by Roddy Wix
The randy Ivan and the lovely Madeleine woke very late the next morning. Ivan scanned the room for a bottle that might have some champagne left in it, but was unable to find one. Maddie, as she liked to be called, was lying on her stomach and remained very still. Her naked body was still an inspiration to Ivan who began to caress her buttocks.
“No, my dear Ivan. I must have food first. Even I have limits.”
“Of course. What would you like?”
“An omelet, bread, some bacon and a whole pitcher of orange juice.”
“Is that all?”
“Let me think while I go into the bathroom.” She got up and walked away from the bed stretching her arms as she went. Ivan admired the view while picking up the phone and calling room service.
“Maddie, do you want anything else?”
She popped her head out the door and took a toothbrush from her mouth. “A couple extra eggs in the omelet.” She smiled and disappeared back into the bath.
Ivan finished placing her order and started to join her when his cell phone rang. He checked the caller id. Serge. He decided not to push his luck and picked up. Serge was in an unusually bad mood.
“Where the fuck have you and your brother been?”
“We are in Paris for a little relaxation and celebration.”
“Celebrate? What do you have to celebrate?”
“The success of our program, of course. I assumed…”
“Assume nothing! I need you and your brother here in Italy immediately.”
“Why?” On second thought he should have passed on questioning Serge when he was in that bad of a mood.
“Why? I’ll tell you why. Because I own you. I goddam own both of you. Do you fucking understand me?”
“Yes.”
“I will send a car for you in an hour.”
So, he already knows where we are. Ivan started to speak, but the phone line was dead. He jumped up, pulled on a pair of jeans and grabbed a shirt from his bag. Buttoning the shirt as he walked, he headed down the hall to look for his brother. The door to Ilya’s suite was unlocked. His carry on bag was on the floor near the sofa, but there was no indication anyone slept in the room.
Shit! Where the hell was he? Ivan fished a cell phone out of his jeans and called Ilya’s number. It went directly to voicemail. The phone must be off. Why? He picked up the house phone and dialed the front desk.
“This is Ivan Rusikov. My brother and I are traveling together. He is in suite 15A.”
“Oui Monsieur Rusikov. How may I help?”
“I am trying to locate my brother. Has he ordered room service or used hotel transportation?”
“I will inquire, Monsieur Rusikov. May I call you back in a moment?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Ivan paced around the room like a caged tiger for what seemed like an hour. Everywhere he looked he found no sign of Ilya having been in the room. A ringing phone interrupted his inspection of the suite.
“Yes?”
“Monsieur Rusikov. I have checked with the staff. The bell captain saw your brother early last evening. He left the hotel on foot. The captain asked if he needed transportation, but your brother said he was not going far and preferred to walk.”
“Does your man know where he went?”
“Your brother said he was going to the Hotel Le Fouquet on the Champs Elysees. There is a lively cocktail crowd in the bar. Do you know where the hotel?”
“Yes, I do. Thank you.”
“Should I inquire of the concierge at Le Fouquet?”
“Yes, that would be helpful. I’ll be downstairs in a few minutes.”
“Very good, sir. My name is Alain. Please look for me at the concierge desk.”
Ivan hung up and patted his pockets to make sure he had cash and a wallet then ran out the door towards the elevators. Once in the lobby it was easy to find Alain.
Upstairs Madeleine emerged from the steamy bathroom as the room service waiter knocked on the door. She grabbed a hotel robe and, barely covering herself, let the young man in. Ivan was gone so she signed the check and gave the man a generous tip. After all, she assumed it was on his account. No matter, her father was one of the largest auto dealers in Europe and Maddie Linder never worried about money. Without concern for Ivan’s whereabouts she sat down at the dining room table. Round the clock sex left her famished and she approached her breakfast with gusto.
In the lobby Alain shared information with Ivan.
“I spoke to my friend at Le Fouquet. Your brother is a distinctive man and easy for my friend to remember.”
“When was he there? Where did he go?”
“He arrived in the early evening and apparently made friends quickly. He stayed until late.”
“When did he leave?”
“Monsieur Rusikov, I would suggest you see my friend in person. I have a car waiting to drive you. Ask for Remy.”
“Thank you.” Ivan shoved some cash into Alain’s hand as he walked out the door and into a black Rolls Royce. The ride took less than five minutes and he told the driver to wait.
“Where can I find Remy, please?”
“He is just over there, sir.” A bellman pointed toward an ornate desk in the corner of the lobby. A good-looking man of about forty sat behind it. He was alert and immediately identified Ivan as the one his friend Alain called about.
“Monsieur Rusikov, my friend Alain tells me you are seeking information about your brother.”
“Yes. I’ll appreciate anything you can tell me.” Ivan looked at him in a way that made it clear he would be generous with Remy.
“Please, Monsieur, have a seat. Would you care for coffee?” Ivan took a chair but declined a drink.
“As I told Alain, your brother arrived around six-thirty, perhaps a little later. He went to the bar where he was very generous in buying drinks and food. He made friends quickly.”
“Yes, I’m sure he did. When did he leave?”
“He stayed late, perhaps twelve thirty, and left with one of our regular customers, Sheik Ali al Zaribi.”
“Is this Sheik al Zaribi staying here?”
“Oh, no sir. He comes here often for a drink, but he lives in a townhouse in Parc Monceau. It is not far. Here is the address." He handed Ivan a piece of ivory colored paper.
Ivan put a hundred euro note in Remy's hand and dashed back to the waiting Rolls. Traffic was heavy and it took longer to drive the short distance than it may have taken Ivan to run it.
On arrival at Zaribi's elegant townhouse he banged the large brass knocker hard against the black lacquered front door. An elderly English butler answered.
“Yes.” He was neither enthusiastic nor overly polite.
“Is Sheik al Zaribi here?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know when he will return?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know how I can reach him? He was with my brother yesterday and I am trying to locate him.”
“I am afraid not, sir. The Sheik left the city last night. I do not know where or how he can be reached.”
“Do you know anyone who does?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t say, sir.”
Ivan peeled another hundred euro note off and gave the money to the butler. The man regarded the cash with indifference and said,
“Sir, I’m afraid I still couldn’t say.”
Ivan handed the man a card. “Alright. Here’s my cell number. Please call me if you’re able to remember anything.”
Ivan turned to walk away, but not before hearing the butler say, “Nice is lovely this time of year, sir. Don’t you think?” When he turned back the door had been closed.
21.