“I was wondering what you thought about Sean Lassiter,” she said, slowly emptying another miniature bottle of Tanqueray into her glass. “There’s a rumour going around that Elizabeth was about to leave him.”
Court had no idea. Suddenly the lack of publicity surrounding the death made sense. “I heard something to that effect,” he said.
“They hadn’t been sleeping together for years,” she told him knowledgeably. “I was reading an article in the Economist about the similarities between successful businessmen and serial killers. They share the same lack of compassion, the same selfishness and determination to succeed. They exploit the flaws of their opponents, and lose their ability to judge on moral grounds.”
For a crazy moment he wondered if she had heard another, darker rumour, but decided it was impossible. The buyout had only been discussed with a handful of board members. It would not be made public until after it was successful.
“I guess you’re going on to St Petersburg,” she said. “Where are you staying?”
“The Grand Sovetskaya. How about you?”
“Oh, nothing so fancy. That was one of Sean’s personal favourites, wasn’t it?”
“‘Well, it’s part of the chain.”
“I slept with him, you know. Our flights were cancelled and we were stuck at the Espacio Rojo Hotel in Barcelona. I was really sorry to hear he died. Or was it the Severine in Paris? They have this fabulous spa treatment where they wrap you in oil-soaked gauze and place hot stones down your spine…”
He listened without hearing. The image of the old man pumping away on top of poor bony Amanda while whispering sales figures in her ears was best left behind in the departure lounge.
The Grand Sovetskaya was an unashamedly old-world hotel in the French style, with green copper gables and crouching gargoyles. In the domed reception area hung a crystal chandelier the size of a skip. The rooms were filled with dark wooden dressers, sideboards and wardrobes, and were locked with huge brass keys. There were twenty-one floors of corridors that smelled of furniture polish and boiled cabbage, all identical and gently curved, like those of an ocean liner. Thick floral carpets and heavily lined drapes deadened all sound.
Best of all was the bar, a paradise for the serious drinker. The shelves were stacked with dozens of flavoured vodkas and an immense range of mysterious liquors, vaguely medicinal in appearance. Court suspected that the elderly hatchet-faced bar staff had arrived with the first guests. Heavy marble ashtrays lined the counter. This was clearly no place for lightweights.
Court was there to conclude the discreet negotiations with Lassiter’s board, but if anyone asked, he was attending a forum staged by the Opportunities In New Business Development Commission. Discretion was second nature to him. He spent most of his life in hotels as quiet as libraries where the patrons were defined by the depth of their expense accounts. Lighting a cigar, he thought about Lassiter turning over and over in the warm night air, a tiny flailing puppet whose existence had been erased almost before he hit the concrete. How many Indian workers had been employed to scrub the blood from the stones before another harsh dawn flooded the hotel with sunlight? Had the manager posted Lassiter’s luggage back to his grieving wife? Had Elizabeth pored over the spreadsheets, graphs and overlays, hopelessly looking for answers?
He felt no guilt. Lassiter’s downward spiral had begun before Dubai. Court had saved him the incremental degradation a man feels when he realizes the company he has founded no longer needs or desires his advice. He waved aside the blue haze of cigar smoke and studied Vienna. She was seated in a red-leather horseshoe banquette between two short bald oligarchs. When she saw him looking, she momentarily forgot what she was saying. Her eyes lingered a moment too long.
Clearly, she was good at her job if she was travelling to international clients. For a second it crossed his mind that they might make an interesting team, but he knew that the best call-girls stayed at the peak of their trade by giving nothing of themselves to others. Even so…
It would have been unprofessional to send her any kind of message while she was working, so he smoked and waited, and treated himself to a golden Comte de Lauvia 1982 Armagnac. The Russians here were loud and unsophisticated, but Vienna never appeared bored. After an hour they were clearly drunk. Court had no idea what she said to them, but they suddenly fell into a sombre mood and rose together, bidding her goodnight.
She came over to him with her shoes in one hand, and he realized how much they added to her height. “However long your evening has been,” she told him, taking a sip of his brandy, “I promise you, mine was longer.” She licked her lips appreciatively and allowed her head to fall back against the red leather seat. “Mmm. Can I get one of those?”
The waiter appeared without being summoned, delivered and departed. She seemed content to drink and drift without making small talk. She wore another low-cut black dress, and a single strand of pearls. Her perfume had faded enough to allow a natural womanly odour, faint but arousing, to rise from her peach-coloured skin.
He relit his cigar and watched her, wondering how much she remembered of their last meeting. The bar was almost empty. It was 2.15 in the morning. “How long are you staying here?” he asked.
“Two nights. I’m entertaining those guys.”
“They must be important.”
“To someone. Not to me. It’s a job.”
“They left without you.”
“I sent them away.” She took the cigar from his fingers and smoked it for a minute.
“I’m here for- ”
“I don’t want to know why you’re here.” She studied the glowing tip of the cigar. “I’m sure you get tired of talking shop. I do.”
“So, Vienna, what would you rather do?”
She turned her eyes to his. Her pupils were violet, the lashes long and black. “Shall I tell you what I would really like to do?”
He gave no response, but waited with a small catch in his breath.
“I would like to fall asleep in a great big soft bed with my head on your chest.”
“We can do that.” Then he remembered. “Wait, they screwed up my reservation. I have two singles. We can push them together.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Well, where are you staying?”
She held up the key. It was the first time he had seen a genuine smile on her lips. “I have the royal suite.”
Now he was impressed. “How did you get that?”
“How do you think?”
They made their way to the twenty-first floor. As they followed the curve of the passage, Vienna entwined her fingers in his. I don’t have to tell this woman anything, he thought, she and I are the same kind.
When she unlocked the door at the end of the corridor and turned on the lights, he was disappointed to see that except for an extra pair of curtains covering the end wall, the room was almost identical to his. It was unbearably hot. He removed his suit jacket, threw it on the couch and loosened his tie.
“Make me a drink,’” she told him, “I’ll be back.” She headed for the bathroom. Something made him uncomfortable. He heard the bathroom door shut, then silence. He poured two whiskies at the wet bar and thought for a moment. It was exactly what she had done in Dubai.
No, it wasn’t.
Then she had waited until she had seen her own drink poured. Call-girls always did that, just to be careful.
She wasn’t going to drink anything. Then why had she asked him to make her a drink?