The Charmers (23 page)

The TV reporters had departed, and down by the sea the bunker was in darkness. Except, the Boss noted, for the red light of a burning cigarette. The Russian was waiting for him, expecting to be paid, no doubt. And for what? Fucking up? It did not work that way.

The beach was a madhouse, police dogs straining on tight leashes, sniffing every goddamn bush. It should never have come to this. How he had kept most of his guests unaware of it all was a miracle only he could produce. He was a sort of God, he knew that, but this had been tricky and the Russian was responsible.

“You're late,” the Russian said, stamping out the cigarette under a booted foot.

“Late for what?” The Boss's voice was ice.

“Fuckin' late paying me. I've been waiting here half an hour. And anyway, the job turned out bigger than you said. I need more money.”

“And how much more would that be?”

*   *   *

The Russian had not expected such quick compliance; he'd been prepared for a fight. “Ten thou.” He took a flier on the amount, instinctively understanding the Boss was going to go for it. Why, he did not know, but he knew he would. He did not need to say, “or else.” That was implied.

“You are blackmailing me,” the Boss said. His tone was surprisingly quiet for a man who'd just realized he was being taken, and taken by a crook.

“You might call it that. I consider it payment for services rendered. Killing off a girl costs.”

“But you did not kill her.” The Boss sounded reasonable.

“She's as good as dead. Trust me.”

Of course the Boss did not trust him. But he had something else in mind and right now it appeared the Russian was the only man who could carry out what he wanted. Anyone else would be too dangerous, but since the Russian was already attempting to blackmail him, why not give him the work?

“I'll give you five now,” he said. “Five later. Plus another ten if you do what I ask.”

The Russian lit another Marlboro, crushing the empty packet under a foot the way he'd crushed out the cigarette stub earlier. The Boss frowned; he did not approve of litter.

He said, “You already fucked up, almost killed the wrong woman. Now you can get the correct victim.”

“Matthews?”

“Who else did you suppose it was? You had your orders.”

“The girl got in the way.”

“And you should have gotten her out of the way, not left her half-alive, you fool.”

The Russian did not like being called a fool. Fists clenched, he took a step closer, then thought better of it. After all, he was looking at his meal ticket.

“You were supposed to kill Matthews and get the painting,” the Boss said. “When you've done that and brought the painting to me, I'll pay you. And not until then.” He turned and walked back to the side of the bunker.

“And how the fuck am I gonna do that?” the Russian yelled after him, disregarding that anybody passing might hear him.

The Boss paused. “That's up to you,” he said, pressing the button. “That's your job.”

The ivy-clad wall slid aside and in a second closed behind him.

It was, the Russian thought, amazed, as though he had never been there.

 

46

The Russian knew it was true, the task was uncompleted. He still had to get that painting from Mirabella's room where it hung next to her bed. He had tried and failed twice. He was not a man accustomed to failure. He'd get it, one way or another.

He wasn't afraid of her, though it would be better if she were not there. Too many killings was like spoiling the broth somehow. It made for bad soup, and bad vibes could make someone like the Colonel or the everlasting doctor latch onto him. He knew they'd already noticed him.

Yet the Boss wanted her gone, he wanted her land, he wanted her villa, he wanted that fuckin' painting. God knows why, it was a dreary thing. But lust took many forms, as he himself knew only too well. When a man lusted after something, be it a woman or a painting, he had to possess it. And a man would pay well to do so.

It was easier to get into Mirabella's room than the Russian had thought. Hidden in the shadow of azalea bushes that grew six feet high, he walked along the path to her house, any sound masked by the music still wafting through the night: laughter, the occasional bark from the canine patrol still working the beach, the remaining guests too busy discussing the recent happenings, puzzled and more excited than scared. After all, they did not usually come to a party, especially a grand expensive one like this, and get the thrill of a police alert and a drowned girl thrown in as the entertainment.

“Trust the Boss,” he'd heard one woman say, laughing as though it was an amusing experience. Yeah, he thought, you do that, bitch, trust the Boss and see what happens to you.

Of course Mirabella had left the french windows open. He'd tried to get in earlier but she was too alert, too frightened, it had been dangerous for him to linger. She'd slid out of there, her back to the wall, shoes in hand, unaware that he was watching her. Now, though, the place was all his.

He had the pearls in his pocket. All he had to do was get that friggin' painting, hand both over to the Boss, receive his payment plus bonus, and get the fuck out of there. For a few moments he allowed himself the luxury of contemplating where he might go, with all his money safely banked in that Swiss account. No small town where he would be noticed as being different, that was for sure. Something like a cruise maybe, on one of those big ships they had nowadays, thousands of people all eating and drinking and dancing and busy meeting and greeting. Easy to get lost in a crowd like that, especially with a new identity, and no hint of the Russian in him. He could speak English with the best, nobody could ever tell.

It took him seconds to enter Mirabella's room. A few more seconds and he'd wrenched the painting off the wall. The tack came out with it. Plaster fluttered in little white flakes onto his black sweater. He brushed them off, and shoved the painting underneath the sweater, careful to keep the paint side away from his sweat-damp skin. Which gave him thought that maybe he was getting too old for this game; he never used to sweat. Now, he could feel it trickling down his back. What the fuck? Enough was enough. He wanted his money and to get out of here. Killing old women and cat-burglaring were not his game. He was a street fighter, a man who killed other street fighters, men like himself who were working for what he'd always called, “the other side.”

He left the villa, letting his eyes adjust. Of course he knew the terrain, knew the easiest and darkest route to the bunker where the Boss awaited him. His boots crunched on the gravel path and he hesitated again, wondering if he should take the longer way, across the grass. But no, there were dogs around and cops; the night's affairs were not finished. They would still be there at dawn, with the stragglers from the party, maybe even one or two they might have arrested, or detained on suspicion. Suspicion of what? Was that girl, Verity, dead? He smiled, thinking of her. If she was not, then she soon would be. The Boss would take no chances on her regaining her senses and her memory. He was quite certain of that.

He had no idea how to get into the bunker. There was no door where you might knock, no bell to be pressed. But there were tiny cameras and they were all pointing at him so he had no need to knock. A wall slid back, revealing a steel slab of a door. There was no handle, it simply opened as he stepped up to it. He glanced nervously behind him. He wasn't used to this high-tech shit, he needed a door he could open and close himself, he needed his escape route and he realized the Boss was not allowing him one. Too late to go back.

“Come in,” the Boss said.

The Russian could see him, or at least the back of his head. He was sitting facing a giant bank of television screens that showed the entire property. The Russian realized that nobody could make a move in this place without being caught on one of those cameras. And no doubt those images would be kept in perpetuity for the Boss's use. With those cameras, those images, and with technology, the Boss could put any person anywhere on his property he wanted. Their image, that is. If he wanted, for instance, someone on the beach, throwing Verity into the sea, he had it.

The Russian's throat went dry just thinking about it. He had never had any compunction about killing, well, only the once with the old woman, Aunt Jolly, but that was because murdering old ladies was not his business and he had regretted it ever since. Especially as he had yet to receive payment. Fuck it, he was getting his money and he was out of here. Gone. The thought gave him sudden courage and he walked boldly up to the Boss and put the painting on the desk in front of him, awaiting the words of praise, or even thanks.

The Boss got up. He looked coolly at him, one brow raised. “So?”

Cocky fucker, the Russian thought. Believes he has it all, that he owns the world. Well, he doesn't own me. He said, “I got everything you want.”

“You screwed up royally. One young woman is in the hospital, only half-drowned. The other is still walking around very much alive.”

“Fuck them.” The Russian was impatient, confident. He pulled the string of pearls from his pocket. They slid through his fingers and fell to the floor with a surprisingly noisy crash. Pearls were heavier than he'd thought. He bent to pick them up.

“Leave them.”

The Boss's voice was ice. The Russian glanced up, surprised.

“And where is the ring?”

The Russian frowned. All the Boss had asked for were the pearls and the painting. No, wait a minute, there was also the big sapphire Mirabella wore, that's what he'd wanted too. Greedy bastard, as if enough wasn't enough for a billionaire like him who could easily go out and buy bigger and better. Why did he need all this shit, anyway? Especially that dreary little painting.

“It's on her fuckin' finger,” he snarled. And then his head snapped back with such sudden force he thought his neck would break, and he was on the floor, with the Boss standing over him, dark eyes burning into his.

“Get up,” the Boss said.

The Russian knew he'd better, though it was difficult to get his feet back under him.

“Now, get out.”

The Russian had not lost all of his senses, though he was afraid. “I want my money.”

“It's already in your Swiss bank. I don't cheat with money, though you cheated with your job. Now, go.”

The Russian went. As fast as he could get his numbed legs to move, he went, telling himself he had to keep on going, get away from here, away from that crazy bastard who he'd swear to God would kill his own mother, if he'd ever had one. He had looked into the devil's eyes and he was afraid. It occurred to him to wonder why the Boss was letting him go. Wasn't he dangerous? Couldn't he go to the cops? Or simply the TV stations? Tell his tale to the world. Denounce the Boss.

Then he realized, understood more like it, you did not simply denounce a man with that kind of power. The Boss held all the cards. You would get nowhere. He wasn't even significant enough for the Boss to have killed, which he could easily have done, right there and then.

Relieved, he picked up his pace, walking across the grassy cliff toward the lights of the Villa Romantica.

The dog got him from behind. One of those police canines, they said later, though nobody seemed sure which one it was or why it had attacked him, other than he was a man walking alone in the dark in a place he wasn't supposed to be. And after all, that was what the cops had been on the alert for.

It did not kill him, though. They pried its teeth open, got it off him, but it had mauled his face badly, simply taken his entire head into its mouth. That's what it felt like, to the Russian anyway.

Later, in the hospital, his head completely wrapped in bandages so he looked like something from
Ghostbusters,
they told him he'd been lucky that Dr. Chad Prescott was around.

“One of the best neuro-cranial surgeons in the world,” they said. “It's Dr. Chad you can thank that you not only have two eyes but you've still got some gray matter. Brains. If you ever had any to begin with.”

The Russian wondered, over the next painful days, whether in fact he had.

 

47

Verity

I had never felt like a princess before, but I was rapidly sure I was becoming one. The Boss's guesthouse was small but perfect, a white villa with a coral tile roof. Double glass doors were flanked by pink oleander bushes. The whole area was surrounded by fields of lavender and the scent took my breath away. Inside, though, an almost-familiar perfume hung in the air. It was from another era, but still I recognized it. Evening in Paris. I remembered the cobalt-blue bottle from my girlhood, behind the drugstore counter along with lipsticks in bright pink, and nail polish in sparkly white. Drugstores had everything in those days, which after all were not so long ago. Now they seem more commercialized, with so few specialty brands a teenager can afford and feel she is “special” too.

Still, no need for a “princess” like me to worry about drugstore lipstick; the bathroom vanity had everything any woman could possibly need, or even think of, from Estée Lauder night cream to nail polish remover. Looking at my chipped fingernails I decided I'd better use it.

What was I thinking? Had my brain gone into complete denial? Gradually last night's events floated back through whatever brain cells I might have left. I remember recognizing I was dying, wondering if this was what happened. Closing my eyes, I felt again the sensation of the waves washing over me, the icy chill of the water that was so pleasant in the daytime when swimming. But I had not been swimming. I could not move. And then I was plucked from that sea like some forgotten mermaid by a man whose kindness of heart, whose bravery I admired. And who I was now falling in love with. The Boss.