When I saw her unlocking the front door, I closed the window. I was going to get my afternoon of sweaty sex after all.
Chapter 7
I woke early the following morning. Martina was still asleep. She had wrapped herself around me, one leg across both of mine and an arm across my chest. I could feel her warm little black Brillo Pad pushed against my hip.
I pulled myself away a little and looked at her face. She had a look of absolute contentment. We had gone at it like rabbits all afternoon. She was insatiable. When I eventually cried time-out, she refused to stop, mounting and riding me while I was only semi-conscious, barely able to stay awake. Fucked senseless.
I gently disentangled myself from her and kissed her on the forehead. She didn’t stir. I went through to the kitchen to make some tea.
When I returned she was awake. She had pulled the sheet up over herself but it hid nothing. The voluptuous curves of her breasts were even sexier when they were partially concealed. I was only wearing a towel and it began to tent. I put the tea on the bedside table and sat down next to her.
I had just reached down to kiss her on the lips when my mobile rang. It was Bill. ‘You planning on coming to work today?’ he asked.
‘Sure. Why?’
‘Just wondering. That Jahangir bloke’s been phoning, something about a letter you’re supposed to pick up. Nothing important.’
Shit! I looked at my watch. It was after ten already. ‘I’ll be right there,’ I said, but Bill had already put the phone down.
‘Drink up,’ I said to Martina, ‘duty calls. I have to go to the office.’
She stuck out her bottom lip, winding up for a big sulk. She was obviously expecting some nooky before breakfast. ‘Why is work so important? Why you not stay here with me? You no want fuckisfaction?’ She pulled the sheet back and gave me an eyeful of what I would be missing.
I took in the view ruefully. As tempted as I was, the prospect of earning millions of dollars was more persuasive. ‘Sorry love, I have to go. Maybe later?’
‘I work later,’ she pouted.
I reached into the bedside cabinet and pulled out the spare keys to the apartment, gave them to her. ‘Stay here then. There’s no need to go now. But I have to go to work. Maybe I’ll see you when I get back.’
She smiled and lay down again, pulled the covers over her. ‘Okay. See you later alligator.’ She had picked up some of the strangest expressions: not from me.
I showered, dressed and left her - still in bed. It had stopped snowing so I took the Metro to the office. On the way I thought about what I had just done. I had given a woman the keys to my apartment. I had never done that before. I was getting soft, or old; or both.
Radka gave me a mock scowl when I arrived. I went straight to Bill’s office. He was busy sorting through a large box of ‘Viktoria’s Secret’ bras. He nodded to a large manila envelope lying on his desk. ‘Came for you a little while ago. I reckon he got fed up waiting.’
I picked up the envelope, slit it open. There was a single sheet of paper inside. At the top was the letterhead of the Swiss bank Clariden Leu, with an address on Bahnhofstrasse in Zurich. The text was short and to the point. ‘This is to certify that the bearer, Jahangir Islam has available funds in excess of USD 200,000,000 with this bank. Mister Islam has given instructions for an amount for USD 145,000,000 to be reserved pending the issue a Letter of Credit. The funds will be reserved for a period of not more than thirty (30) days.’
I passed the letter to Bill. He raised his eyebrows when he got to the part about the money. He put the letter back into the envelope and looked up at me, ‘Well, you better get a bloody move on then. Need any help?’
I shook my head, ‘No. I’m going to risk a fax to our Belgian though. There’s no way I can wait for a letter to get there and back.’
I went to my office and sent a short fax to Van Graan. In it I said that the client had agreed to buy the roses at the asking price of 29, but that this was dependent on an expedited delivery. I also mentioned that he had shown me proof of his ability to pay.
Van Graan was at least consistent. His letter arrived eight agonizing days later. In that time Martina had moved most of her stuff into my apartment and had attached the spare keys to her own key ring. I was slowly coming to terms with the fact that she had progressed from a semi-regular bonk to something a little more permanent. The funny thing was that I didn’t mind the assault on my bachelorhood. I was eating better for a start.
When Martina arrived at my office one day with a small basket packed with delicacies of pickled fish, cheeses, fresh bread and a couple of bottles of my favourite beer, Radka spent the rest of the day in a state of shock.
Other things had changed too. I hadn’t visited a casino since that ruinous night and I was going to the gym every day. I had recovered from the torn muscle in my shoulder and the paunch was diminishing. Physically I was in great shape, but the suspense was killing me.
Despite the newfound domesticity, I was behaving more like a caged tiger than a pampered husband. I waited impatiently for a response from Van Graan. When nothing had come after three days, I began to believe that it was all some sort of bluff and that he was not going to reply to me at all. By day four I was starting to get angry, threatening to go to Antwerp and wring his scrawny neck. Fortunately Bill kept me under control, taking me aside and speaking some sense into me when he could see that my release valve was about to pop.
Poor Martina was the most confused. I couldn’t tell her what was going on. She endured my mood swings stoically most of the time. When I became completely insufferable she demonstrated a few interesting mood swings of her own.
So when the letter arrived, once again positioned in the geometric centre of my desk by the inscrutable Radka, I tore it open with such ferocity that I almost destroyed it in the process.
It read: ‘Dear Sir,
‘Please advise the buyer to issue a Letter of Credit for the agreed amount to the following account number: 04784-98540-87251, held at Credit Suisse, Bahnhofstrasse, Zurich. The consignment will arrive by air at Altenrhein on the 3rd February at 09:00 local time. You must meet the courier there and accompany him to Zurich.
‘The transaction will take place at the Bank of Credit and Commerce International in Zurich. Herr Adolf Vogel, an agent of the bank, will act as Treuhänder for the seller. Once both the Letter of Credit and the consignment have been delivered, Herr Vogel will verify the consignment meets all the requirements and pass it on to you for delivery to the buyer.
‘You must also provide Herr Vogel with your bank details so that the 5% commission can be paid to you once the sale has been finalized.’
And he signed it. That was it. No pleasantries, no congratulations. I read it through five times to make sure that all the information that I needed was there. It was. Then I remembered the five percent. My heart was pounding as I entered the numbers into my calculator. Five percent came to 7,250,000 dollars. My share of that would be 3,625,000 dollars.
I had just started to spend it in my mind when Bill came into the office. He obviously knew about the letter, wanted to know what his share was. ‘Well?’
I wanted to wind him up, tell him it was all off, but I could not hold myself back. I stood up and grabbed his hand, ‘It’s on.’ I said. ‘It’s bloody on.’ And I pumped his hand as if it were the bilge pump on a sinking ship.
Bill winced. ‘You’re hurting my hand.’
‘Sorry.’ I released him. ‘Our commission is over three and a half million each. Three and a half million dollars!’
‘Bloody hell.’ For the first time since I had met him, Bill was almost lost for words. He shook his head, ‘Bloody hell.’
I looked at the letter again. The consignment was due to arrive in Switzerland on the 3rd of February. It was the 30th January. I had just four days.
Chapter 8
I passed the details for the Letter of Credit to Jahangir that afternoon. Until then I’d been having doubts about
the deal ever taking place. It all seemed too good to be true – too easy. So when the Letter of Credit arrived via DHL the next day, it finally sunk in that the sale was going ahead. The goods were due to arrive in Switzerland in less than two days and, typically, I had made absolutely no plans to get there. If I wanted to arrive in time to meet the courier I had to leave immediately. I raced back to the apartment to get ready.
My first instinct was to drive; but the map told me that it was almost six hundred kilometres and I couldn’t face a drive like that, especially in my old Škoda. Also, I wasn’t convinced that the 125 would make it all the way there and back. The car was an object of ridicule among my friends. No one could understand why I chose to drive a relic of the communist era when there were so many modern and relatively inexpensive cars to chose from.
I had bought her from the doorman at the Savarin Casino in Prague not long after arriving in the country. It had cost just over two thousand dollars, a little pricey for a 125, but it wasn’t standard. He had added a front spoiler, side skirts and another spoiler on the boot. It was painted fire engine red and looked like it could go considerably faster than its 1,200 cc engine could take it. I loved it. But then I also hankered after owning a Trabant and once owned a Citroen 2CV. I was addicted to crap cars.
Of course the logical thing would have been to fly to Zurich, but I wanted to take some insurance in the form of my CZ75 9mm pistol. I didn’t want to be caught with a pistol anywhere near an aeroplane in the post-9/11 world.
That left the train. It was a thirteen-hour journey to Zurich, but it would still get me there in time as it ran overnight, leaving Prague just after five in the evening and arriving at Zurich Bahnhof at 06:20 the following morning. That meant I had to leave that evening and it was already two o’clock.
Having decided how to get there, I struck a problem: Martina wanted to come.
‘But I have never been Switzerland,’ she pleaded.
‘I’m only going for a couple of days and I have business to do there. I won’t be able to spend much time with you,’ I tried.
‘No problem,’ she replied. ‘I go shopping. See you at night.’ She fondled my groin.
I stepped back, just out of crotch-reach to gather my thoughts, but she just looked at me with doe-eyes, pursed her lips, cocked her head to one side and begged, ‘Please. Pretty please. Don’t leave me behind.’
I tried to concentrate, think of some logical reason why she couldn’t come, but she had turned my brain to mush. ‘All right,’ I relented. ‘But don’t get angry with me when I leave you alone and you’re bored.’
She began jumping up and down like a demented child, ‘Hooray. We go to Switzerland. Mymiláčka take me to Switzerland.’ And she flung her arms around me and began kissing me. That of course led us to the bedroom.
I completely lost track of time. We were still lying entwined on the bed when I glanced at the bedside alarm. It was four o’clock and we hadn’t even packed.
I didn’t need much: toiletries, two spare underpants, socks and a shirt. Within minutes I had packed everything into a small overnight bag. Martina’s method of packing was a lot simpler; she hauled out my biggest suitcase and tossed the contents of her wardrobe into it. I tried to reason with her, pleaded, reminded her we were only going for two nights, that we were in a hurry; but she was having none of it. ‘Is no too much,’ she said, sitting on the bulging lid.
‘You can’t possibly wear all of that in two days.’
‘I not wear all. Is in case.’
‘That’s the whole point,’ I answered, ‘it’s not in the case and will never be. It’s not big enough for all your shit.’ She must have known that there was no way the lid would ever close with the amount of clothing sticking out the sides; but she didn’t give up that easily.
‘Is no shit! Why you not help me? You not want I come with you?’
‘Of course I want you to come with me. I tell you what; why don’t you take a small bag like mine,’ I pulled another overnight bag from under the bed, ‘and I’ll buy you some new clothes in Switzerland.’
That worked. Her eyes lit up and she pushed the overflowing suitcase onto the floor, started filling the smaller one.
While Martina wasn’t looking, I slipped the pistol from its hiding place, wrapped it in an old t-shirt, shoved it into my bag. When she had finished squashing everything in, the poor overnight bag looked like it might split a zip at any moment. She then co-opted all the remaining space in my bag. I tried to convince her to leave room for her shopping. But she insisted that she was bringing the bare minimum and that she would buy another suitcase for the shopping if necessary.
I quickly checked the Internet for accommodation in Staad, near the Altenrhein airport, chose a small hotel called Weisses Rössli on the shores of Lake Constance.
By the time we had finished faffing it was five o’clock. There wasn’t time to take the tram, so we caught a taxi.
The train station was filled with tourists and gypsies all bouncing off the evening commuter crowd. We fought through the press of people to the ticket counter and then on to the platform. We made it; but only because the Czech trains seldom leave on time. We boarded the coach right at the back just as the train began pulling out of the station. I had splashed out, not only for First Class tickets, but had also reserved a private sleeper compartment for the journey. Unfortunately the First Class compartments were at the front of the train. We had to squeeze down the narrow passages crammed with passengers. Some, like us, were loaded with baggage, trying to find their compartments; those who had already settled in were leaning from the windows, shouting or waving at shrinking figures on the platform.
After bumping and battering our way through countless coaches we finally reached ours. A small piece of card with my name on identified our compartment, the second one along. Once inside I hoisted our cases up onto the luggage rack and we collapsed on the seat together.
We were both breathless from the effort of getting there and sat in silence holding hands, watched our city flash by the window. When we clattered across the Vltava River a lump grew in my throat; I squeezed Martina’s hand. It was the first time that I had left Prague since my arrival two years before.
I can’t really say why I chose to live in Prague. After twenty years in the Legion I knew that I wanted to be somewhere different, somewhere I hadn’t been before, somewhere I could start again. I had met a few Czechs while in the Legion, including the doorman at the Savarin, and they had all raved about their capital city. Also, it had the reputation of having the most beautiful women in Europe and that couldn’t be a bad thing.
When we crossed the river I experienced an unfamiliar emotion: a sense of loss at leaving my adopted city. Oblivious to my mood, the train thundered on through the darkness.
Martina freshened up while I unpacked. Then we went to the dining car just in time to get the last table. We sat across from each other. The train was warm and she had left her long coat and jersey in the compartment. She was wearing a green silk top with a neckline low enough to reveal the dark crease between her breasts. The subtlest of makeup accentuated her high Slavic cheekbones. Her hair was plaited away from her face into a single ponytail. She was a picture, living proof of Prague’s reputation for beautiful women.
I hadn’t earned the three million dollars yet, so I ordered a bottle of Moravian red wine. Dark shadows flashed past the window as we sat in silence, sipping the wine, staring into the window’s reflection, both lost in our own thoughts. The arrival of the food broke our reverie.
I was mopping the last of the gravy from my plate with a bread roll when the train passed through Horní Dvořiště and crossed the border into Austria.
We were both knackered and went straight to bed. Unusually, we did not make love that night. Instead we lay entwined, rocking with the rhythm of the train and listening to each other breathe until we fell asleep.
When I woke, Martina’s lights were still out. She had hardly moved. I lifted m
yself onto one elbow and looked out the window. It was dark. There was a quarter moon, and by its light I could see that we were flying between snow-covered houses. Yellow light spilled from the windows. Switzerland was waking. I thought of the people inside the houses, behind the windows, preparing their breakfast, getting ready to face the cold on their way to work, going through their morning routine oblivious to our frenetic dash. Beyond the houses was only darkness until a long finger of silver shimmered there: the moon’s reflection across water. I looked at my watch. It was just before six o’clock. We were travelling alongside Lake Zurich; nearly there.
I kissed Martina on each eyelid in turn. They fluttered open and she looked at me, confused for a moment,‘Co? Where we are?’
I smiled. No longer thefemme fatale, wrapped up in the bedclothes without any makeup, she looked vulnerable and childlike. ‘We’re nearly therekočka,’ I said. ‘Time to get up. Dress warmly, it’s snowing outside.’
She pulled her gown on, yawned lazily, went to the bathroom. I was busting for a pee but she only emerged as the train was pulling into Zurich station. I was forced to have a Portuguese shower – a squirt of deodorant under each arm – and barely had enough time left over for a slash and to brush my teeth.
It was still early, only half past six, and the bank didn’t open until eight-fifteen. We found a small bistro at the station and sat down for coffee and croissants.
Just before eight we collected a hire-car. I chose a Golf GTI. It was a little pricey, but I didn’t want the client to think that I was a cheapskate. I also wanted something with a little bit of oomph in case the shit hit the fan. I parked the car around the corner from the bank and we walked from there. I didn’t really need the car until later, but it was a convenient storage space for our suitcases in the meantime.
Elements of Risk: A Noah Stark Thriller Page 4
