‘And you,’ she said, drawing away a little. ‘Tell me who you are and what you do.’
I kept it simple. Told her my new name, my new line of work and nothing of my past. As far as Simone was concerned, I was Joe Nathan, local boy made good. Not keen to dwell on this, I changed the subject.
‘So this party, who is it for?’
‘No one and everyone.’ She smiled, definitely playing with me.
I scratched my chin. ‘Is Bagatelle a brand name, or what?’
She waited a beat while a guy delivered the coffee. I added milk and waited for mine to cool.
‘Bagatelle is a membership-only party site. Potential members must be between eighteen and forty-eight and apply online with a photograph. Only the beautiful are allowed to join.’
I muted my natural response, one of surprise.
‘What do you charge?’
‘£120 per single, £200 per couple, or there’s a gold membership at £1,500 a year.’
Seemed steep to me. ‘How many people on your books?
‘I have around 20,000 female members.’
‘And men?’
She shook her head.
‘What? Parties exclusively for women? Isn’t that a high-end form of networking? Sounds dull.’ And definitely not a label I’d attach to Simone.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘You think?’
Somewhere I’d missed the point. Before I could ask another question, she said: ‘Would you like to come as my guest this evening?’
I was dubious. I’d wanted Simone to myself. I’d hoped for an evening out followed by an intimate night in. The thought of sharing her with a hundred other females held no appeal. ‘The only male?’ I didn’t know where this was leading. It seemed that with Simone all things were complex.
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘You do not understand. Men cannot be members but that doesn’t mean they cannot attend. They may come but only if invited.’
At this I pulled a face. ‘Isn’t that sexist?’
Simone gave what could best be described as a Gallic shrug. ‘Those are the rules.’
‘Any others I should know about?’
‘You may only watch. You must not touch or join in unless asked.’
I’d like to think I maintained a cool exterior. Secretly, I was fascinated. With Simone, I felt as if I’d met my match. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘What time do I have to be there?’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Simone arranged to pick me up around the corner from Hotel du Vin at 10 p.m. ‘Dress code blue, with masks.’
I said, ‘Masquerade.’ I thought ‘steamy’.
Bemused and clean out of suitable face gear, I deposited a chaste kiss goodbye on her cheek and headed into town to a party shop that I thought might be able to assist. The fog had lifted, replaced by dull, featureless light. To me, it looked exotic and beautiful. I wasn’t accustomed to feeling this happy, this turned on or open to possibility. Lately, I’d felt nothing much other than boredom coupled more recently with brief snatches of excitement. Was I entranced? You bet.
As I was about to enter the aptly named Party House my phone rang and, believing it might be Simone, I picked up.
‘It definitely wasn’t Mossad.’
I said nothing.
‘Hex, are you there?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Lars Pallenberg had no significant amounts of adrenalin in his system, I checked.’
‘Right.’
‘Can you talk?’
‘No.’
‘Can you meet?’
‘No.’
‘But we have to talk.’
‘We have nothing to discuss.’
‘We have plenty to discuss.’
Stalemate. Silence ticked between us like a bomb on countdown.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I treated you …’ she paused, unable to find the right word to describe how badly she’d used me. I didn’t help her out. ‘… despicably,’ she stuttered.
Good, that would do. Even better, she sounded contrite, unusual for McCallen. At the back of my mind it occurred to me that the call, her plea, was a ruse to lure me in so that the argument could recommence. The thought of having another energetic spat with McCallen was as appealing as drinking warm camel’s milk.
‘So can we meet?’
Too quick with the kiss and make up, I thought. ‘I’m busy.’
‘I hear what you say about Billy.’
‘Good.’
‘But someone is out to avenge him.’
‘I don’t buy it.’ I didn’t list why I thought she was wrong.
‘Are you saying that you don’t believe me?’
‘No, I believe you.’ I only said this because the alternative would lead to more discussion which would lead nowhere.
‘I’m telling you,’ McCallen said, ‘someone is trying to spook us.’
‘There is no “us”. Don’t include me in your mess.’
‘Won’t you hear me out?’
I stopped to think about it. Someone had definitely tried to kill me. Maybe I could use McCallen to find out who it was. ‘Not now,’ I said.
‘Soon?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Otherwise engaged.’
‘Tomorrow.’
Tomorrow I’d be tucked up with Simone. Pessimistic by nature, I suddenly made a happy discovery: I was turning into an optimist. ‘Make it noon.’
‘Where? You choose.’
And because I was feeling mellow I decided to be nice. ‘Queen’s Hotel,’ I said.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Simone showed up in a chauffeur-driven Bentley. Part of me was impressed, the concealed part alarmed. I’d lost count of the times I’d stepped into a car like this so that a paranoid crime lord could conduct a one-to-one conversation. Nevertheless, I beamed and lowered myself inside, the plush leather yielding beneath me.
She smiled and handed me a glass of champagne. ‘You scrub up well.’
‘That’s very colloquial.’
‘I had a good teacher. My mother was British.’
‘Was?’
‘Was,’ she said, the tone announcing subject closed.
I knew how she felt, and reached over and squeezed her hand. British mother, French father. I briefly wondered about Monsieur Fabron. Had Simone wished to mention him, no doubt she would have done so. ‘You look absolutely gorgeous,’ I said.
She wore a dark blue silk and metal dress with a plunging neckline, slashed to her thigh, silk and rhinestone sandals and metal and turquoise crystal earrings.
She threw me another of her trademark smiles. Her whole face lit up.
‘Where are you taking me?’ I said, sipping my drink. We had driven some miles out of Cheltenham and into the Cotswolds.
She laughed. ‘To church.’
The church was a rectory tucked away in a valley at the end of a long drive. Floodlit grounds revealed every make of luxury car, including a Maybach parked outside the limestone entrance. What really blew me away was a Lamborghini Aventador Roadster in metallic sapphire. Another time I’d have checked out its hexagonal architecture, but I had other visual delights in my sights.
As we ascended the steps a doorman in a beefeater-style coat and wearing a top hat and white gloves stepped out to greet us. ‘Good evening, Miss Fabron.’
‘Evening, Frederick,’ she said, swishing past through double doors and into a hall where bare-chested young men with oiled torsos and silver masks served champagne from silver salvers.
Simone swept up two glasses, handed one to me and walked into a grand hall lit entirely by candles. A blazing log fire took point at each end. Chaise longues and sofas flanked the walls of a room that pulsed with sound and vision. People talking. People admiring. People playing. My spirits rose at the sight of so many beautiful and elegantly dressed men and women.
‘Simone, what a fabulous party.’
I turned in the direction of a leggy blonde in a short black leather skirt, her voice
shrill above a cacophony of rave music. The guy on her arm was a shade shorter than me, with a mane of dark, glistening hair and very white teeth. I guessed he was of Middle-Eastern extraction.
Simone smiled her gratitude and lightly touched my arm. ‘Will you excuse me for a moment? I need to check on a couple of things. ‘Zara,’ she addressed the blonde, ‘will you keep Joe company?’
Zara beamed. ‘Be my pleasure’. The Arab also excused himself – to use the bathroom, I presumed.
I shifted the weight of my body from one leg to the other and sipped my drink. Zara pressed herself up against me and idly twisted a lock of blond hair through her manicured fingers.
‘Is this your first time?’
‘It is.’ It wasn’t. I’d attended similar gigs in a strictly business capacity, but that was a lifetime ago, or to be more exact, a year. I took a step back. I’d never cared for having my personal space invaded unless I invited it.
‘Simone hosts the most divine parties.’
I glanced around me. One black girl in dark blue chiffon was on her knees, tongue darting, going at another semi-naked woman splayed wantonly across a sofa while a man, presumably a husband, boyfriend or lover watched. I turned away, bored. Crime lords have a penchant for gigs like this, the weirder the better. I didn’t see anything now that I hadn’t seen before. By criminal standards, it was fairly tame. What interested me was Simone. I turned to Zara.
‘Known her long?’ I said.
‘Five years.’
‘Know her well?’
‘In what sense?’ Zara smiled, exposing expensive orthodontics, and tossed her hair back in a clearly provocative gesture. I think she intended me to think that at some time in their history they had got it on.
‘In the nice to see you, how are things going and what are you up to sense.’
This seemed to amuse the blonde. ‘That’s not what we are about.’
‘Right.’ Hitting a brick wall, I glanced around once more, wondering where Simone was and how soon she was coming back. I’ve never been good at small talk.
‘Are you married?’ Zara said.
‘No. You?’
‘Yes.’
‘To the guy you were with?’
‘Moshe.’
I flinched. ‘Israeli?’
‘Egyptian.’
She inclined towards me, hot breath close to my face. ‘You must be special. Simone only has the very best.’
I didn’t like comparisons. I was not a vintage wine or prime cut of meat. I wondered what had happened to Simone’s last lover. Zara appeared to read my mind.
‘Simone gets bored quite quickly.’
‘Thanks for the tip. I’ll bear it in mind.’
Another slutty smile. ‘You’re different to the others.’
I arched an eyebrow.
‘A man of few words. I like that about you.’ She pressed the flat of her hand against my belly. Got up close and very personal. ‘Rock hard. I bet you’d be good in a fight.’
‘I don’t get into scraps. Not my style.’ Which was true.
Without warning, Zara’s tongue darted into my ear. I guess this was what passed for an invitation. I didn’t know what the etiquette was for saying ‘no’ and wished I’d found out.
‘Won’t Moshe mind?’
‘Not at all. He is probably doing the same.’
I briefly wondered whether his exit with Simone was planned.
‘If you’re shy we could find a quieter place.’ Her hand was now on my crotch.
‘Here is fine. Want another drink?’ I drained my glass, twisted away and strained to find a passing waiter. A broad-shouldered guy walked past with a gold mask and, instantly, I felt as if I’d swallowed broken glass. I couldn’t articulate it, but something in his bearing chimed with me. He had short mid-brown hair, exposing neat ears. His jaw was long, slightly lop-sided. I couldn’t place him, but instantly my guard was up. Before I had time to consider, Simone was next to me. She looked smiley and relaxed. Not a hair out of place, her make-up perfect. When she slipped her arm through mine and whispered my name, I felt as if I’d been rescued from a burning car wreck.
‘All is well. No cameras, no coke.’
Startlingly different from a crime lord orgy, I thought. Zara, meanwhile, glided off to find another male to molest.
‘Let’s explore.’ Simone slipped her hand through mine and ushered me up a wide staircase and across a landing where a half-naked couple were having sex on an expensive looking Persian rug.
Simone turned to me with a sultry smile. ‘Want to watch?’
I shook my head. She smiled some more and led me past a table with a bowl filled to the brim with condoms, and pushed me into a room that was pitch black inside. The door closed behind us. I heard the key turn in the lock. She pressed me up against the wall, much as I’d done to McCallen at the church. Next, I felt something cold and metallic against my throat. My hands flashed up and closed around her neck, prepared to put her in a chokehold, if necessary. Pushing her luck could have far-reaching consequences for the pair of us.
‘Scared?’ she purred.
I should have been. Fear is a sensible reaction. Fear is also a turn-on. ‘Do your worst.’ I eased off enough to avoid constricting her breathing, not enough to give her carte blanche.
She laughed, dropped whatever it was she held to my throat and, taking my hand, guided it underneath her dress. ‘Do you want to hurt me?’ Her voice was drenched in lust.
That kind of thing never appealed to me. Sex, for me, was about fun, not pain. I declined and, releasing my hand, slipped off my mask. My eyes are good at adjusting to night vision, but the room remained stubbornly impenetrable. By touch alone, I could feel pliant strength in her shoulders confirming that she swam a great deal. Now that I was deprived of light, Simone ramped up the action.
‘These,’ she said, pressing earplugs into my ears. I was now deaf as well as blind, a form of sensory deprivation that left me sensitive to every single move she made. I don’t know for how long we stayed in that room. I had never experienced anything like it. I don’t take drugs, but I’m certain it was the closest I could get to a trip without dropping acid.
Later, we went downstairs and I found that everyone had dispensed with masks. Zara, her dress around her waist, was having no-holds-barred sex with a guy who wasn’t her husband. I paused, pretended that I was enjoying the lurid show and shivered, not because I was turned on but because the man so vigorously fucking her was the man who’d worn the gold mask.
‘Are you all right, my love?’ Simone said, languidly.
I smiled that I was fine and pulled her away. Inside, I was anything but.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I spent the remains of the night prowling and wondering where I’d seen Zara’s sex partner before. He had sharp dark eyes above a wide nose and square jaw. He looked moneyed, like the kind of guy who’d be good with figures.
Simone thought me cold and detached.
‘You are not happy. Perhaps I made a mistake. This is not what you enjoy.’ She let her gaze roam around a room of heaving, panting bodies.
‘It’s not that,’ I insisted. ‘I’m sorry. Look, I’ll get a cab back.’
‘I thought we could spend the night together.’ She looked gravely disappointed.
‘What’s left of it.’ I forced an awkward smile.
She let out a slow sigh, placed her delicate hands on her hips and pouted in mock despair. ‘I will have no one to breakfast with.’
‘Good.’ I laughed and crooked a knuckle under her chin, tilting her face up. Caught in the candlelight, she rated as one of the most beautiful women I’d ever been intimate with. She smiled, kissed me long and slow. ‘Tell Frederick to order a cab for you,’ she whispered.
‘I’ll call you soon,’ I said.
Slightly disorientated, I went outside and, slipping my phone from my jacket, ordered a taxi from a firm I regularly used. I like to be in control of my own destiny and I realised how close I�
��d come to giving myself over to the Fates. My problem: too many unexplained incidents had taken place in quick succession.
Limbs of moonlight graced the night sky. The Lamborghini had left, as had a number of other vehicles. I hung around, watched people leave – a few of them laughing, some looking as if they couldn’t wait to get home and fuck the life out of each other. Two separate couples engaged in full-on rows. The prospect of my meeting with McCallen suddenly seemed like a pure blast of oxygen, certainly a better idea than it had several hours before. It made me feel a little bad for giving her the run-around and such a hard time. I certainly felt more open to the prospect of us helping each other out.
When twenty minutes later a cab arrived and took me away, I was glad.
* * *
Champagne in excess gives me a headache. I had a pain in my brain as if someone was excavating it with a chisel. I swallowed painkillers with orange juice for breakfast, set the alarm for eleven, and went back to bed.
Eventually resurfacing, I took a hot and cold shower, shaved and dressed. Luckily, I looked better than I felt which, in truth, wasn’t that bad. Just not fully functioning. Looser in my thinking.
In my less than clear state, I entertained thoughts that in a more sober frame of mind I’d efficiently swept away. The guy in the gold mask spooked me. The fact I’d seen him before meant he was a part of my other life.
I have excellent powers of observation. My previous employment and my survival depended upon it. When researching a target I could follow him for days, work out his habits, routines and who he spent time with. The guy in gold could have been an associate of a victim. More likely, he worked for a former client, or maybe he was part of the crew of another opposing outfit. I had not spotted the light of recognition in his eyes, which suggested to me that, although I’d tagged him, he had not tagged me – advantage plus point. As an isolated occurrence, it signified nothing. Added to the near miss in Berlin, McCallen’s predicament, Chester Phipps, it looked like part of a murky picture.
And that brought me back to Simone.
Final Target Page 7
