that.”
“It’s ‘Frank’, and I hope you do.” He walked out of the VIP Lounge with no expectation of seeing the beautiful young woman ever again. Six weeks later he received a call in the middle of the night prompting him to rush immediately to her rescue.
Then the dream ended. Frank had dozed until the train reached Geneva and now he had to stay on a rigid schedule with a checklist of things to accomplish.
44.
The Lion’s Hill
Bermuda
