I Was Waiting for You

by Maxim Jakubowski

“And is your name really Marti?”

  “Why do you doubt it?”

  “Because you carry no papers, passport or anything that might provide a clue in your handbag. Somewhat unusual, no?”

  “My mother always warned me about the danger of pickpockets in Europe.”

  “Is that why you don’t even have a single credit card in your purse. So uncommon for an American.”

  “I happen to be something of an uncommon gal.”

  “So I’d noticed earlier. I’ve never come across a handbag so Spartan and anonymous in a woman. You certainly travel light: a handful of bank notes, a tube of lip salve, a few commonplace pills, a map of the city, Métro tickets, a vial of perfume, a spare set of underwear and paper clips. Or have I forgotten anything?”

  “I like to travel light. Most ungentlemanly to go through a lady’s bag, Enrico.”

  “At least it’s French perfume.”

  “Duty-free has its advantages.”

  Santaclara gave her an amused but probing look.

  “You will stay in the house tonight, Marti.”

  “Is that an order?” she asked.

  “Shall we say I’d prefer it if you did.”

  All she had was the bathrobe now wrapped around her nudity. She had no clue where he might have stored the clothes she had arrived in. She had little alternative.

  “As you wish.”

  “Just a precaution, you see. These have been strange days. Our friend’s demise and then a few days ago one of the security men from the club was found dead in somewhat ugly circumstances, so you must understand my caution. He had been on duty the night of the hit. We’re still wondering if there is a connection.”

  Cornelia didn’t bat an eyelid under his intense gaze.

  He emptied his glass.

  She declined a refill.

  “Actually, I am famished following our earlier exertions. Have you any food? Nothing elaborate, some snack maybe? I’d rather not have to go to sleep on an empty stomach. Or play further.”

  “Of course, my dear. Let’s repair to the kitchen. Right now. Can’t have you hungry, can we?”

  Cornelia was beginning to piece together the lay of the land and getting her orientation around the sprawling house. This had now become more than a recce as she actively concentrated to raise herself to combat mode. Santaclara was no fool and wasn’t going to dismiss her presence as lightly as she had initially hoped. There was no easy retreat. Normally, she would have accepted the prospect of a further rough fuck or two with a light heart and mind, but she now knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with such a basic outcome before setting her loose. Why would he have revealed so much under her less than probing questioning if that was the case?

  Now, she was no longer certain whether he had even told her the whole story. Maybe he and his remaining partners in the club were also actively involved in the trading of women and the elimination of the man she had been assigned to kill was just a way to increase their share of the proceeds.

  Did he maybe consider her to be a potential piece of no doubt valuable merchandise?

  She idly wondered what sort of price she might fetch. After all, she had displayed an abnormal willingness to be stretched to her limits and had offered no resistance and she knew that white meat, blonde at that, could fetch a high price, even more so as she wasn’t Eastern European and therefore even more exotic and rare. The Middle East, Africa, South America. The possibilities were endless.

  Not that she had any intention to allow herself to be funnelled further down the flesh pipeline. Her complicity had always been a means to an end, and she felt no inner need to submit or serve.

  They had shared bread, cold cuts and a chilled bottle of white wine at the wooden kitchen table.

  “You will have your own room, of course,” he had informed her. “I’m sure you will find it comfortable. I think I have tired you enough for today. We will have more time on our hands tomorrow. I certainly wish to explore further with you, Marti. You have the beauty, and the right body for our games but you also clearly have a brain, a most favourable combination. You will have to tell me more about your past experiences. Explain a bit what makes you tick.”

  “Tomorrow,” she willingly agreed. Her buttocks were still on fire. He had carefully marked her there stopping just before drawing blood in earnest.

  “Good. Oh, and my German shareholder will be joining us. I rang him earlier while you were showering. Told him about you. He is intrigued. I hope you don’t mind. He is driving down. Should be with us shortly before lunch I expect.”

  “Do I have an alternative?”

  “No.”

  “Am I to be the main course?” she asked.

  “How witty,” Santaclara said. “Now, let me show you around the house. I’m very proud of it.” Cornelia welcomed the guided tour. It would serve her well.

  There was an indoor pool in the east wing of the villa, its surrounds festooned by a profusion of orchids spanning most of the colours of the rainbow, earthenware pots circling the perimeter walls of the pool. “You should swim,” Enrico suggested.

  “I’ve just eaten,” Cornelia protested feebly.

  “It was so light. Anyway, it’s an old wives’ tale that one shouldn’t swim after a meal. Didn’t you know that?”

  “They forgot to teach me that at university.”

  He beamed.

  “Educated. Even better.”

  “Do you have a lady’s swimming suit you could spare, then?”

  “No need, Marti. Throw that bathrobe of yours off and let me see that sleek, charming body of yours. Your pallor will blend so perfectly with the blue of the water. I reckon it’s too late now to be coy, no?”

  Whatever kept him happy. Cornelia discarded the robe, dipped a couple of toes in to check the temperature. She’d always disliked bathing in the sea, it was always too cold for her, even in warmer climes. And she’d never been a very good swimmer, which had been a great disappointment to her parents. She lowered herself in and swam a couple of lengths while he watched her with a satisfied grin spreading across his features. He was holding a large towel out for her as she later emerged dripping from the water. He massaged the thick material against her skin to dry her.

  “Wonderful. Now let’s escort you to your bedroom. You need a good night’s sleep.” He hadn’t returned the bathrobe and she understood he wanted her to walk the rest of the way stark naked. As she stepped up the stairs, she felt his eyes as he followed below her looking straight into her most intimate parts.

  The upper floor was a labyrinth of corridors and bedrooms furnished with care and taste. The room she had been assigned was right at the end.

  “Get your energy back,” he said, gently guiding her past the door with a firm hand on her bare and still damp shoulder. “You’ll need it.”

  The door was locked behind her. The room had no windows.

  Cornelia slumped on the bed and pulled the covers and sheets towards her.

  Sleep came easily.

  She heard the key turn in the lock. Wiped the night away from her eyes and glanced at her watch. Past ten in the morning already. She had been so tired that all dreams had been kept at bay.

  “Join me in the kitchen, whenever you feel ready to face the day,” she heard Santaclara say, as he retraced his steps down the corridor and the stairs leading down to the ground floor.

  When Cornelia opened the door, she found another bathrobe, still smelling cleanly of detergent and fragrant conditioner on the floor outside. At least she wasn’t expected to parade nude again. She slipped it on and tightened the belt around her slim waist.

  “Good morning,” Enrico called out as she emerged into the brightly lit kitchen. He was sitting at the table sipping from a large bowl of coffee.

  “Hi,” Cornelia tentatively said.

  “Bread, coffee, jam?” he offered, pointing at the spread scattered across the breakfast table.

  Cornelia smiled at him, with as much innocence as she could summon. />
  “Actually, would you mind awfully if I took another dip in the pool. It would be a nice way to start the day, invigorate myself for later rigours. May I?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “What a splendid idea. In fact, as I watched you swim and then later walk yesterday evening, Marti, it made me think of a dancer. Yes, that’s what you reminded me of. Do you like dancing?”

  “When I am given the opportunity, yes,” she said.

  Was he playing with her, or was it just a coincidence? Cornelia was unsure.

  “I won’t be that long. Just a few lengths and some exercise. Stretching and all that. You could even join me, why not?”

  He looked at her, weighing up his options.

  “An excellent idea,” he finally responded. “Let me finish here. I’ll be with you very soon. Go along,”

  Cornelia made her way to the wing of the vast villa where the indoor pool was situated, rapidly scouting her surroundings as she made her way forward for anything that could suit her purpose. The final room to her right before the four-step descent into the pool area was a large, cavernous and lushly-appointed lounge with a massive home cinema screen covering its back wall and a row of deep, leather seats. To keep the light out, the windows were shielded by heavy mauve brocade drapes. Right now they were open and offered a partial view of the leafy walled garden. Cornelia swiftly advanced into the room and threaded out one of the knotted curtain cords holding the drapes in place. On her way out, she closed the door to the room. And briskly continued her short journey to the pool. It had only taken her a few seconds.

  Shedding the robe, Cornelia slipped into the water, still holding the thick cord bunched up in her hand. Standing, submerged up to her chest, she looked around her and spotted the small circular outlets through which the pool’s pumping system recirculated the water. She stuffed the cord inside the furthest cavity, waded back to the other side of the pool and waited for Santaclara’s arrival.

  She didn’t have long to wait.

  She peered up at him, her wet hair momentarily unfurling its blonde curls all the way down her back.

  “It’s so long,” he said. “You’re like a true siren.”

  She had carefully avoided getting her hair wet the previous evening.

  “You’re wearing trunks,” she protested. “It’s not fair. Makes things quite unequal. I get the distinct feeling you like to hold the upper hand, Enrico.”

  Enrico laughed.

  Hetook an elegant dive into the pool, splashing her wildly as he cut through the water. He quickly resurfaced, straightened out and whizzed past her, swimming with grace as he completed his first length. Cornelia just stood in place, her hands and feet fluttering idly, content to feel the lukewarm soup of the water wash over her body. Santaclara appeared determined to put in some genuine exercise. Which suited Cornelia just fine. With her back to the pool’s rim she inched back and pulled the cord out of its cranny and waited for him to make another vigorous turn and pass her.

  Her outstretched arm holding the soaking thick curtain cord in a loop, she caught him in full flow as the improvised weapon circled his neck. It wasn’t enough to hurt him badly, but it took Santaclara by surprise and the impact and sharp pressure of the material against his Adam’s apple forced him to open his mouth wide and swallow too much water. His body jack-knifed as he floundered badly. Cornelia pounced and pulled on the cord with both her hands and all her strength while digging her right foot into his back to increase her leverage while the agitated man began to struggle like a drowning puppet, half choking, half gasping for air.

  Cornelia knew he was in good physical shape and would eventually regain some instinctive form of composure and would likely be strong enough to resist being garrotted in this manner. Still pulling hard on the cord, she released her right hand and keeping her foot buried in the small of his back, she moved the freed hand to his wet scalp and viciously forced the man’s whole head under the water. She couldn’t strangle him, but drowning would suffice. Like a fish both caught in a whirlpool and speared by a hook, indistinctly becoming aware that the dual attack was getting the better of him, Santaclara began to convulse. Cornelia increased the downwards force on his head, resisting his attempts to surface for air. He squirmed unexpectedly and she briefly lost control of the upper part of his wriggling body but she sharply adjusted her stance and fiercely dug her knee into his back, without losing any of the advantage the position gave her.

  The whole scene took place in complete silence, bar the splashing and the ripples coursing outwards through the water where Santaclara’s head was submerged.

  Cornelia drew her breath, hoping her lesser bodily strength would hold out against the man’s diminishing energy before the balance between them might turn against her.

  Gradually his frantic movements slowed, the remaining air inside his lungs thinning, undermining his strength to fight her and Cornelia knew she was winning the struggle to maintain him under the pool’s surface.

  Time ground to a halt.

  There was a final jolt and Santaclara’s body went limp under her hand and against the vicious downwards pressure applied by her knee. This was it. Cornelia waited an extra couple of minutes to ensure this was no unlikely ruse and eventually let go. The man’s body, face downwards in the water, just floated there. He was dead.

  Throughout the struggle, Cornelia had managed to stay totally calm, emotionless. A detachment born of experience although this was the first time she had actually killed someone with her bare hands. It was only now that she pulled herself out of the pool that the adrenaline began to flow throughout her body. She sat down in one the plastic deck chairs scattered around the swimming pool’s perimeter and the wall of orchids. The sensation was intoxicating. It was better than sex.

  The German associate arrived two hours later. He was a short, swarthy balding man with an annoying imperious manner.

  Cornelia had lingered in an energy-restoring bath, washing all the chlorine off her skin and shampooing her hair until she felt normal again. She had located where Santaclara had stuffed her clothes and dressed and spent an hour or so exploring the villa at leisure. Her plan formed.

  “So you’re the American woman?” the German said, looking her up and down with a superior manner after she had opened the front door for him. She had buzzed his car through the electronic gates of the property. A metal grey BMW 318i Estate, she noted.

  “Well, I don’t see any other gals around,” she smirked, letting him in. He wore a grey pinstriped suit and black shoes polished to within an inch of mirror shade perfection.

  “Where’s Santaclara?” he asked.

  “Went out to the shops,” Cornelia replied. “Normal stuff, bread, milk, we’d run out, he said.”

  The German looked surprised. There was an innate meanness about him. Like an aura of menace. This was a man who knew how to inflict pain and revel in its effects. Cornelia experienced a sense of relief that she would not now be used further by him and Santaclara. This bastard would have certainly displayed a cruel imagination.

  “Enrico said I should entertain you, of course.”

  “Good.”

  “You’ve been driving a long time, I understand. We can go to the kitchen. Drink something,” she suggested.

  “Perfect,” he curtly said. He dropped his brown leather attaché case to the floor and followed her.

  “Water, juice or something stronger?” Cornelia offered.

  She was keeping her fingers crossed he wouldn’t go for beer. There were only cans, which she had been unable to spike. She had earlier found a large cache of sleeping pills in one of the bathroom cabinets, enough to despatch a whole battalion into the arms of Morpheus. She’d wondered whether they had been for Santaclara’s sole use or were kept in such abundant reserve for possible female visitors. If that was the case, there was some poetic irony in the situation. She had emptied every single tube and bottle and carefully ground the white pills down to a fine powder which she had evenly distribute
d across a strategic number of bottles and carefully ensured they had fully dissolved throughout the respective liquids.

  The German guy looked around the kitchen shelves, still eyeing Cornelia with some suspicion.

  “Will he be long?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Cornelia sat down at the table, not wanting to rush him in any way. She had hoped to locate a suitable gun somewhere in the house, but even after breaking into a handful of closed drawers, she had been unable to get her hands on one. Forensics however would have been a bastard and she was hoping to depart the scene later, with no obvious evidence of her passage hanging around. A bullet lodged deep inside a skull would warrant too thorough an investigation. Drowned men didn’t.

  “Well, we are in France, after all. Is there some white wine in the fridge?”

  There was.

  He was out cold within a half hour. Much too long as far as Cornelia was concerned. Throughout, as they sat together uncomfortably in the kitchen, taking sips of wine and waiting, she could virtually read the German’s mind as he mentally planned her use and degradation later, and a manipulative smile spread across his thin lips at the thought of the abuse and how he would enjoy it.

  While she had been waiting for Santaclara’s German acolyte, Cornelia had been thorough in her explorations and established the fact that the villa’s garage housed all the right ingredients for her purpose.

  She had never torched a house before, but had watched enough TV crime series or read enough books to understand the basics. She also felt confident that French fire investigators did not have the same technical resources at their disposal as their American counterparts, fictional or otherwise. And, even if she slipped up, it was most unlikely that the source of the fire could be tracked down back to her. There would be no prints. Not that hers were on anyone’s records. Just a dead body drowned in the pool, and another burned to a crisp in the kitchen area whose stomach contents would by then have turned to ashes.

  Once the flames had caught hold and began spreading rapidly, licks of fire streaming across drapes, swimming like a horde of lemmings over ceilings, consuming furniture and wall hangings in their hungry stride, Cornelia retreated to the front door and slammed it behind her. She had picked the German’s pockets earlier and retrieved his car keys and drove to the centre of town, where she abandoned the vehicle in an underground car par under St Germain des Prés.