Oliver Court’s palms were dry, but he still pressed them against his thighs. Lassiter had once been his mentor, and was the only man in the world who could make him uncomfortable with a simple question.
“Come on, Oliver, I saw the look in your eyes the first day I met you. Nowadays I can’t read them because you’re wearing coloured contacts. I remember, you were so hungry and envious I thought you might actually start taking notes during our meal. I see that look a lot, but it’s not usually so obvious. When members of my staff get that anxious, it usually means they’re frightened of failure and they’re scared of being found out. Well, I can’t blame anyone for wanting to make the best of themself. But you were prepared to leave behind an awful lot in order to be a success.”
It was a gentle rebuke, but a rebuke nonetheless. Lassiter was old school; his compliments were backhanded and his criticisms were constructive. He knew the difference between perspicacity and merely being rude. For a businessman who had been on the road for the past forty years, he was immaculately groomed. His hair was sleek and white, his tan subtle, his suit quietly extravagant.
He’s heard something about me, thought Court, shifting carefully on his chromium chair, which was too low. The central column of the table prevented him from stretching out his long legs.
“Have you got where you wanted to be?”
Court did not trust himself to tell the truth. From here he could see out through the curvilinear glass of the restaurant. In front of the hotel, trucks drove back and forth along the spotlit spit of land that projected into the blackness of the Persian Gulf. The Indian workers toiled around the clock in shifts, building ever further out into the sea.
They had kept the conversation light while they ate. Families, schools, colleagues, holidays, topics suitable for food. The serious part required a clear table and strong drinks.
There was only one other drinker at the bar, a nylon-haired brunette with long legs, a tiny waist and perfectly circular breasts, like a character from a video game. The décolletage of her tight black dress was cut to the aureoles of her nipples. Lassiter assumed she kept herself more carefully covered beyond the confines of the hotel. They were in the Middle East, after all. Seamed stockings, high heels, a brassiere that must have presented an engineering challenge, she was about twenty-three years old and blatantly selling herself. He wondered what the young Arabic barman thought of her.
Court caught him thoughtfully studying the call-girl’s legs. “How long have you known me, Sean?” he asked, buying time.
“Long enough to see where you’re going.” Lassiter smiled. He’d had his teeth bleached. They shone peppermint white in the black light from the bar, and made him look like a game-show host. He noticed Court following his eyes to the girl. “It’s just an honest question.”
In truth, Lassiter had been disappointed by his apprentice. Court needed the approval of others, and as a consequence, his ambitions were displayed for all to see. He never took advice, so why was he here? Somewhere deep inside Lassiter an alarm bell rang.
Court knew he could not be completely honest, because there was too much at stake. “I think I’ve been pretty successful,” he answered carefully. “There’s still a way to go. That’s why I value your advice.”
Lassiter looked almost relieved. Perhaps he didn’t want to have an argument with his former pupil. “Your division is doing very nicely, Oliver. You’re about to expand it, you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t feel a little nervous. From what I hear, my directors will back you, but in these uncertain times you’ll need to detail your long-term plans. Just don’t be too eager. The English don’t trust people who are anxious to please. It puts them off. They want negotiations to be tricky enough for their colleagues to see how hard they work.”
“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t look up to you,” said Court, catching the waitress’s eye and sewing the air with his right hand, the universal sign for check, please. “You’ve always been my- ”
“Don’t say mentor, Oliver, it makes me feel positively ancient.”
“I was going to say friend. I feel I can tell you anything and I’ll always get a straight answer.”
“So long as it works both ways.”
“You don’t have to ask that. I was still just a property agent when you gave me a job. Now I run the whole of the US division. I’d appreciate it if you could cast an eye over my proposals, just to get your feedback.” Despite the difference in their ages, they were now almost evenly matched in terms of their careers within the company. Lassiter still gave the hotel chain class and respectability. Many considered Court to be an upstart, but he had made North America profitable again by building flashy boutique hotels aimed at kids with money.
Lassiter smiled at his glass, twisting it. “It would be my pleasure, you know that.” Court was offering to show him his plans ahead of the directors’ meeting? He’d want something in return, but what, and how badly?
Lassiter looked around at the empty bar, the midnight-blue carpet, the silver walls, the glittering star-points of light in the ceiling. He wondered if this was what Heaven looked like, without a bill at the end of the evening.
“Excuse me for a moment.” Court rose from his chair and went to say something to the girl. After the exchange, she followed him back to join the table. “This is my friend Sean Lassiter,” he said, introducing her.
“Hi, I’m Vienna.” She tossed her hair back in a movement designed to help her avoid bothering with eye contact. She was American, he supposed, or had been taught English by one. “Look at this place. The Jews and Arabs agree so completely on soft furnishings, you’d think they could work everything else out from that.” She had as much confidence as either of them, but Court knew that if they ignored her, she would drop out of the conversation. She was a professional. She had brought her own drink with her.
“Mr Lassiter here owns the hotel.”
That wiped the smile from her face. “Is that true?” she asked, lowering her glass. Court could tell she was racking her brains to recall the name.
“Well, I’m the managing director of the consortium that owns it,” said Lassiter, managing to make the role sound unimportant.
“He’s being modest,” said Court, “he owns the entire chain.”
If Vienna was impressed, she was too smart to show it. Her deal was with the maître d’. She only cared about her direct contacts. “Is it owned by the Americans?”
“No, it’s mainly Indian and Russian money.”
“They charge non-guests an entrance fee just to look around the lobby of this hotel,” she said, “but I guess you know that.”
“I don’t suppose that affects you.” It seemed that, having made the effort to talk to the girl, Lassiter was happier talking to Court. “You’re not staying at the Burj Al Arab, Oliver?”
“Even I can’t justify that kind of expense. Besides, loyalty dictates that I stay here. I suppose you’ve got a suite.”
“Penthouse sea-facing corner, but not the royal suite,” said Lassiter. “That’s reserved for heads of state.”
“I heard quite a few of the rooms are empty.” The Middle East was part of Lassiter’s domain.
“It’s not just here. There’s been a lot of over-construction. Look out of the window along the coastline. Everyone’s been affected by the bad publicity lately, those stories of raw sewage being pumped into the sea, but it doesn’t stop them from building.”
“You’re not worried enough to reduce the cost of a room yet,” Court added. “So, do we get to see your view?”
He wants to bring the girl, Lassiter thought in some surprise, how will this work out? “Sure, if you want.”
Court paid without checking the total and stood up, placing his hand in the valley of Vienna’s back. This small gesture was enough to seal the deal. She showed no reaction as she rose and left with them, the light from the neon bar-sign casting a crimson stripe across her neck that appeared to sever it.