by Tom Cain
From then on, she'd worked by the manual: the smile, the eye contact, the gestures that would both arouse a man's interest and signal her availability, the conversational gambits that ended in a question, inviting the man to agree. Ask any top-class pickup artist: If you start the other person saying yes, they don't stop, all the way to the bedroom.
She'd been tempted to see if she could work her magic without any chemical assistance, but seducing Leclerc was just a means to an end. They had to get him talking as well.So when he went up to the bar, she'd reached into her bag and taken out her cigarettes and lighter. Anyone watching would have seen that. They wouldn't have noticed the little capsule she palmed, nor seen her snap it in two and deposit its contents into Leclerc's glass as she reached across and idly toyed with the olive on its black plastic stick.
The powder settled on the surface of the martini, but disappeared with a couple of stirs of the stick. Leclerc returned to the table to find Alix looking up at him with a guilty look on her face, saying, "Oops! You caught me! I was just about to steal your olive. I'm sorry. I can't resist them!"
He tried to give her his smoothest smile. "Well, here's one of your very own."
Alix took the olive from the glass Leclerc had placed in front of her and slipped it into her mouth, between her glossy red lips. "Mmm, delicious!" she said, then playfully ran her tongue along her upper lip. She told herself to stop fooling around. If she were too obvious, too easy, Leclerc might get suspicious. Time to be a bit more respectable.
She looked at him slightly wide-eyed, like an eager, respectful pupil sitting at her favorite professor's feet. "I've always been fascinated by Swiss banks. They sound so powerful and mysterious. You must tell me all about your work. I'd really like to know." The bartender's name was Marcel. He'd spent more than thirty years serving drinks, watching the games that play out when men, women, and alcohol collide. He thought of himself as a connoisseur of the art of seduction. So the moment the girl stepped into his domain, then shone her smile at the man in the corner, Marcel's interest was piqued.
He was reasonably certain that this was some kind of con. The man was a mark and she was playing him. After the second martini, she'd discreetly switched to sparkling water, but the man had stayed with his liquor. Marcel chuckled to himself and looked forward to the evening's entertainment.
The bar was beginning to fill up now. A group of businessmen had come in, each in turn checking out the brunette and smirking to one another as they ordered their drinks. Then a bizarre figure strode up and perched on one of the long-legged chairs by the glossy wooden countertop. He was almost two meters tall, dressed in battered, patched jeans and a T-shirt printed in lurid shades of yellow and purple. He had hair like a black man, except it was a pale, sandy color, and his eyes were Nordic blue.
Marcel sighed, sadly, bemoaning the loss of proper standards. Nowadays it was impossible to tell the difference between the beggars and the millionaires. A man in tratty denims could be a rock star, an actor, or one of those American computer tycoons people kept talking about. Maybe he was the hippie son of a wealthy family. When he ordered a Heineken, he gave the number of a junior suite. His watch was a Breitling Navitimer-an expensive chronograph, but also a serious, functional one. He had good manners too. Businessmen tended to place their orders brusquely, without a please or a thank you. But this white Rastaman took the trouble to converse a little in a calm, easygoing voice. He showed respect for Marcel's job and his dignity. Maybe the clothes could be forgiven.
"Would you like some matches, monsieur?" Marcel said, nodding at the Camel cigarettes on the counter, next to the beer glass.
The man smiled. "No thank you, I'm trying to give them up. Keeping them there is like a test. If I can have a couple of beers without smoking a cigarette, I'll know I'm getting somewhere."
He glanced across to the corner of the room, turned back to Marcel, and said, "Have you seen the couple in the corner? She just stroked his face. Then he took her hand and kissed it. Isn't love great?"
Marcel winked. "L'amour, toujours l'amour…" In the earpiece hidden beneath his dreadlocks, Thor Larsson could hear Carver's voice. "Yeah, I saw it. It's almost scary how good she is at this."
Inside the Camel pack there was a miniature video camera pointing through a pin-size aperture, with a signal transmitter linked to a video monitor and recorder in Carver's room. A microphone and an audio transmitter were hidden in Alix's bag. Everything she and the banker did, every word they said, was all going down on tape.
"I wonder what she's like in bed," mused Larsson, apparently for the bartender's benefit.
Carver laughed. "Well don't expect me to tell you."
"If only I could hear what they're talking about."
"Don't worry. I'm getting the audio feed from Alix, clear as a bell."
"Could you get me another beer, please? And some nuts, if you've got them. I think I'll stick around."
47
Grigori Kursk was a patient man. He'd learned that lesson in Afghanistan. Too many of his comrades had rushed into combat, hoping to overwhelm the mujahidin guerrillas with sheer weight of firepower, only to be outsmarted, ambushed, and sent straight to hell. Kursk could wait for hours, days, as long as it took to make the other man move first and expose his position. Only then would he strike.
So he did not care whether it took Carver all night or all week to return to his apartment. He would be ready for him whenever he came.
The two men he'd sent up to the apartment had reported that the door was steel-framed and secured with deadbolts to the top and bottom as well as the side. The hinges were reinforced. The only way to force entry would be with a bomb or a bazooka. Kursk himself had examined the windows through his binoculars. The glass was extra thick, almost certainly bulletproof.
It was no more than he had expected. Carver was no fool: He was bound to take precautions against men just like himself. In the meantime, Kursk needed to take some safety measures of his own. A call to Moscow gave him the contact number he needed, a Swiss-registered mobile.
"I work for Yuri," he said. "I need to dispose of a car, a BMW 750. It has something in it. That has to go too, you understand?… I'll send a man with the car. Also, I want a van, like a phone company or a delivery van, something like that. My guy will pick it up. Twenty minutes. You'd better have what we need. You don't want Yuri to hear you let me down."
Kursk sent Dimitrov away with the car. Papin was still in the passenger seat, kept upright by a tightly strapped seat belt. Now Kursk was alone in the street. It was quiet, respectable, a place where he stuck out like a bear in a china shop. He needed to escape the prying eyes that lurked behind all those flower baskets and net curtains. A sign caught his eye a little way up the road: Malone's Irish Pub. Perfect.
He took his beer and a whisky chaser to a seat by the window where he had an unobstructed view down the street. No one could get in or out of Carver's building without him seeing. Kursk savored his drink and looked around the pub. He'd known places just like this in Moscow. He guessed there were a million like it, all around the world. But it was okay. Compared to some of the places he'd sat and waited, this one was a palace. Jennifer Stock had left the car and gone for a little walk, looking in shop windows, stopping for an early evening cup of coffee, and spotting Kursk and all three of his men. There were, she reflected, tremendous advantages to being female, if only because the instinctive male refusal to take one seriously was impervious to any amount of supposed sexual equality. You could wander up and down and they just thought you were a silly woman who had no sense of direction or couldn't decide where to go. You could poke your nose into nooks and crannies and they just put it down to feminine curiosity.
It was far easier to talk to people too. The nicest man could arouse a certain amount of suspicion or even fear when he approached a stranger. Children were taught to shy away from men they did not know. But anyone of any age or gender would talk to a woman. In fact, it was the big-eyed, tousle-ha
ired son of the local cafe owner who'd told her all about the Frenchman who'd been asking his papa questions that morning, and the funny men in baggy coats who'd got out of the big black car.
"Oh yes, I saw them," she said, ruffling the little boy's hair. "They were funny, weren't they?"
It was while she was sitting in the cafe, drinking her double espresso, that Stock took the call from London. It was Bill Selsey.
"Hi, Jen, just got a hit on that BMW with the Italian plates you were asking about. Turns out it's registered to a company called Pelicce Marinovski. They supposedly import furs from Russia."
"Really? The men in that car didn't look much like furriers."
"Yes, well, Pelicce whatever-it-is doesn't look much like a legitimate import-export company, either. Can't find any proper accounts anywhere, no premises, no evidence of any sales."
Stock frowned. "Is this some sort of front for the Russian mafia?"
"Possibly, so be careful, all right? These are not nice people to do business with."
"My orders are to watch from a distance and not to interfere. That's what I intend to do."
"Good girl, that's the spirit."
48
Magnus Leclerc felt suffused by warmth. For some reason, the bar had become much hotter. He'd taken off his jacket and tie, but he was still sweating like a pig. He hoped Natasha hadn't noticed. Aaaah, Natasha! She was amazing. She understood him. It was incredible. He'd hardly known her for an hour, but already he felt this amazing connection to her, a profound empathy, as though she could see right into his soul, and he into hers.
He'd told her about Marthe, the bitch, how hurt he was by her constant bickering, her petty criticisms, and her rejection of his sexual needs. He'd been afraid Natasha would laugh at him. But she didn't. She sympathized. This beautiful girl took his hand in hers. Then, very gently, she ran her perfect fingers down his cheek. Leclerc almost cried at her consoling gesture. It had been so long since he'd felt that kind of comfort.
So long too since he'd been this turned on. Maybe that was why he felt so hot-he was burning with lust. He wanted to screw her so badly. He gazed at her, mentally stripping away her clothes, speculating on the body beneath. For a second, he didn't even realize she was talking to him.
"Sorry," he said, "did you say something, cherie?"
"I was just saying that maybe we should try to find Mr. Vandervart. I don't know what's happened to him. I think he must still be up in his suite. Do you think we should go upstairs?"
Leclerc gave a pathetically grateful smile. "Upstairs? Oh yes, I think that's where we should go."
When he stood up, he was uncomfortably aware that the floor wasn't quite as steady as he would have liked. Natasha skipped to his side, picked up his discarded coat and tie, and took his arm in hers, helping him find his balance as he walked out of the bar. He couldn't work it out. He'd only had, what, four martinis, maybe five? He shouldn't be affected like this. Then he felt her hip against his and the soft weight of her breast as it brushed against his arm, and a big, happy grin crossed Magnus Leclerc's face. He didn't care how drunk he was. He felt absolutely great. Alix led the molten, drooling banker down the corridor and up to the door of the suite. She knocked, pressed her ear to the door, then turned to Leclerc. "He doesn't seem to be there. I'm sure he won't be long. We could wait in my suite if you like. I'm just next door."
Not giving him a chance to reply, she stepped up to the next door, inserted her key, and let them in. "This isn't very cozy, I'm afraid," she said, leading him past the formal, stiff backed antique furniture in the living room through to the bedroom with its king-size bed, covered in a sky blue quilt. Directly opposite the bed was a cabinet containing a TV set. It was a no smoking room, but someone had left a pack of cigarettes in an ashtray next to the TV.
"This is a bit more comfortable," said Alix, putting down her handbag on a bedside table. "Why don't you take it easy? Sit down on the bed and I'll fix you a drink from the minibar. Another martini?"
"No," he said, grabbing her arm. "Don't worry about drinks. Stay with me here."
He patted the bed beside him. Alix sat down. She let him run a hand up her thigh, stopping him only when he tried to reach beneath her skirt. "Hold on," she said, running her other hand playfully through his hair. "What would Marthe think if she could see us now?"
"Oh, screw Marthe!" said Leclerc. Then he burst out giggling. "No, on second thought, I'd much rather screw you!"
He dived at Alix, grabbing her shoulders and trying to force her flat on the bed. She laughed and squirmed out from under him.
"Not so fast," she said. "If you want to have me, you must do exactly as I say."
"Anything!" Leclerc leered.
"Stand up, opposite me."
He obeyed at once.
"Remove your shirt."
Again, he did as he was told.
"Now take off your trousers and then stand perfectly still."
When he had finished, he watched open-mouthed as Alix undid the buttons of her blouse, discarding it in a flutter of creamy silk. She unzipped her skirt and let it slide to the floor before stepping out of the ring of crumpled fabric.
Alix was wearing white lace lingerie that accentuated the lithe, athletic curves of her body. She still had her high heels on.
Opposite her, Leclerc was in a pair of baggy jockey shorts, their waistband lost in his doughy flesh. He was still wearing his gray woolen socks.
"Lie on the bed, right back against the headboard," she told him
Leclerc scuttled backward, fell on the bed, and propped himself up against the pillows.
"Soon, very soon, you will have your way with me. But first I am going to have my way with you. Stay there, don't move a muscle, and don't say a word!"
Alix strode around the bed to a chest of drawers. She bent down to open a drawer, making Leclerc groan with pleasure at the view, and pulled out three long, narrow, black silk scarves.
"What…?" Leclerc began.
"Shhhh…"
She walked back to the bed, laid the scarves along the bedspread, and knelt astride Leclerc's chest. Then she reached for his right wrist, expertly knotted one end of the first scarf around it, and tied the other end to the top of the bedpost. Leclerc now had one arm dangling helplessly in midair, but he seemed less concerned by that than his desperate attempts to get his face up to Alix's breasts as she leaned across him. She ignored him, wordlessly grabbing his other wrist and repeating the procedure with the second scarf.
When both arms were secure, she leaned back and ran a hand through Leclerc's chest hair, idly toying with his nipples as she said, "Do I look good to you?"
"Oh God, yes," he groaned.
"Then take a good long look and remember what you see. Because now you see me and now"-she picked up the final scarf and whipped it around the banker's head, covering his eyes-"you don't. You're helpless now, at my mercy. So I ask myself, what am I going to do?"
She placed her forefinger against his lips, teasing him as he desperately tried to suck it. Then she lay flat on top of him and started wriggling downward, down and down until her head was directly above his underpants.
"Mmmm, what have we here?" she said.
She raised herself up onto her haunches again and started to pull the underpants down from his waist.
"Please, please!" he moaned, trying to lift his ass off the bed to make the job easier.
Alix bent forward over Leclerc, lower and lower, till her head was only millimeters above him and…
"Thank you, Miss St. Clair, that will be all," a harsh, guttural Afrikaans voice said.
Alix climbed off the bed and glared furiously at Carver. "You took your time!" she mouthed at him.
"I'm sorry," he mouthed back, holding his hands out, palms down in the universal gesture of contrition.
"Who are you? What's happening?" squealed Leclerc, writhing on the bed.
Carver slapped him once, very hard, on the side of the face.
"Shut up
, Mr. Leclerc," Carver snapped. "If you value your life and your reputation, shut up and listen. Here, let me help you."
Carver pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and shoved it in the other man's mouth, gagging him. He took the belt from the trousers lying on the floor and tied it tight around Leclerc's ankles, rendering him entirely helpless.
"My name is Dirk Vandervart. I am about to ask you a series of simple questions, and you are going to give me honest answers. There are two reasons why you are going to do this. The first is that we have been following your evening with Miss St. Clair. In fact, we have recorded all the most interesting moments on tape. I don't think your wife would like to hear all the things you said about her, do you? Particularly when she watches you seducing a young woman and letting her tie you to her bed. Wouldn't reflect well on you, your marriage, or your bank, eh? Right, then, refuse to talk, attempt to mislead us, or reveal anything of what happened in this room this evening, and those tapes will be made very, very public.
"The other reason why you will talk is simple: I will cause you very great pain if you do not. Please be in no doubt about this, Mr. Leclerc. For example…"
Carver took hold of Leclerc's left hand and started bending back the little finger. Leclerc shook his head from side to side.
"Hurts, doesn't it? If I keep going, just a little bit more, the bone will snap like a twig. Then the finger will swell like a sausage grilling on a braai. Ach, man, let me tell you, that hurts so much, you'll wish I'd just cut it right off."
Leclerc's whole body was jerking now as if jolted by electric shocks. Carver appeared not to notice and just kept talking.
