A loud thump sounded from the door, Pavlo opened it, and three men walked in. Other than briefcases and darker shades of hair, two of the men were clones of Pavlo, but the third man caught Olivia’s eye.
He was shorter and barrel-chested. Combed forward, his coarse gray hair contrasted with the ruddiness of his face. She smelled the sharp, spicy sweet scent of his cologne but wasn’t close enough to recognize the brand. The shape of his head reminded Olivia of a melon as he smiled.
“Jean-Claude,” he said, “it is good to meet you.”
Olivia released the pimp’s sleeve as he accepted Marko’s hand.
“Marko, I presume?” Jean-Claude asked.
“I wanted to finally meet the man who has purchased thirty-four women from me. My top French client.”
Olivia glanced at Jean-Claude’s breast pocket and trusted that the microphone and transmitter embedded in his wireless phone had relayed Marko’s incriminating statement to the surveillance team across the street.
“The honor is mine,” Jean-Claude said. “This calls for drinks. What should we serve, my dear? Cabernet? Merlot? Perhaps something stronger?”
Olivia recognized Jean-Claude’s question as a veiled request for confirmation of Marko’s identification.
The Ukrainian’s face matched her memory of the photographs in his dossier. His height appeared correct at five feet, nine inches, and his confident appearance and direct manner of speech matched his psychological profile. The coldness of his eyes suggested a monster lurking beneath his skin. She was certain Marko stood before them.
She signaled Jean-Claude — and the surveillance team listening through the pimp’s wireless transmitter — by suggesting the Ukrainian’s preferred drink.
“Something stronger,” she said while overlaying a Parisian accent on her English to suppress her Connecticut nasal twang. “Perhaps, Finlandia vodka?”
Marko raised an eyebrow.
“Your whores have good taste,” he said.
He removed his sunglasses and placed them in the breast pocket of a suit that Olivia suspected was an eastern European imitation of an Italian-cut.
“Your club is a bit dark,” Marko said, “but I could get used to it. Pavlo’s description did not do it justice.”
“Black marble on the dance floor and the bar. Booths of black leather,” Jean-Claude said. “As you see, I keep the lighting soft and the décor dark. It creates an air of secrecy my clients appreciate.”
Marko grabbed Olivia’s chin roughly, but she stayed in character and let him leer.
“Had I known how pretty your whores look in your gentleman’s club, I would have come long ago. I will have this one before I leave.”
Jean-Claude cleared his throat.
“I have reserved some ladies that you yourself sold to me. I think you’ll be impressed how good Parisian food can make a woman more full-bodied, like a fine wine. Or if you wish, I have a nice diversity of ladies available.”
“Where?” Marko asked and released Olivia’s chin.
“I offer private accommodations on the third floor, and I have closed the club until dinner. The afternoon is yours to enjoy, after business, of course.”
“Yes,” Marko said. “After business.”
Olivia poured vodka into shot glasses while Danielle held a tray. The brunette avoided Olivia’s gaze. Everyone else had gone upstairs except Pavlo, who watched over the locked weapons.
Jean-Claude’s voice echoed from a hardwood staircase.
“Make haste, ladies. Never keep a Ukrainian separated from his vodka.”
Olivia poured the final shot, and Danielle raised the tray to her shoulder. She smiled, making Olivia uneasy.
The brunette passed her pimp on the staircase.
Olivia joined Jean-Claude and took his arm. The pimp spoke in French.
“What’s in the briefcase?” he asked.
Pavlo shrugged.
“Speak English, pimp,” he said. “Or Ukrainian, if you know how.”
“The briefcase,” Jean-Claude said.
While Pavlo opened it and withdrew a laptop computer, the pimp whispered in French.
“He doesn’t understand French.”
“Right,” Olivia said.
“What are you waiting for?” Jean-Claude asked. “He’s already admitted to selling me women.”
“Women, yes. But I want him for selling juveniles.”
“I don’t like this. His men are rough, and rumor has it that they carry more diseases than rats. I don’t want him touching any of my ladies.”
Olivia glanced at her gold Cartier watch.
“They won’t. Takedown happens in thirty minutes. Earlier if I give the signal.”
“Give it now,” he said. “You have enough evidence.”
“Do you know where he’s keeping his latest shipment?”
“Not yet.”
“Then there are twenty women who want us to find out.”
Olivia followed Jean-Claude into his second-floor lounge, and Pavlo closed the door behind them. Red lighting around the ceiling trim painted rosewood walls sanguine, but a chandelier illuminated the center of the room in white. Chairs and sofas surrounded a glass coffee table.
Gulping vodka, the Ukrainians encircled the table. Behind the small upstairs bar, Danielle piled clean shot glasses on a tray in preparation for the next round. A mirror spanned the wall behind the brunette whore.
In the mirror, Olivia saw herself as a photographic negative of Danielle. Fiery red curls fell to either of her cheeks, and her black dress complemented her fair skin.
Olivia heard empty glasses clanking on the table and Pavlo setting down the laptop. She worked through the men huddling around the monitor to clear the mess and listened for clues about the location of Marko’s slaves.
“Here are your women,” Marko said. “They are beautiful, yes?”
On the screen, a video camera panned across women in jeans and tee-shirts huddled in a hotel room.
“You warned me they were young,” Jean-Claude said. “But half of these are children. That one can hardly be fourteen years old.”
“There are men with fetishes,” Marko said.
“Not my clients.”
“You wish that I sell them to someone else?”
Olivia glared at Jean-Claude. He understood.
“No,” he said. “I will find use for them. I’ll take them at the agreed upon price.”
“Excellent,” Marko said. “More drinks, then.”
“Right away,” Olivia said.
“No,” Marko said. “You stay. Send the other.”
Olivia sought Jean-Claude’s approval, and he nodded.
She watched Danielle depart. When she turned back, she saw Marko withdrawing a knife from his sock and caught a glimpse of Pavlo’s fist before it cracked her jaw.
A blast woke Olivia. Naked, she was lying on a couch. Her jaw ached, and Marko was on top of her, pumping. The stink of his sweat soured the spicy sweet scent of his cologne. During a misplaced thought, she recognized it as Drakkar Noir.
Turning her head, she saw Pavlo knocking away a metal block that had been part of Jean-Claude’s safe until blown off by plastic explosives.
Pavlo rattled off words in Ukrainian. The anger in his face revealed that he had blown open a steel box containing no cash.
Pain shot through Olivia’s mouth as she turned to Marko. His face was a sick mix of sexual ecstasy and anger. Satiated, he dismounted her.
“So, it is true,” he said in English. “It is a setup. Hand me the knife. I will kill the CIA bitch myself.”
The door burst open. Wearing body armor, Rickets led a team of Parisian police officers into the room. As Marko raised a bloody blade over Olivia, Rickets sent a bullet through his shoulder.