No Apologies and No Regrets

by Roddy Wix

The rest of Serge’s ride home passed without any more calls from Moscow, though he remained in a dismal mood anyway. He had a raging headache, his minions had picked up only a thin trail of the Rusikov brothers in Paris, and in a matter of time the Prime Minister would put the final squeeze on him. Failure would cost him his life and the deathblow would be dealt quickly. The man was nothing if not decisive and swift.

  Serge’s sat phone rang as Friedrich guided the Maybach into the villa’s elegant but compact motor court. His agent in Paris was calling and he answered on the first ring.

  “Speak.”

  “Sir, I believe I located both brothers.”

  “Believe? What the hell does that mean?”

  “I know where they went. They traveled separately, but they both flew to Nice.”

  “Why did they separate?”

  “I don’t know. Ivan flew there this morning on a chartered jet.”

  “And?”

  “His brother flew down last night. He traveled with Sheik al Zaribi on his personal jet.”

  The double dealing son of a bitch! Serge smiled at the good news. The Sheik had no true convictions and no allegiances other than his addiction to money though he feigned being a pious Muslim for business reasons. Alternatively, if the Sheik had Ilya, Serge could be sure of two things. Ilya was safe and he could be bought. Unless, of course, Ilya himself was the double dealer. That would have been easier to believe of Ivan. Ilya might be a genius, but in Serge’s mind he was also a guileless fool.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m about to get in a plane to fly to Nice. My colleague has already arrived.”

  “Call me when you arrive.”

  “Yes. I will.”

  Before he hung up Serge added, “Find Ilya first. Ivan will catch up. But, remember this, notify me prior to taking any action.” Until proven wrong, Malroff operated on the assumption he was being double-crossed and, if so, Ivan masterminded the scam. If so, he would pay for that. Serge hated to deal with an operative whom he had never met, but at least the man was making some progress. He’d need to suspend his natural distrust a little longer and wait to see what surfaced.

  Friedrich opened the car door and Serge walked up the steps to his house. He felt a little better and noticed Penelope Goldman’s Porsche Boxster tucked into a corner of the motor court. Perhaps he would have time for a little diversion and diversion was Penelope’s sole purpose in his life.

  Duccio opened the front door seconds before he reached it.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Is Lady Goldman here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about her friend?”

  “He is not here, sir, nor is he expected.”

  “Excellent.”

  “May I place your dinner order with Chef?”

  “Steaks, rare, Frittes, and a salad. A bottle of Margaux. She can select the vintage.”

  “Very well sir.”

  “I want to dine on my balcony tonight. I will call the kitchen when we are ready to be served.”

  “Understood. I presume you will not be taking calls.”

  “Correct.”

  “I understand, Mr. Malroff. Have an enjoyable evening, sir.”

  Without a word Malroff took the elevator to the third floor. He swept open the doors to his suite and found Lady Penelope Goldman lounging naked on his sofa. At five nine she had the body of a professional tennis player though her breasts were large, firm and natural. The sight of her sent a charge of electricity through him.

  “Serge.” She moved in a way intended to expose more provocative parts of her anatomy.

  “Penelope. I am a little surprised to find you here this evening.”

  “Today seemed like a good day for a little abuse. Are you disappointed to see me?”

  “No, nor am I disappointed to find your traveling companion gone.”

  “He is harmless and I find him amusing.” Penelope stretched in a lascivious and seductive way.

  “Useless is a better word,” Serge said sarcastically as he headed toward his dressing room.

  “Serge, let me give you a massage before dinner. Perhaps a hot bath?” She got up and padded toward the dressing room door. As she passed through the doorway Serge grabbed her long hair and slammed her up against the wall. He pressed himself against her from behind without releasing his firm grip on her hair which he pulled until her head bent back.

  “Perhaps I should give you a massage first.”

  “Delicious.”

  Serge requested dinner a couple of hours later, but neither he nor Lady Goldman were seen again until Serge appeared downstairs the next morning, freshly showered and impeccably dressed in a trim custom tailored suit. Having already instructed Friedrich to bring the car around he strode straight to the front door.

  As he passed he said casually, “Duccio, Lady Goldman took a fall in the bath. Please have her attended to immediately.”

  “Yes sir, right away, sir.”

  Serge Malroff walked out the front door and straight into his waiting limousine.

  “Milan, Friedrich.”

  “Sehr gut, mein Herr.”

  “I’m not going to the office. Take me to the Principe di Savoia.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Serge raised the partition and leaned back in his seat. He took a split of champagne from the small refrigerator and drank from the bottle. He believed Penelope’s left shoulder to be dislocated and she might have a mild concussion. The inconvenience of dealing with her injuries discreetly concerned him more than her wellbeing. The phone buzzed and he forgot about her.

  “Yes.”

  “Ivan is at the Hotel Imperator and Ilya is aboard the Khamsin. The yacht is supposed to be cruising to Monaco, but the captain has not reserved dock space as of twenty minutes ago.”

  “Good. Stand by for instructions, but don’t loose either one of them. Don’t loose them, do you understand?”

  “Understood.”

  Serge hung up the phone and smiled for the first time in days. He might survive this yet, but he had to think his next steps through carefully. The clock was ticking more rapidly than Serge imagined.

  23.