by Susan Lewis
Now Ernesto had the poems and this weekend she would do her first sitting. He didn’t know yet if he would be invited to watch, though he knew Ernesto intended to discuss his portrayals with them both before making his final decisions. He trembled with the excitement of seeing her disrobe for the portrait, of becoming the woman he had created in verse, whose lover was no more than a shadow. Could he be that shadow? Could it be his male form that covered her naked body, the ghost of his lust spreading over her breasts, her belly, and her thighs? Would he have the courage to suggest himself? Might Ernesto? Would she allow it? Or would she feel the intimacy to be too incendiary for his passion?
He should call her. He needed to ask the question, because he couldn’t allow Ernesto to witness his rejection, should he have to suffer it. Would she mind him calling her now? She’d said he could, any time.
‘Robert, darling,’ her voice purred down the line. ‘How are you?’
Already he was hard, and he knew that if she granted his request he would have no choice but to submit himself to the sublime humiliation of self-satisfaction.
She was still speaking. ‘I’m so sorry, darling, but my husband has something here that needs urgent attention, can we speak in the morning?’
Hot colour flooded his face, as self-disgust rushed like ice through his veins. ‘Yes. Of course,’ he mumbled, and dropped the phone as though it were a camera that might convey the truth of his misery. But disconnecting the call did nothing to cut him off from the images her words had evoked, for he could see her now, submitting to her husband in a way she never would to him. And even if it were only a document that needed signing, in his mind she was naked with her husband’s hand on her bottom; or if it were a meal that was almost ready, she was cooking wearing only an apron; or if it were an injury that required tending, she would soothe it with her exquisite hands while his erection grew in anticipation of the same loving attention. So it would be her husband’s shadow she’d want gliding over her naked body, his eyes absorbing her beauty …
Jealousy was writhing in his chest like an awakening monster. He had to have her, he just had to. One kiss, one feel of her breasts, one deep and wonderful penetration. He pictured her, on her knees, looking over her shoulder with that wickedly sultry smile on her lips as he prepared to take her. A moment ago his erection had lost its might, but now it felt so big he could be Priapus himself, sitting in his chair, ripping open his trousers so that he could thrust the engorged organ of his lust into her lusciously open …
His breath was ragged, his hands shaking as he dialled Rachel’s number in Cornwall. ‘Anna?’ he gasped when she answered.
‘Darling, yes. I was just about to call you.’
‘Anna, come home. Please. You’ve got to come home.’
Chapter 9
STACEY WAS LYING face down on a massage bed in the stylish, white marble and granite bathroom adjacent to the penthouse’s master bedroom, where her husband lay sleeping. It was just after nine in the morning, and Petey had come round to give her a massage before driving her to the set in time for her eleven o’clock call. His hands were as good as an expert’s as he kneaded, pressed, pulled and gently punched all the tension from her limbs, while the fragrant oils permeated her senses in other ways, so that she was being quite blissfully lulled into a state of semi-sleep. This really was such a perfect way to start the day, better even than when her husband performed the massage, for the touch of his hands never failed to arouse her, and there were times, like now, when she preferred just to relax.
But it didn’t seem she would be allowed to this morning, for this was the fourth time her mobile had rung in the past ten minutes.
‘Hello?’ Petey said into the mouthpiece.
Stacey opened one eye to look up at him.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said, looking back at her, ‘she’s in the shower at the moment. Can I take a message? No. OK. Thank you for calling,’ and he rang off. ‘Gloria,’ he told her.
Stacey groaned, and closed her eye. ‘Actually, I won’t be going down to the country for a while,’ she said, almost happily, ‘because the weekends are going to be tied up posing for Ernesto.’
‘And Robert,’ he reminded her.
She smiled tenderly. ‘Yes, and dear Robert,’ she said. ‘Which reminds me, he called last night. I wonder what it was about.’
‘I take it I’m invited to these weekend arty parties,’ Petey retorted, raining little slaps on her back.
‘Of course, darling, you’re invited everywhere, you know that.’
‘Except into the bathroom while I’m here,’ her husband said, appearing in the doorway.
Stacey turned her head to look at him: the short black terry robe did nothing to disguise his magnificent physique. She inhaled deeply, then let it go in a murmur of pleasure. ‘Darling,’ she said. ‘Good morning. Did you sleep well?’
‘It’s OK, you can stay,’ he said to Petey, as his own mobile started to ring.
Back in the bedroom, he leaned across the low, king-sized bed to retrieve the phone from his nightstand.
‘Gauguin, my man,’ Rudy chirped down the line, ‘not too early, is it?’
‘Hardly,’ came the reply. ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you for a couple of days.’
‘Me neither. But a few things have come up I thought might interest you.’
Lying down on the bed, he folded a hand behind his head and listened.
By the time Rudy had finished he was back on his feet, standing at the vast picture window, staring down at the meandering grey strip of river that separated them from the cluttered roofs and soaring tower blocks of south London. He was frowning hard, for he now knew the reason why Franz Koehler had spoken to him about Rachel Hendon while they were in Florida, and he didn’t like it – in fact he didn’t like it one bit. It was much too close to home, which was why Koehler was using him of course, but proximity and personal connection – even at one or two removes – did not make it any more acceptable. If anything, it made it totally abhorrent.
Feeling his wife’s arms sliding round his waist, he turned to take her into a loose embrace. She was wearing only towels, around her body and her hair, and her skin looked flushed and tender after her invigorating massage.
‘Was that Rudy?’ she asked.
He nodded.
‘And what is he calling you today?’
He had to think for a moment, then it came back to him. ‘Gauguin,’ he answered.
She smiled and so did he.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ she said, gazing directly into his eyes, ‘the little item I heard on the news, a few weeks ago, about an incident at an airfield in Zurich, was that anything to do with you, by any chance?’
His eyebrows went up. ‘Why on earth would you think that?’ he responded.
Her eyes remained intently on his, then laughing delightedly she twirled out of his arms and flung her towels on to the bed. ‘I simply can’t imagine,’ she said. ‘What a very silly thing for me to think.’
Which indeed it was, for she had no reason in the world to connect him with that, other than the fact that he’d been in Switzerland at the time. But it was a game she liked to play, pretending that he was some kind of mobster, or hit man, a gun runner, or smuggler of precious art – it didn’t matter, as long as it was criminal and involved a lot of money. It added an extra frisson to their lovemaking, she claimed, to think she was giving herself to a man with no scruples, a villain who could be wanted by the police, a sociopath who might turn violent at any moment. And he certainly wasn’t going to deprive her of the thrill, for it was as erotic to him as it was to her.
‘So what did Rudy want?’ she said, half an hour later, as they lay side by side on the bed, with Petey still hiding in the bathroom. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re going away again yet.’
His eyes remained closed as he reached for her hand. ‘How can I, when I’m taking my beautiful wife to dinner tonight?’
She smiled and rolle
d against him. ‘Will you be Gauguin, or shall we invent someone new?’
He thought for a moment, then said, ‘We could just be us.’
Her eyes narrowed as she regarded him suspiciously. ‘Does that mean you’re getting tired of our games?’
‘That’s like asking me if I’m tired of living,’ he responded with a laugh, ‘and married to you, that’s just not possible.’
Pulling his mouth down to hers she kissed him lingeringly. ‘I have everything in you,’ she told him softly: ‘a boss, a beast, a friend, a lover and even a romantic.’
‘But slave and voyeur we’ll leave to your friend in the bathroom,’ he said, as something smashed into the sink, and finally remembering Petey, they burst out laughing.
‘This is making for some fascinating reading,’ Laurie commented, her eyes riveted to the printout of an email she’d received a few minutes ago, containing a profile of Katherine Sumner.
Engrossed in her own copy of the email, Rachel didn’t look up. Her muscles were tight, as though she was tensing herself for a blow, but as yet nothing had come up to alarm, or even upset her. But that wasn’t to say it wasn’t there, waiting, either on the page, or lurking in the subtext, as if each word was a shadow, and each new sentence a corner for some appalling truth to hide behind.
They were in the long, low-ceilinged sitting room of the cottage, seated either side of the dining table that was pushed up against the wall of the wood-panelled stairwell. The windows and doors were open, as it was still mild outside, despite the rain that had drenched them earlier while they walked along the cliffs to Kennock Sands. The clouds were gathering again now, turning the sky a dramatically leaden purple, and exciting the seagulls to a frenzied chorus of screeching.
‘Here’s all the stuff about her father being shot in Iran,’ Laurie murmured. Then a few seconds later, ‘It doesn’t sound as though her mother was very happy with the investigation into the shooting.’
‘It seems to have dragged on for years,’ Rachel commented. ‘Used up all the family funds and drove the mother to drink. What a life, because she has Alzheimer’s now.’
‘Tragic about the brother too,’ Laurie murmured. ‘I wonder why he did it.’
Remembering Laurie’s sister, Rachel glanced up, but Laurie was still reading.
‘She certainly has an eclectic bunch of friends,’ Laurie remarked. ‘They seem to be from all political persuasions, and quite a diversity of nations.’
‘Obviously from all the travelling she’s done,’ Rachel remarked.
Laurie made some notes, then almost simultaneously they turned over to the second page.
A moment or two later Laurie said, ‘Did you know she went to Stanford?’
Rachel nodded. ‘Sounds as though she was a bit of a radical – all these marches, and sit-ins, and protests she was involved in.’
‘What about this affair with a married senator?’ Laurie said. ‘Did you know about that?’
‘Yes. He’s not a senator any more. He’s got some kind of top level job at the Pentagon.’ Her heart sank as she said it, for it proved another connection to a defence department. ‘I’m sure it’ll say here somewhere.’
‘Yes, here it is,’ Laurie said. ‘Patrick J. Landen. Senior official at the Pentagon during the Bush Senior era. Now serving as a senior executive in the Department of International Defense Strategy.’ She looked at Rachel. ‘How ominous is that?’ she said darkly.
Rachel shook her head, and trying to overcome the quaking in her heart, she went back to the email. ‘It says here that he and Katherine have “remained in contact, despite their differing political affiliations,”’ she read. ‘He’s also been interviewed by the FBI since Tim’s death, but there doesn’t seem to be anything here about what was discussed.’ Her unease was becoming more acute than ever.
They carried on reading to the end of the page, and once again flipped over almost simultaneously.
‘Oh God, here we have it,’ Laurie murmured. ‘The relationship with Franz Koehler; the political campaigns she managed during the four years she knew him; Koehler’s chairmanship of the Phraxos Group; the hobnobbing with senior executives of arms and munitions dealers, social engagements with high-ranking US military … It’s all there. And who’s this?’ She frowned. ‘Someone called Xavier Lachère, with a question mark after his name.’
Rachel read the next paragraph aloud. ‘“This name came up a couple of times, talking to her friends,”’ it said. ‘“No one seems to know who he is, exactly, but apparently she talked about him as someone she could trust. ‘Sometimes he feels like my only true friend in the world,’ was what she told one roommate when they were back in college, but she was still talking about the guy as recently as January this year, when she announced she was leaving Washington, and told Gillian Fowles (see above, friend and news anchor for ABC affiliate) that one of the best parts of going to Europe was that she’d be closer to Xavier.”’ Confused, Rachel looked at Laurie.
‘She obviously never mentioned him to you,’ Laurie said.
Rachel shook her head, then looked down at the page again.
‘The name sounds French,’ Laurie said. ‘Or maybe Belgian. He could be someone she met at Stanford, if she was talking about him back then. I’ll ask Max to check the records,’ she added referring to the sender of the email.
‘I wonder if the police know about him?’ Rachel said.
‘I think we can assume they do,’ Laurie answered. ‘If her friends are telling Max, then why wouldn’t they tell the police too?’
They read on through more details of the Phraxos Group and the many companies it owned, either in part or outright. Rachel felt certain she was about to be slammed with some terrible connection that she hadn’t, even in her worst nightmares, begun to consider. ‘Here’s the link between Franz Koehler and Patrick J. Landen,’ she said, pointing to a spot near the bottom of the page. ‘It says, “Koehler and Landen have continued to meet frequently, despite Landen’s resignation from the Phraxos board,”’ she glanced at Laurie, ‘“in January of 2002. Landen is also known to be an occasional visitor to Koehler’s luxury homes in Florida, Locarno, the French Riviera, and …”’ Her eyes froze on the next few words, as the blood seemed to stop in her veins, ‘“the British Virgin Island of Gorda.”’ She felt suddenly light-headed and nauseous.
‘What’s the significance?’ Laurie asked, watching her closely.
‘Tim and I were due to go there, straight after the election,’ she answered croakily. ‘We were staying in a private villa.’
Laurie’s face showed her dismay. ‘Do you know who owned it?’ she asked.
‘No. But I think Katherine was the one who suggested it.’
‘Who made the arrangements?’
‘Actually, I did, after Tim gave me the contact details. But I was dealing with an agency, or a manager, not the owner.’
‘Do you think Tim knew who the owner was?’
‘I don’t know. I never asked. I mean, we’ve often rented villas through agents without knowing who actually owns the place.’ She was looking at the email again, though hardly seeing what was written there now.
‘What about the other places where it says Koehler has homes?’ Laurie said. ‘Locarno. Florida. The Riviera? Has Tim ever been to any of them? Are you OK?’ she said, noticing how haunted Rachel looked. ‘Are you feeling sick again?’
‘It’s OK.’ She took a breath. ‘He’s been to Florida and the Riviera,’ she said, ‘but I was with him, and each time we stayed at a hotel.’
‘Do any of these hotels in Africa ring a bell?’ Laurie asked, going back over some of the places Katherine had visited, with Koehler, in the past four years.
‘We’ve been to Nairobi and Cape Town, but none of the others,’ Rachel answered, closing her eyes as another wave of nausea swept through her. She got up and went to sit in one of the window seats, where the cooling breeze wafted in the scent of roses along with the pungency of the day’s catch. ‘Tell me about
Max Erwin, who put all this together,’ she said. ‘Do you know him personally?’
‘He was an integral part of the Ashby story,’ Laurie replied. ‘He went undercover and got right inside the billionaire syndicate, to the point that I doubt we could have fully cracked it without him. Elliot’s with him at the moment. They’re working on another project that’s so secret even I don’t know all the details, which is why it’s taken a few days for Max to get back to me on this. But what I do know is they’ve spent a lot of time in Africa this past year, and that’s the continent that appears to keep coming up here.’
Rachel was feeling so weighed down by everything that she wanted only to sleep. But somehow dredging up some energy, she said, ‘Well, their contacts should certainly be helpful.’
Laurie smiled, then realizing Rachel needed some time to regroup, she went back to scan the email again, making notes of the most salient points.
‘OK?’ she said finally, looking up to make sure Rachel was ready.
Rachel turned to look at her, and nodded.
‘All right. The points of most interest to us here,’ she said, ‘are, (a) that Katherine Sumner, a known Democrat now, was apparently a radical right-winger back at college when she had an affair with a right-wing senator. Spin forward a decade or so and her political allegiance has swapped sides, yet her association, or relationship, with the Republican senator is suddenly back on again, though now he’s a senior official at the Pentagon.’
She glanced over at Rachel, who was staring absently out of the window, but clearly listening. ‘Next,’ Laurie continued, ‘we have the mysterious Xavier Lachère, whom she’s known for at least fifteen years, who it seems lives in Europe, and who – I’ve only just thought of this – could turn out to be the unidentified visitor to the flat, which means he could even be the owner of the semen on the sheet.’
The mere mention of it sent Rachel’s heart into free fall. Her eyes closed, for everything seemed so much more complex and crowded with people now that she almost felt lost in the mêlée. Her hand went to her head, as a frightening vision of Tim, mocking her from inside a mass of strangers, felt strikingly, and hideously real. But it passed, leaving her with an image of him trying to reach out and grab her, as though pleading with her to save him from being swept away by the crowd.
