But I pressed on. It was ironic that I could take an assassin head on without hesitation, but was afraid of approaching a skinny blond with big tits.
She looked up and smiled as I reached the table.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I saw you sitting alone; may I join you?’
She waved a dismissive hand at the empty seat next to her. It wasn’t an invitation as much as ‘please yourself.’
I sat, offered my hand, ‘Pavel, Pavel Kalik.’
She put down her drink and took my hand in hers. Her fingers were long and slender, her grip cool, like her manner. ‘Caprice.’ No second name. She took her hand back, returned to her drink, tilted her body away from me, watched the band as if she was still alone and I was just a mirage. No mistaking the body language.
But I’ve never been known to cash in my chips before the last hand is dealt, so sat back, sipped my beer, waited until the band finished playing. The courtyard fell silent. Only the murmur of conversation competed with the chirping crickets and fountain frogs. ‘You here on business?’ I asked.
She turned to me with an ‘Oh, are you still here?’ look on her face. ‘No.’
There’s not much one can tell from ‘No,’ but there seemed to be a European lilt there: Italian to go with the Caprice? I looked her over again. She really was a stunner, stacked too under the tailored suit. I decided that I was going to get at least two words out of her at a time before I folded my cards and went up to the room. ‘What brings you to Lubumbashi?’
‘Sex.’
‘Sorry?’
‘My husband is here.’ She allowed a small smile at my obvious discomfort.
I thought that was the end of the conversation. There didn’t seem to be much point continuing; but she hadn’t finished with me yet. ‘And you. You are a boxer?’ There was a hint of sneer in the question.
I managed an awkward smile. ‘No. I had an argument with my wife.’
She looked down at my ringless finger. ‘You are married?’
I squirmed. ‘Yes... er... no. No. Just a joke.’
She didn’t smile, just raised an eyebrow, waited.
‘I was in a fight, in a bar, in Johannesburg, last night.’
She looked down her slender nose at me as if I was a specimen in a laboratory or some unpleasant smell wafting past. ‘You lost.’ That sneer again.
I’d had enough of feeling like a pillock. ‘No, I won. You should see the other guy.’
It must have been the tone of my voice because I could see that she believed me; both eyebrows went up. For a moment she didn’t reply, looked me up and down, then said; ‘Do you really want to sit here and make small talk? Wouldn’t you rather take me up to your room and fuck me?’
Chapter 39
There haven’t been many times in my life when a woman has tried to pick me up. Well, okay, that was the first. Shocked would be an understatement. Even the night fighters at the next table wouldn’t have been so forward. But it wasn’t an offer I felt I could refuse.
‘Sure, why not.’ I replied, feigning nonchalance but not making any attempt to move from my chair. ‘But aren’t you hungry?’
‘Yes.’ She looked straight at my crotch. That was enough for me. We both stood. I took her hand and led her inside; like a lamb to the slaughter. Only trouble was, I was the lamb.
At the bottom of the stairs I played the gentleman, let her go in front of me. Gentleman! I wanted to get a good look at her arse. And what an arse it was; a real walnut cracker. I followed, my growing erection threatening to rob me of consciousness.
When we reached the top of the stairs I pulled myself together as best I could and led her to my room. I had barely closed the door when all the cool reserve disappeared and she turned into a succubus. She grabbed me, spun me around, pressed a hand against the back of my head, stuck her tongue down my throat. I kissed back - hard. Our teeth clashed, tongues writhed together like mating eels.
Locked together, we staggered into the room, bumped into the coffee table, nearly fell over. She released my head, broke the kiss, grabbed my crotch, nuzzled her face into my neck, bit me: hard. It was more like street fighting than sex.
I reached a hand under her blouse, grabbed a breast, squeezed it. She kissed me on the mouth again, sucked my bottom lip into her mouth and bit it. Now I don’t mind a bit of rough, but this was getting ridiculous. She was still playing; pain without blood – yet.
I released her bra strap with my free hand and pushed the lacy material up and over her breast with the other. I grabbed her nipple between thumb and forefinger. It felt strange, metallic. She released my lip and looked at me, a smile curled on her lips. She wanted to see my reaction to her pierced nipples. My hand was still under her blouse, so I removed it and she undid the blouse, dropped it and the bra onto the floor.
I have seldom seen a chest like that. They probably weren’t natural, too round, too perfect. Each nipple was pierced with a small gold bar. Tiny diamonds glittered from the ends.
She clearly enjoyed the effect it was having on me. Without saying anything she undid my belt, whipped it out, flung it onto the couch. Then she sank onto her haunches in front of me and undid my pants, pulled them down to my ankles. At that stage my erection was painful, a living thing, thrusting against my undies, trying to tear through the cloth.
Caprice struggled with the undies for a moment. She could have just yanked them down. Thankfully she didn’t; with my cock sticking out like that she might have broken it. She carefully stretched the waistband and eased it over my swollen glans.
It was a brief pause, but it made all the difference. Just for a moment I had time to think, to consider the consequences. And it wasn’t the thought of her sinking her teeth into my dick that stopped me, it was Martina.
In that brief moment I thought of her, realised that I loved her even more than I knew, and I couldn’t do it to her, do it to myself.
Caprice was holding my hips, about to swallow me. I grabbed her head in both hands. She thought it was part of the game, pushed against my grip, forcing her mouth towards my dick. I held firm and she looked up. As soon as she saw my face, she knew.
‘What? What’s the matter? You got a girlfriend? You got a conscience?’
‘Yes.’
She stood, immediately started gathered her clothing from the floor, ‘Fucking men! I should stick to my vibrator.’
I stood there, mute, flaccid. Not without some regret, I watched her hitch her bra, button up her blouse. I didn’t move. She went to the mirror, straightened her hair and left without saying another word. When the door slammed shut I was still standing in the middle of the room, my pants and underpants around my ankles; limp.
I pulled my pants up, went through to the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t like what I saw. It wasn’t the one black eye or the gouge under the other one. It wasn’t even the swollen lip, starting to bruise where Caprice’s teeth had ripped a few blood vessels. It was the arsehole who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants for five minutes at the sight of a piece of skirt. I was bitterly disappointed with the dickhead in the mirror.
I was also bloody hungry. I left my pride in the room and went downstairs to the restaurant. I was relieved that Caprice wasn’t there. I would have struggled to digest the Filet Américaine with her in the same room.
I slept like the dead that night; partly because I had a damn good wank before going to bed. I wouldn’t have slept otherwise, there was just too much testosterone coursing through me. I wasn’t unfaithful: I banished Caprice from my fantasy and beat off to the vision of Martina going down on me.
I woke early the following morning, before it was light. Only then did it occur to me that Caprice might have been a Mossad agent. I had brought her up to my room and allowed her to undress me without a second thought. Just shows what happens when you think with your little head.
By the time I had showered and dressed it was seven o’clock, traffic noise from the street outside. I pulled back the curt
ains and opened a window, let in the heat.
Small diaphanous plastic packets littered the street, blown back and forth with all the other rubbish by the passing cars. Worn piston rings belching oily smoke by the lungful added a tinge of blue to the air. A boy walked down the opposite pavement, next to the bougainvilleas, tapping the egg-filled enamel basin on his head with a small knife, soliciting customers for his boiled wares. I closed the window and went downstairs for breakfast.
The one good thing about the ex-French, or in this case ex-Belgian, colonies is that they have retained the art of cooking. Breakfast was a couple of croissants washed down with some excellent filter coffee. I drank it black because instead of milk there were bowls of milk powder on the tables and I couldn’t imagine trying to dissolve that into my coffee.
No sign of Caprice at breakfast either. I was looking forward to being able to put that little episode as far behind me as possible.
I went back to the room to brush my teeth and pack up. I had an hour to kill, spent it on the balcony watching the comings and goings at the hotel.
While most of the cars driving past, including the taxis, were old and battered, most of the vehicles pulling up at the hotel were new Land Cruisers, an occasional Range Rover or Mercedes saloon. The Land Cruisers made me think of Denis. I went inside, tried his number: voicemail, and his mailbox was still full. I was convinced that something had happened to him. I wanted to phone Bill to find out if he had learned anything, but decided to give him another day. There would be a lot of calls to make once I had secured the uranium from Shinkolobwe.
I went downstairs, paid the bill, sat down in the foyer to wait for nine o’clock. I didn’t have long to wait. At quarter-to, Piet strode into the lobby. I hadn’t seen him for more than five years, but recognised him immediately. His hair was flecked with grey, but he hadn’t put on a pound. His most distinguishing feature was only revealed when he pulled off his sunglasses. Piet had the most piercing blue eyes that I have ever seen on a man. His irises were the colour of glacier ice; the black dots of his pupils like deep black holes. The effect was chilling.
He saw me and marched across. ‘What thedonderhappened to you Engelsman?’ he asked.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘We’ve got plenty of time. You can tell me in the car. We have a meeting with the governor at ten, then we go to the mine.’ He picked up my suitcase and I followed him outside to the car: a silver Land Cruiser. He put the suitcase in the back. I went to the passenger door, but Piet went back up the stairs to the entrance.
‘Someone else coming?’ I asked.
‘Ja. My wife. She got in yesterday too, from Kinshasa.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And she’s bloody late again.’
I went cold.
The doors of the hotel opened and Caprice emerged into the light. Piet put his arm around her and kissed her. He took her suitcase and led her down the stairs to the car. When she saw me standing there she didn’t flinch, just narrowed her eyes.
Piet left us standing together for a moment while he put her suitcase in the car. We didn’t say a thing, stood there awkwardly.
Piet looked at us strangely when he returned, probably wondering why we hadn’t introduced ourselves. He introduced us, ‘Caprice,liefie, this is an old friend of mine Noa… er… Pavel, Pavel Kalik. Pavel this is my wife Caprice.’
She smiled distantly, held out her hand, cool slender fingers.
I shook them, ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Piet looked at us each in turn again, ‘You haven’t met before?’
‘No.’ Caprice smiled at him and shook her head.
‘Funny.’ he said. ‘It’s a small hotel and you both spent the night here…. Anyway…’
Caprice sat in the back. I protested but he said we needed to talk and she seemed happy to be out of the spotlight. I climbed in the front.
As we made our way though the broad avenues I could feel her gaze burning into my neck. My ears felt like they were glowing, but I didn’t dare look in the vanity mirror to check in case I drew attention to them.
Chapter 40
We were soon out of the commercial centre and into the suburbs. At first glance Lubumbashi was just a sleepy provincial town, but up close there were signs of decay everywhere. The roads were wide and tree-lined, with more potholes than tar. It quickly became apparent why the moneyed chose four-wheel-drive vehicles and all the other cars were falling apart.
Most of the houses were hidden behind walls that were too high for mere privacy and that had long since seen paint. It was also obvious that the walls had once been much lower; all showed a clear building line where they had been extended.
‘What’s with the walls?’ I asked Piet.
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’ve look like they’ve all been built higher at some stage.’
‘Oh, ja. There was looting in ninety-one. The army mutinied because they hadn’t been paid. Then they helped themselves. When the ex-pats came back to their empty houses they built higher walls.’
‘Africa!’
‘Ja. Africa.’ he sighed.
Piet slowed the car in front of a pair of black steel gates built into a wall longer and higher than the rest; two flagpoles protruded above. The country’s flag hung limply from one. The flag on the other was red green and white with what looked like red crosses in the bottom corner.
A pedestrian gate opened, allowing a soldier out. He wore olive fatigues with a huge pair of sunglasses covering half his face. I would have laughed if it wasn’t for the AK47 rifle dangling from one hand.
When he saw Piet he straightened up immediately and attempted a semblance of a salute.‘Ouvrez la porte.’ he shouted, and the gates opened.
We drove through. The governor’s house was painted a brilliant white, distinct from the others in the street. The architecture was incongruously Deep South: four columns stretched up to the charcoal slate roof dominating the front of the two-storey house.
We parked outside, approached the imposing doors. When they opened I almost expected Rhett Butler to emerge. Instead a diminutive figure in a blue suit the colour of the national flag came down the stairs to meet us.
Piet stiffened, stuck out his hand. The governor welcomed Piet like a prodigal son, stretched out his arms, beamed a mouthful of white teeth. ‘Piet. Good to see you.Et ta femme. Caprice,prego!’ He changed languages like Christmas tree lights change colour.
The governor and Piet shook hands then leaned forward and gently banged heads, once each side. The governor shifted his attention to Caprice. He barely came up to the top of her breasts, but he managed to keep eye contact while she bent down and they kissed cheeks French style.
Piet introduced me, ‘Governor this is the man I told you about, Pavel Kalik.’
I wasn’t sure if I should kiss or bang heads, so I did neither, just offered my hand, which he pumped enthusiastically.
‘Good to meet you at last. I trust you had a safe journey?’ The voice was cultured, the accent decidedly Parisian. Quite the chameleon, the governor.
‘Oui. Merci beaucoup,’ I replied. ‘Thank you very much for organising the visa.’
He waved it away, turned on his heels, led us into the house. The outside might have been Deep South, but the inside was more Louis XIV. Polished wooden floors decorated with plush rugs supported painted gilt-edged furniture upholstered in blue with golden fleurs-de-lis.
Rich brocade covered the walls. There were no pictures, just framed mirrors everywhere, reflecting our small group from all angles.
As if on cue, a woman descended the grand central staircase towards us. She was wearing a bright wrap, her hair piled high and tied with the same material.
‘Ma femme Lilly.’ He raised his hand towards her descending figure like a ringmaster introducing the star performer.
She kissed each one of us in turn. Fortunately she chose Caprice first as I am never sure how many kisses you’re supposed to give. Lilly’s number was three.
/> With the introductions complete, the women disappeared together leaving Piet and I alone with the governor.
‘Please come through to the library.’ The governor led us to a large room dominated by an impossibly long conference table. Up against one brocaded wall was a small bookshelf, filled with leather-bound volumes that looked like they hadn’t been read since the day they were put there.
We arranged ourselves around one end of the table, the governor at the head, Piet and I facing each other on either side. The governor got straight to the point.
‘I believe you have a buyer for my uranium?’
‘Yes. My client would like to purchase five-hundred tons, with the possibility of buying more later.’
‘Mmmm.’ The governor pressed his fingers together thoughtfully. ‘I assume that your client is not someone who enjoys publicity?’
‘That would be correct.’
The governor paused for a moment. ‘How do you propose to deliver the goods to your client? Unfortunately this is a land-locked country. We have railed through Tanzania in the past to Dar es Salaam, for another client, but there were problems.’
‘The client intends to fly it out sir, from Lubumbashi unless there is a big enough airport near the mine?’
‘Unfortunately not. Due to the current economic climate some of the runways have fallen into disrepair and there just isn’t enough money to build new ones.’ He extracted a small leather-bound note pad and a fat Mont Blanc pen from an inside pocket, flipped open the pad, wrote some numbers on a blank sheet of paper, ripped it off and slid it – face down – across the table to me.
I turned it over. The governor watched me carefully as he spoke, gauging my reaction. ‘The top number is the price for the uranium – per ton of course – and the bottom is my bank account number, held at the Bank of Credit and Commerce International in Zurich. The full amount must be paid into the account before the sale commences. I will then guarantee the safety of the goods being transported from Shinkolobwe to Lubumbashi Airport, over flight and landing clearances and everything else to ensure that the transaction goes smoothly.’
Elements of Risk: A Noah Stark Thriller Page 19
