Jenny would have loved the room—or at least he thought so. It’s not like he was the interior decorator.
Once he was satisfied that the room wasn’t bugged, he opened his suitcase and took out his communicator, a tiny skin-colored earpiece that fit entirely into his ear canal, acting as microphone, earphone, and transmitter, all the while allowing him to hear perfectly out of his ear.
The room smelled of nothing with a hint of lavender, which he couldn’t stand. He was sure they’d change the scent if he asked— catering to the rich was all about meeting petty, absurd demands, and this was light in comparison. But he wasn’t going to be the guy who complained about the scent of his room, so he went back to the balcony instead and sat down at a wicker chair to take in the scenery. He took out his cell phone and put it to his ear, so that anyone who happened to look at him wouldn’t think it was strange that he was talking to himself.
“Tactical, come in,” he said. He had to repeat it a couple of times until he got a response.
“This is tactical,” came Bishop’s voice in his ear. “Receiving loud and clear, Cobra. What’s your status?”
“In the room, settled in, scanned for bugs,” he said. “Awaiting first contact from the target. What’s the word on your end?”
“We’re all set up here,” said Bishop. “How’s the room?” For this last part, Bishop dropped the stiff formality of tactical communications and took on a conversational tone.
“Ridiculously large and fancy,” Morgan said with a practically audible smirk.
“Lucky bastard. Meanwhile, I’m stuck sharing a bed with Diesel.”
“Sorry, Bishop, I didn’t know you had company.”
“Screw you, Cobra,” Bishop chuckled. “Next time, it’s your turn to run support, and I’ll get the fancy hotel room.”
“Keep dreaming,” said Morgan. “Cobra out.”
Morgan went to his bag to pull out his tablet computer to access the mission dossier. He poured himself a Perrier from the minibar—fourteen euros, on Weinberg’s dime—and sat on the balcony, going over the facts of the case and relevant photographs until the room phone rang.
He took the receiver off the hook.
“Hello.”
“Is this Mr. Morgan?” The voice on the other end carried a heavy German accent, and a tone that didn’t quite fit the posh surroundings.
“Mr. Weinberg?”
“This is Anse Fleischer. I am Mr. Weinberg’s personal valet. Mr. Weinberg would like to meet you by the pool at your earliest convenience. Let us say, an hour?”
“I’ll be there.”
He hung up, then shed his traveling clothes—khaki pants and navy blue button-down. He walked into the bathroom, which also smelled of lavender, and ran the shower. The water poured from a sort of waterfall made of white marble, to match the rest of the bathroom. The cascade hit his back with nice, relaxing force, and he spent longer than usual under it, letting the pulsing streams massage his tense muscles. He dried off (big, white fluffy towels, because these people knew how to live) and put on a casual white button-down shirt, Bermuda shorts, and loafers. Not his outfit of choice, but he had to look the part, and the part was of a man of leisure.
He had some time before he had to meet Weinberg, which he spent discreetly scouting all the possible exit routes from the hotel, pretending to look at the facilities. It was the kind of information that he knew very well paid to have before you needed it. He then set up a few of his own motion-activated spy cameras in the room. It would catch any break-ins and transmit the video automatically to his phone—a system courtesy of Shepard.
“All right,” he told Bishop over the communicator as he slipped on his special aviator sunglasses. Their thick rims concealed a listening device and a tiny still camera, activated by a button near his ear. “I’m going in.”
“Good luck,” said Bishop.
Morgan walked downstairs and out into the pool area. It was built on a deck overlooking the ocean, which he had spotted from the balcony earlier. Women reclined on deck chairs, their varying levels of beauty telling him whether the money came from their husbands or fathers. Waiters carried colorful, fruity cocktails, and towel boys rushed to attend to guests coming out of the pool. Morgan spotted Weinberg sitting on a deck chair at a table under a large umbrella, shirtless in a speedo. Morgan knew he was fifty-six, but he didn’t look a day over forty—a result of a pampered lifestyle and never having a care in the world. He was pink and baby-faced, with a slight blond beard. He was not quite as lean as he used to be from pictures that Morgan saw, but he still had the body of a younger man, and the muscles of a swimmer. Sitting at the table with Weinberg, stiff and unrelaxed, was the man who Morgan took to be Anse Fleischer. Sitting down, he was still nearly a head taller than Weinberg, with thick broad shoulders under a casual light blue shirt, blond as well, with a face that might make a Neanderthal jealous, but only just. Had he been born some twenty years earlier, he might have made a better Terminator than Arnold.
Weinberg waved Morgan over.
“Mr. Weinberg,” Morgan said.
“Ah, Mr. Morgan. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Weinberg had a distinct German accent, though Morgan could tell even from a few words that the man’s English was near perfect. “Please, sit down. Will you drink with me?” He motioned to a gin and tonic sitting on the table in front of him.
“I don’t drink.”
“Commendable, Mr. Morgan! Perhaps an Evian, or some fresh-made juice then?”
“I had a big lunch,” he said, sitting down.
“So serious,” he said, with a mock frown. “I did not know anyone could be so serious in Monte Carlo.” He waved his arms to indicate the beauty of their surroundings.
“I’m here to do business, not enjoy myself,” said Morgan.
“Look around you, Mr. Morgan! The sun, the beautiful women—or men, if that is your fancy. Is this the time or place to discuss business?”
“I thought that was the point of my coming here,” said Morgan.
“Relax, my friend. This is on me. Have some fun.”
“I like to keep business and pleasure separate.”
“And how!” said Weinberg. “But there is nothing truly separate, is there, Mr. Morgan? What business can be separated from pleasure, and what pleasure is there without some business involved, don’t you think?”
“I guess there are some of us who’d rather they didn’t mix,” said Morgan.
“Is that the talk of a master salesman, especially one who sells things of beauty and pleasure?” he asked. “I thought the secret to your business was that your client never believed himself to be a client, but rather a friend. I am a businessman myself, and the best business is done with a veneer of friendship.”
“And let me guess, your friendships are deep down all about business?” Morgan said, leaning back in his iron-wrought chair, legs casually crossed.
Weinberg contained his look of annoyance. “Perhaps you are in the wrong line of business, Mr. Morgan. You have the makings of a psychiatrist, I think.”
“I just think there are some things money can’t touch,” he said.
“An idealist, I see. Such a rare thing in a salesman. See, Mr. Morgan, it is my experience that, when you have billions at your disposal, you will be surprised at how little money cannot touch. How many people you can buy and sell.”
“Are you in the business of buying and selling people, Mr. Weinberg?” asked Morgan, with a pointed raising of his eyebrows.
“I wouldn’t be if they weren’t so positively eager to be sold!” he said with his cackling laugh.
“And what about buying cars?” Morgan asked.
“I will pay asking price, Mr. Morgan, if only you will stop talking about business in this place! You will show me the car later, and we will close this deal. You have my word.” Morgan caught Weinberg’s eyes moving to a point behind him. “Now, please, relax. I do believe this is Ms. Harper coming our way.”
Morgan twisted
in his chair and saw a woman who had just emerged out into the sun from the inside of the hotel. She wore large black sunglasses and a wide-brimmed beach hat which sat at an angle on her head. Her hair was done up under the hat, but her bangs and a few loose wisps on the nape of her neck showed that she had brownish-red hair. She was wearing a green beach dress which hung off her shoulders, showing a white bathing suit and her alabaster skin underneath. Her features were delicate, like that of a porcelain doll, but she walked with a haughty self-assurance that gave her something of a Jackie Onassis quality. As she entered the shade of the umbrella, she drew off her sunglasses, revealing bright cat-green eyes.
Morgan reached his hand as if to scratch his ear, and discreetly took a few pictures of the woman using the hidden camera in his glasses. Weinberg stood up to greet her, and Fleischer did as well.
“I say,” she said, giving Weinberg a kiss on each cheek, “this is rather nicer than where I’m lodged.” She spoke in a precise high-class English accent, voice soft as velvet, at the same time seductive and distant, announcing that she was above anything that anyone might have to offer her. Morgan could tell right away that she was a man-killer and had built herself to be the perfect predator in this kind of environment.
“Elizabeth, my dear,” said Weinberg. “Please meet Daniel Morgan.” He stood up to greet her.
“A pleasure,” she said as she kissed Morgan on the cheek, with just enough attention to kick Weinberg off his perch of most important man at the table while letting Morgan know that he could look, but never touch.
She stood by a chair and waited, until Anse pulled it for her and she sat.
It wasn’t enough to say that she dominated their little group. She changed the power dynamics at whim. Morgan decided that he liked her. More important, he needed to find out who she was.
She turned back to Weinberg. “Please, Gunther, Elizabeth is what they called me at St. Theresa’s, and I hardly need the memories of angry nuns wielding meter sticks. Do call me Lily.”
“Excuse me,” said Weinberg. “I am old-fashioned when it comes to formality. By all means, we shall call you Lily.”
“And to what do we owe the pleasure of the company of the handsome Mr. Morgan?” she asked, pulling a cigarette from her purse.
“Strictly business,” he said.
“Ah, a Yank,” she said with a wink. Weinberg held out a lighter, and she leaned in to ignite the tip of her cigarette. She sucked lightly so that the flame took. She then let the smoke waft through her lips before exhaling “Always so strictly business.”
“Mr. Morgan here is going to sell me a car,” said Weinberg.
“I was under the impression that American car salesmen were all greasy little men that reeked of desperation,” she said with a teasing flash of the eyes. “But there seems to be nothing little or desperate about you, Mr. Morgan.”
“Mr. Morgan is helping me acquire a rather rare specimen,” said Weinberg.
“Rare specimens are in no short supply around here,” she said.
“I should say,” said Weinberg, gesturing subtly toward her.
“I take it you’re here in a more social capacity,” said Morgan, gesturing toward Lily.
“I made Herr Weinberg’s acquaintance last night at the Casino Versailles,” she said, motioning for the waiter. “He asked me to blow on his dice, and I most kindly obliged.”
“It is my experience that the most beautiful women carry with them most of the luck.”
“Funny how that happens, isn’t it?” said Lily. She took another drag from her cigarette, lowering her eyelids to a look that alluded to a different kind of pleasure. “When he rolled a hard six, he wouldn’t let me leave his side for the rest of the night.” Then, to the waiter who had approached, bearing an ashtray: “Be a dear and bring a girl a Bellini, would you, love? Möet. And it had better be Möet, because I’ll know.”
“Right away, mademoiselle,” he said, leaving the ash tray and taking the order.
“I swear,” she continued, her attention back on the table, “I’ve never seen anyone put the chips down on the craps table like that, Gunther. You really are in your own class of high roller, aren’t you?”
“Ah, my dear Lily, don’t you understand how boring it gets?”
“Oh, I’m sure it does, Gunther darling. Who could take such a charmless lifestyle?”
Gunther laughed. “You don’t know. You can’t know if you haven’t lived a life like mine. All my money, my company, is all inherited. I have seen all the beauties of the world, many times over. Tasted the food of the finest chefs—as well as, if the delicacy of your presence will excuse it, the finest women. True excitement is a precious thing, and it takes a lot of money on the line to excite a man of my means.”
“Oh, how wretched,” she said, with a tone of exaggerated compassion. “Who will think of our poor, over-moneyed Gunther?”
“It does get boring, you comprehend? Ah, no, no one understands me.”
“I’d think that being a billionaire would be a pretty good way to stave off boredom,” said Morgan.
Weinberg laughed. “One would think, wouldn’t one, Mr. Morgan? But alas, the toys seem to lose their sheen faster and faster these days, don’t they?”
“What you’re saying is that money doesn’t buy happiness?” Morgan suggested.
“It does, Mr. Morgan, but it never lasts.”
“Well, I think that I should have a marvelous time of it with a billion dollars,” said Lily.
“I should think such a beauty would want for nothing,” said Weinberg. “All men should scramble to attend to your every desire.”
“Fun as it is to keep men scrambling, Herr Weinberg, fawning grows tiresome rather quickly.”
A cell phone rang, and Fleischer picked up. There were a few seconds as Fleischer listened to the phone, the table waiting expectantly. “Herr Weinberg,” said Fleischer. Weinberg pushed back his chair and stood.
“I’m afraid I must go, my friends. Mr. Morgan, it seems the appearance of Ms. Harper has derailed our conversation. Might we continue this later? My dear sister Lena will be arriving here tonight. Perhaps you two will join us for a bit of gambling at the Palatine Casino.”
“But of course, Gunther,” said Lily.
“Capital!” he said. “And you, Mr. Morgan? Might you find a little time for pleasure on this trip after all?”
“I might make an exception,” said Morgan.
“Fabulous!”
“I think I’ll stick around and finish my drink,” said Lily. “Plus, I would love to pick the brain of the enigmatic Mr. Morgan.”
“Please,” he said. “The drinks will be charged to my account. Friends, I take my leave.”
Morgan watched as Weinberg walked away, into the hotel. Then he turned to Lily Harper, who was eying him inquiringly, with her smart, bright green eyes.
“I don’t buy it,” she said with a sly smile.
“What don’t you buy?” he said, taken aback. This he didn’t expect.
“You. Fancy car salesman. In service to the wealthy of the world.” She tapped her cigarette against the ash tray. “There’s something about it that I don’t quite buy.”
“And yet, here I am, selling a fancy car, as you put it, to a wealthy man. So the facts don’t seem to line up with your theory.”
“And still, it’s not your place. It’s not familiarity that makes you blasé about this. It’s . . . something else. I can’t quite put my finger on it. But there is something, I’m sure of it.”
Her gaze lingered on his until the waiter brought her a peach-colored drink in a champagne glass. Did she know? She sipped her drink casually and flashed him a sly grin. Was she toying with him?
“Maybe I really am just here for business,” Morgan said when the waiter had moved away.
“Businessmen are fawners,” she said. “Especially those who sell personal luxuries to men like Gunther Weinberg. They love every minute of times like these. To please the client and make the
sale, yes, of course. But also because every salesman is a climber, and every salesman of luxury is a class climber. They love luxury because luxury is what they wish they had.”
“You don’t know me.”
“But I know people selling to the wealthy.”
“Maybe from personal experience?” he suggested.
He thought she might have been irritated by the comment, but she emitted a trilling, titillated laugh instead. “What sort of woman do you take me for?”
“Not that kind,” he said. “That would be too obvious for you.”
“But ultimately it is that, isn’t it? Even if the transaction is not explicitly about that, even if it is marriage, or companionship for a few days or weeks, that’s what I’m selling. Isn’t that what you’re getting at? Well, Mr. Morgan, we all sell ourselves, ultimately. I just happen to know where my value lies.”
No, thought Morgan. You know perfectly well where your value lies, and it’s in saying things like that to men who think you mean it.
“I sell cars,” he told her, holding his palms up.
“Of course you do,” she said conspiratorially.
“What?” he asked, grinning.
“Just a flight of fancy, I’m sure,” she said, with the same sly smile playing on her lips.
“I’m starting to think there’s more to you than meets the eye, Ms. Harper.”
“But of course there is,” she said. “A lady never shows all her cards, Mr. Morgan. Mystery is the source of all her power.”
Black Skies Page 13
