by JB Sanders
The man next to him, the one who had leaned back, scowled at him and spoke quietly. "He said he's the sanglante prince, you idiot!"
The pained man shot Tyler a panicked glance and then concentrated on rubbing his foot.
LaTout licked his lips. "That is a bold claim, and a dangerous name to invoke. I assume you have proof?"
Tyler smiled, slow and a little evil. "Sure. I mean, you could always call the тихие, if you liked, but I think I can convince you without the need to talk to Russians."
LaTout's men paled in shock at this Russian name. The woman pulled out and lit a cigarette of her own, her hands shaking. LaTout himself shifted slightly in his chair.
The word meant "The Quiet Ones", and it referred to a Russian crime gang that operated in the shadows of the criminal element. They had originally been part of the KGB, and had retained that group's professionalism and secrets. Glen and Tyler had tussled with them up in Scotland and had just barely gotten the better of them. It had ended with a non-aggression pact. Which was a good thing, since The Quiet Ones had a reputation for ruthlessness that was splattered with blood.
Unfortunately, as a consequence of the deal, the Quiet Ones had talked up Tyler rather a lot. They could hardly be seen to back off from someone who had thwarted them unless that person was seen by everyone else to be enormously powerful in his own right. So now Tyler was known as the Bloody Prince in certain Russian circles. And much like some made-up bad guy in a movie, all sorts of crimes had been ascribed to him, the tale growing with each teller.
"So instead of having to make phone calls and bothering annoyingly murderous people, let me show a few of the cards in my hand." Tyler pulled his hand out of his pocket and ran a finger down his nose, repressing a grin, Glen thought. "Monsieur LaTout, you live at Rue St Jean, apartment 4. You run most of your operations out of apartment 5, and your quick-response team is stationed there. You manage most of the crime in Paris: drugs, bookies, prostitution and smuggling." Tyler shrugged. "You make a pretty good living. You have little competition in Paris, and the last group who crossed you bowed out after you hit their headquarters. Six of them walked away from that."
LaTout actually blinked this time.
Tyler put his hand back in his pocket. "Now, before you get the idea that I have any interest in you, or your business, I don't. I couldn't care less. I'm in Paris just to take care of a little problem, not a local one, and it has nothing to do with you. I'm just here because you interrupted my dessert."
"I see." LaTout lifted his unlit cigarette, nearly forgotten in his hand, and looked around for a light.
Tyler pulled out a lighter, leaned over the table and lit it. When he snapped the lighter shut, even LaTout jumped slightly.
"Now, I think my husband and I are going to go back to our table and enjoy our crepes." Tyler looked at each person at their table. "Monsieur Theroux, monsieur Chabon, monsieur Badel, madam Badel, and you monsieur LaTout will quietly finish your meal, on me, and then leave."
LaTout looked like he was swallowing something sour. He nodded.
Glen and Tyler walked back to their table hand-in-hand. When they got there, Glen kissed Tyler firmly.
They sat, sipped wine and went back to their crepes.
Glen looked over at Tyler after a moment. "That was awesome, but was it just me, or did you intentionally try to come off as some kind of bad-ass crime boss?"
Tyler grinned at Glen. It was not his innocent look, which for some reason made it scarier. "Yup."
Glen nodded. "And you think that was a good idea because...?"
Tyler sighed. "It was inevitable that we'd have to have a conversation like this with bad guys at some point. Publicly, I'm a billionaire philanthropist. In spy circles, I'm an independent but somewhat trustworthy resource, like a neutral country. In criminal circles, I've employed one crime boss and made some kind of pact, contents unknown, with a crime group so feared world-wide that almost no one talks about them except in whispers." Tyler shrugged. "I could either take advantage of that, increasing my reputation as the kind of guy who can be bargained with or who should be feared -- hmm, maybe bargained with and feared -- or I could try to maintain the Good Guy routine. If I do that, though, it could lead to all sorts of unnecessary and potentially violent confrontations. But if I build up the fearsome rep, I can head that crap off at the pass."
"And what about the good guys?"
"Well, we get enough crap from them now -- and I can always prove my good intentions on demand. And in general, they're less likely to shoot us."
"Ah." Glen nodded.
"So it's better that the crime boys and girls think I'm some kind of big wig bad guy, even if it's not true."
Glen put up his thumb and forefinger a small distance apart. "Little bit true?"
Tyler smirked. "Oh, a little bit true."
Part 2: It's a Bad Guy Party
Chapter Nine
Crash the Party
Tuesday evening
"So is it really considered crashing the party if you were invited and then turned them down, but show up anyway?" Glen said.
Tyler smirked. "Yup."
Their limousine pulled up to the red carpet. The mobbed entrance of the Louvre looked a lot like it lead to the Oscars: there were hordes of paparazzi, adoring fans and ever-vigilant security types in sharp tuxedos.
James stepped out ahead of them, gave the place a look around and then motioned them out.
When Glen and Tyler stepped out there was a second or two of whispers, as people tried to figure out if the two of them were someone interesting. It didn't take them long to recognize Glen and Tyler, especially since they held hands as they walked down the carpet. There were several shouts of their names, lots of flashes going off and not a few lewd invitations, from men and women.
One long gallery had been given over to the party. Velvet ropes kept the party-goer from stumbling into any of the paintings, and a couple of wet bars had been setup in strategic locations. Overhead, the ceiling of the palace-turned-museum soared, and instead of the normal lights, someone had rigged up what seemed to be thousands of tiny stars, so many that it put Glen in mind of night in the deep desert. It wasn't a huge group -- the Billionaire's Club was hardly large to begin with, and not all of them attended the gathering -- but it was the right size for the space. There were plenty of people, but it didn't seem claustrophobically crowded.
As in other parties Glen had attended in the last couple of years, everyone was exceptionally well dressed. Even the waiter's uniforms appeared to be tailored. The men wore tuxedos of midnight black, or in one case late twilight blue. Women's gowns came in a diverse palette of colors and styles, but all were exquisite. Jewelry glittered like individual disco balls on a several people, mostly women wearing gem-studded necklaces and tiaras, but also some men wore large rings or earrings. Glen thought he could tell the new and old money apart just from who glittered more: new money wanted to impress, old money didn't need to.
Glen had gone traditional: black tuxedo, hand-made and a perfect fit. He'd had the tailor's team allow for a little extra movement with this one. He'd ripped his first bespoke tuxedo showing someone a neck-hold at a party. He also rather liked the thought that if he needed to use his aikido skills, it wouldn't cost ten thousand dollars to replace his suit.
Tyler had opted for the fairly non-traditional white tuxedo jacket and black pants. He liked the distinction from Glen's suit, and Glen was certain Tyler also liked the fact that he stood out from the rest of the crowd in a very visible fashion. On top of the white jacket, he wore a red carnation in his lapel.
They wended their way over to the closest bar, nodding at or shaking hands with a few people. Glen couldn't say that they actually knew a lot of their fellow billionaires, but there were some familiar faces. They'd been hosting a variety of charity parties over the last couple of years and there were always rich folks ready to come to a good party.
They had just started sipping their champagne w
hen Rebecca Sterling came up to them. The woman was in a supremely elegant dress, black with gold sequins -- or actual flecks of gold -- all over it. The outfit shimmered like black water being lit by torchlight. Rebecca was quite good looking, in a striking, but not conventional way. She was one of the familiar faces they saw at charity events. Due to her various marriages, she'd amassed a very large fortune, even by the standards of the Club.
She lifted an eyebrow at them. "Why Tyler Conrad, whatever are you doing at this old-fogey fest?"
Tyler smiled, genuinely. "Why Rebecca Sterling -- are you out looking for husband number four?"
"Of course I am. Just not in this crowd. Paris is a wonderful place to search for my new boy-toy, though." She quirked the side of her mouth in amusement.
"Well, keep your hands off mine, or we'll have words." Tyler put his arm around Glen.
"Hey, I thought you were MY boy-toy?" Glen said, sounding faux-aggrieved.
"We're each other's boy-toy, of course." Tyler made a motion with his drink. "So if neither of us wants to be here, what are we doing?"
Rebecca sighed. "I don't know about you, but to be honest, I can't resist a big party like this, even if you seem to need a walker to get in the door." She sipped her champagne. "The food and wine are always exceptional. And there's people like you and Glen to relieve the boredom. And where else could I wear this dress?"
Tyler roved his eyes over her curves. "Practically anywhere, really."
"Why Tyler, if I didn't know you better...I'd think you were flirting with me." She grinned.
"The operative word you're looking for is 'bisexual'." Tyler waggled his eyebrows. "It means we're horny for anyone who looks hot, man or woman. You're just lucky we're married."
Rebecca laughed. "My dear -- as if marriage vows meant anything to anyone in this room." She paused and looked them over. "Except for you two. Your Fairy Tale romance is legendary, as is your devotion to each other." She sighed dramatically. "Which is too bad -- we'd make a really fun threesome."
Tyler pulled on his tuxedo collar and blushed. Glen enjoyed watching it happen.
Tyler coughed. "We would." He swallowed. "And we have your number if the mood strikes us."
She smiled in the most alarmingly hot manner, leaned in and kissed Tyler on the cheek. Then she shot Glen a look. "See that you do."
The two of them watched avidly as she walked away. The man who had walked up when she left had to actually cough to get their attention.
"Mr. Conrad, how good to meet you," The man said.
Glen and Tyler turned back.
The man was dressed in an Armani tuxedo, with a small purple orchid tucked in his lapel. Around his neck he wore a pendant that looked like some kind of coat-of-arms. He was in his sixties, short with snow white hair clinging for it's life to his balding head. He looked like someone's jolly favorite uncle, or a tenured professor with a very casual nature.
"Monsieur Gaston, thank you for hosting this magnificent party." Tyler smiled and bowed slightly to the man. He didn't offer his hand. Glen was mildly amazed again at Tyler's memory -- not only had he figured out who the man was based on just the flower and the heraldry, he remembered that the man quite famously never shook hands.
"A pleasure, Mr. Conrad. I don't believe we've met before, have we?" Gaston seemed to inflate a little from Tyler's praise.
"No, Monsier Gaston, but your fame proceeds you." Tyler smiled.
"You really are just as charming as your interviews make you seem." Gaston's smile slipped slightly into what Glen considered flirtatious territory. Great, Glen thought, and he was only standing right next to the guy. Jeeze!
"And you're far more dapper than your press pictures. Is that an original Armani?" Tyler seemed to be laying it on thick, Glen wasn't sure why.
"It is, thank you." Gaston pursed his lips in thought a moment. "Mr Conrad, may I offer you a small bit of advice?"
"Of course."
"I have been asked to pass along an invitation to you, by members of the so-called King's Club. They are a very exclusive sub-group of our members, very wealthy, very old families. It is a rare honor for the King's Club to invite a newcomer to their sanctum." Gaston paused. "And my advice to you is: don't go." He looked very serious.
Tyler put on a slight look of surprise. "Why?"
Gaston leaned in closer to them. "Take it from an old man, who is wealthy beyond avarice, and nearly immune to worldly concerns: these are bad men."
Tyler shot Glen a glance, his expression one of ... Glen wouldn't swear to it, but it looked like Tyler was alarmed that the man was going to ruin a really good surprise that Tyler had planned -- for Glen. Then Tyler looked back at Gaston. "Monsieur Gaston, thank you for the advice. However, I will be going to meet with them."
Gaston sighed, nodded. He took out a playing card from his jacket pocket. It was old, or a very old style, with nothing on the back and a King on the front. "Present this to the guard on the third east elevator, and you'll be shown the way. None of your own security past that point, of course."
Tyler leaned in closer to Gaston, and Glen could barely hear the words. "Don't worry, Uncle Gaston, I go with open eyes into the lion's den."
Gaston looked a little startled at this, but nodded and left.
"That was odd." Glen said.
Tyler looked at the card again, and smiled, then slipped it into a pocket. "Yup. I think I like him. Remind me to hunt him up after all this is over and treat him to dinner."
Rebecca Sterling came back over.
"Did old Gaston just hand you a King of Clubs? Did you seriously get the invite to the Big Show?" She sounded amazed.
"Big show? Who are they?" Tyler looked at her curiously.
She snorted. "Only the biggest bunch of conservative old wind-bags and aristos ever assembled. They're like the distilled version of this bunch: more money, more nobility, more ego. I can't imagine why they invited your liberal gay ass to their little retreat. Seriously. I'd look for the pit trap when you go in."
"Why would I bother going at all?" Tyler said. He sounded like he was considering not going, despite his earlier remarks.
"You don't turn them down, brother. Not and get invited anywhere else, ever. I'm serious. These are the movers and shakers. If I were writing a conspiracy novel, they'd be at the center of it." Rebecca said.
Tyler tilted his head and smiled. "Really? Neato!"
Rebecca shook her head. "Your funeral, darling. If you survive, you owe me a dance. Don't forget."
She wandered away again.
"Remind me to make wild passionate love to you tonight," Tyler said, emphatically.
"Done," Glen said. "Any particular reason, or is Paris getting to you?"
Tyler turned from watching Sterling walk away, and grinned at Glen. "She's got my blood up."
Glen's entire face lightened in suppressed laughter.
Chapter Ten
Invincible
Tuesday, later in the evening
Oddly, when they went to visit the King's Club, they went down, not up. Glen had been expecting the Club to have some special room with a view of the Paris lights. A place that allowed them to look over their demesne. The usual thing rich guys do.
But no, Tyler presented the playing card to the security guy at the elevator, they were allowed in and another guard in the elevator turned a key. The elevator went down, way down -- to the lowest level the elevator had.
The doors opened on a somewhat dimly lit beige marble corridor. They were met by two more guards, who motioned for them to hold up their arms as they swept wands over them. Past them, another security guy consulted what looked like a bug detector. Glen had gotten pretty used to seeing those, since their security guys did bug sweeps randomly twice a day. Tyler looked faintly amused throughout the proceedings.
That look on his face made Glen want to search him for a packet of gum.
Past the security cordon, they were met by a man with the poise and bearing of a master butler. He was d
ressed in some kind of dark blue uniform with tails and as formal as a tuxedo. He wore white gloves. On his right chest was an emblem: a white bird, crowned, on a light blue field. Glen filed away his surprise at the crest; he'd think about the arrogance of someone using that particular coat-of-arms later.
The man nodded at them.
"Mr Conrad." With just the very barest pause, and a microscopic amount of contempt, he continued. "Mr Merriwether. This way please."
They walked down the corridor to the end, where they reached a large set of double metal doors. Two more large gentlemen were there, and they pulled the doors open with the timing and skill of trained nineteenth century footmen. The butler never even slowed down, he just walked towards the doors like they were automatic and would of course open in time. Which they did.
Beyond was a tableaux Glen didn't think he'd ever forget.
Off to their right, massive walls made of huge stone blocks curved away from the door and receded into the dim distance. The walls were sloped so they were larger at their base, and exuded a sense of age like a miasma. To their left were more walls and a model castle larger than Glen was tall. It was the original Louvre, the one first built on this site. Glen realized then what these large stone walls were. They were the original foundations of the first fortress, the original Castle Louvre. Just looking at the colossal foundations made you think of the weight of history.
Directly in front them was a sight that seemed both out of place and perfectly right. Light shone directly on the area, creating the impression of a small room in a much larger space. A rich Oriental carpet was laid out inside the light, and on it placed six massive wooden chairs set in a circle. They were in a style that was just shy of thrones, with royal red velvet upholstery on the seats, backs and arms. If they weren't reproductions, they were Medieval treasures. At the right of each chair was a small table, upon which the five men already seated had placed their drinks, and some their cigars. Each had a brandy snifter.
