Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  “No need—there’s no need,” she said. “He’s been murdered.”

  Pierre ceased ruffling through his suits. “What?”

  “Murdered, tonight. In his apartment. He was found gutted ... his stomach was sliced open.” She blenched. “Like a trout.”

  He stared. “Are you serious?”

  “It was on the news.”

  Pierre sighed; his shoulders slumped a little.

  “Then he’s cheated my vengeance. I wanted to see him disgraced and destroyed.”

  “Not literally . . . ?”

  “Of course not literally, you silly goose.” He came over and ran a hand through her hair; Judy breathed in the scent of his skin, silky with bath oils. “I’m not a killer.”

  She caught herself. “I know that,” she said, breathlessly.

  Pierre kissed her, lightly, possessively, on the lips.

  “Let’s go to bed. I hunger for more than just food. And afterwards, I will tell you the rest of the story, what happened in Siberia. And you will understand why I hated Gregoire.”

  “Yes,” Judy said. Desire, long dormant, almost dead, shuddered through her body. The tension and stress of the last year withered and died; Pierre was alive, with her, touching her ... hers, not Sophie’s . . . hers . . . “Oh, yes, yes, my darling. . . .”

  Pierre took her hand and led her towards the bed. Women, he thought with contempt—such fools, so easily led—they believe what they want to believe.

  When she was younger, and his preferred recreation, he remembered Judy Dean as spirited and adoring, intelligent and self-reliant. That had all gone; he saw greed, fear, the start of obsession. She had declined.

  But she was useful, and she would do. For now.

  For one thing, he was going to need an alibi.

  “Champagne?” Pierre asked.

  Judy nodded, and he solicitously poured the pale golden liquid into her crystal flute, where it frothed lightly. Yes, he approved; while her personality had shifted, unfortunately, the American retained some of her value. She had clawed and scratched at him, excessively, interestingly passionate, and she was providing him with useful cover.

  The meal, too, was excellent. He remembered Judy as being a good shopper: she had discriminating taste in food and other luxuries. While he bided his time in rue des Cloches, Pierre was pleased to be doing it in style.

  “A good vintage,” he noted. It was Perrier Jouët ’74, and there was a Mouton-Rothschild claret to go with the main dish. An appetizer of goat cheese and caramelized onion tart with a radic chio and rocket salad, deliciously bitter with the sweetness of the onion; a substantial, rich steak tartare with creamed spinach; and a dark chocolate flourless cake with ginger ice cream. Ah, God—not that he believed in God—the food, the food in France!

  He had longed for this, his birthright; imagined it, and it was here. Lazard had died, and horribly. Pierre had no doubts—the bright star of his destiny remained in the ascendant.

  Soon House Massot would be his again; he would settle in the château; wife and child would be under his control. . . .

  “You were going to tell me, darling,” Judy prompted. “If you feel up to it, of course . . .”

  “Yes.” Pierre assumed his most engaging stare, and was rewarded by a loving smile. He took a sip of champagne to cover his disdain.

  “You deserve to know. I believe I told you of Lazard’s promise to be loyal . . . to take care of my business.”

  She nodded.

  “I went to Russia that day. I left everything behind. Everything. My family. The houses, my wealth. Everything. You ...” He ran a finger down her cheek and despite herself, Judy shivered with fear. Pierre looked at her, and continued. “Briefly. I will omit . . .” He would give her the bowdlerized version. “I had documents . . . maps of an area in Siberia, where Gregoire said kimberlite was found. You remember, I had been to Russia in my adolescence, and speak the language fluently?”

  Judy nodded, her lips parted. She was swallowing that story the same way Lazard had done.

  “I made my way to the area. It was very cold, even in summer; they mostly drill for natural gas that far north. There are mining towns.” He paused. “Bars. I made my way back to a bar I had known once before . . . long ago. It was still standing. The owner is an old man called Pyotr.” He smiled thinly. “He did not recognize me.”

  “And the contacts?”

  Pierre sliced off a portion of the goat cheese tart; it was superb. He enjoyed it, and continued.

  “I called them to meet me at the bar. They took me out to the site in a jeep. . . . They had guns.” He shrugged. “This is normal, you understand, in the new Russia. Since the fall of Communism, there is lawlessness everywhere.”

  “And was there kimberlite?”

  “Oh, yes.” Pierre smiled coldly. “I could see lumps of rough in the ground, glinting under the snow. I got out of the truck and bent down to pick one up. And the chief of the men slammed the butt of his gun into my neck.”

  Judy’s hand went to cover her mouth.

  “They blindfolded me and drove me north—although I did not know that at the time. Then they flung me into a cell in an abandoned jail. They beat me and whipped me.”

  “But why?”

  He toyed with his steak—even telling it so simply, it was hard to contain his rage. Pierre ate a mouthful of the rich meat, forcing himself to chew slowly. He must not again lose control.

  “Gregoire paid them,” he said.

  “But you had more money. So much more money . . .”

  “They were not interested. The head of the bandits was a cousin of Lazard’s. He had been paid to kill me, not capture me.”

  “Gregoire—but—a cousin in Siberia?”

  “His real name was Grigory Alexandrovich. He was from Russia, not France. And he had maintained his contacts from that netherworld.” Pierre shrugged. “I was guilty of miscalculation. Since he was such a poor executive . . . I assumed he had no skill at anything. He lied to me.”

  Judy digested this. “But you were away for seven years. Almost eight.”

  “And during that time, I never saw the sun, once.”

  She was horrified. “You did not go mad?”

  He lifted his head. “I am not weak. I survive. Lesser men cannot kill me.”

  “Why didn’t they just shoot you?”

  Pierre hesitated—the question took him back to that dark place, where he did not want to go: to the nightly beatings, the sessions with the knife, the rats . . .

  “They kept me for their amusement,” he replied, slowly.

  “How did you get away?”

  “I focussed on one guard. He was the poorest of them all—late, otherwise sloppy on his shifts.” Pierre’s lip curled. “I promised him riches, and in the end he believed me. He snuck me food until I was improved in health, enough to travel, and he set aside clothes and boots for me. Eventually, one night, he brought me a gun. His name was Mikhail.” His eyes drifted away. “We shot the bandits after their evening meal, when they were drunk around the fire.”

  Pierre did not elaborate. He recalled the moment with perfect clarity; the satisfaction of aiming multiple rounds into the stomach of each man, so that they would take hours to die—horrible, brutal hours, helpless and terrified.

  “And when we were done, I shot Mikhail.”

  “But why?” Judy whispered. She had not touched her meal.

  “Why do you think?” An indifferent shrug. “Because for seven years, I had not seen the sun. Do you know what kept me going during that time?”

  She shook her head.

  “Julius Caesar,” Pierre said. “He was captured by pirates, who took him to their lair and held him for ransom. He told them he would return and crucify them all. The ransom was paid, and they released him. A year later, he returned, hunted them down, and nailed them to their crosses.” His eyes glittered. “I had no crosses. But,” he said softly, “I made do.”

  Judy shuddered. “How did you escape
? You were stranded in Siberia. . . .”

  “I drove south, then west. They had some provisions, a little money. I took it all. It was a dangerous journey.” He smiled. “But I made it. Once I reached the West, I hitchhiked.”

  “But a single phone call—a private jet would have been sent . . .”

  “Don’t you see?” The smile was more sincere this time. “I didn’t want anybody to know I was alive. Not until my plans were set. When I returned, I would no longer be the victim. I would be in control.”

  He poured a good glass of claret; the bright flames hissing and crackling in the grate lit it up, a rich, glossy ruby. Pierre offered Judy a toast.

  “And now, my dear, we have dealt with the past,” he said. “Now, we move on to the future.”

  Judy chinked her glass to his and allowed herself to feel some relief.

  “To the future,” she said.

  Chapter 52

  The plane banked and steered above Paris; the wing dipped, and from her first-class seat Sophie could make out the Louvre, its glass pyramid glinting in the thin winter sun. She smiled; Paris was beautiful.

  Of course, her current state of happiness made everything appear beautiful. Perhaps that was it.

  Hugh, next to her, squeezed her arm.

  “This is wonderful,” he said. “I hope Tom’s got his facts right.”

  “I believe he has,” Sophie replied, proudly.

  “Then I can’t begrudge him being the one to do it. Of course, I wanted Stockton for myself. But he has wronged your family more than he’s wronged me.”

  “Tom is a man.” She could not keep the satisfaction out of her voice. “He’s changed; he’s not a boy anymore. It’s right that he should be the one to take back what was robbed from him. You could have helped, but he wanted to stand on his own two feet.”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it.” Hugh was appreciative. “In its way, it’s rather brilliant; blind him with his own greed. Instead of thinking up some complex solution, Tom has cut the Gordian knot.”

  Sophie kissed her husband lingeringly on the lips; her body still echoed from their passion of earlier that morning. It was interesting, what great sex could do; it relaxed her, unwound her tensions and anxieties; her body was as supple as if she’d spent hours on a masseuse’s table.

  “The important thing for me is that he wants us to be there. When he has finished—succeeded—he wants us there to share that moment of triumph.”

  “And then will you go back to House Massot?”

  Sophie was surprised. “Of course not. I’m a Montfort now. And don’t forget, darling, that the company’s half mine.”

  He chuckled. “That would be hard, since you remind me eight times a day.”

  Sophie blushed. “What I mean is that I’m not just your wife ...”

  Hugh stroked her hand. “Darling, I knew you were competent when I married you; today, I find you inspired. You have nothing to prove to me. I’m not Pierre.”

  “Thank God,” Sophie said, and laughed, for the sheer delight of it.

  “Mr. Stockton.”

  The butler—is that what he was? Pete guessed so, fancy suit and all—bowed slightly, with the bare minimum of politeness.

  “Would you be so good as to go into the Oak Library? Mr. Massot and his party are ready for you now.”

  The English was fluent, with just the barest trace of an accent. When he had his safety millions, he’d hire a flunky like this.

  “Sure,” Pete said. He mustered up some bravado. Okay, this château was a freaking palace, but what the fuck, he preferred the glass and chrome in his place in Bel Air. “Why don’t you just say the library?”

  “Because the château has three libraries, sir. The Oak Library, on the ground floor, is the smallest. If you’ll just follow me . . .”

  Pete tried to think of a comeback, but it failed him. Well, fuck this guy, anyway. He was just a servant. And fuck France, and Montfort, and Massot, and all of them. He would take his three million shares and go the fuck home. And if he never saw this frog-eating pile of a nation, it’d be too fucking soon.

  The servant opened the heavy door to the library. It was lined in green baize, and Stockton soon got a feel for the wealth of this kid: the room was at least a thousand square feet, lined floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves crammed with antique volumes, all leather spines and gold lettering. There was a flagstone floor with Persian rugs, a huge fire blazing in the grate, even though it was eleven o’clock in the morning, and furniture that looked like it came from some fucking museum.

  A long oak table had been set up in the center of the room. There were four mahogany chairs on one side, and a single chair on the other. Massot and three men were standing on their side of the table. He recognized one lawyer—that old bastard Louis Foche. The other two, no. Lawyers, obviously. Stockton marched up to Massot, and shook his hand.

  “Good morning, Mr. Stockton,” said Tom Massot, formally. Obviously there would be no reference made to Massot kicking him in the balls, Stockton thought resentfully. He deserved a fucking apology. Little prick. But what the hell, let him be uptight. Maybe it was better that way. Lawyers and everything.

  “May I introduce you to Leonard Elgin and Crispin Hartford of London; Mr. Peter Stockton, chief executive of Mayberry.”

  They nodded at each other. La-di-fucking-da, thought Pete.

  “I take it you have received the bid of Bagatelle Incorporated for the House Massot division of Mayberry?”

  “I have.” Stockton sat down, and the others followed him.

  “And you are prepared to sell us the shares. Do you have the documents with you?”

  Stockton nodded. He passed over a manila folder to Massot, but the Frog lawyer leaned forward and took it; he read it intently for some minutes.

  “Hey.” Pete cleared his throat. He wasn’t here just to sit waiting on these Frenchies. “You give me my document about the shares in Bagatelle. Three million shares in Bagatelle,” he repeated, insistently. “I may not have a law degree, but I can read a fucking financial document.”

  “Of course.” Tom Massot inclined his head. “Take all the time you want.”

  He handed over the contract; it was already signed, witnessed, and dated. Pete read it carefully. Bagatelle Inc., S.A. For “consul tancy work” and “ongoing advice” and “guidance.” He was made a nonexecutive director of the company. Nice touch, Stockton thought, giving them a reason to pay him. All the time board members got gravy gigs like this for doing fuck all.

  It was airtight. He’d signed enough shady deals to see that. Three million shares, no restrictions on the sale. Enough to pay off his mortgage . . . enough to cushion his retirement when the Mayberry stock really tanked.

  Fuck it. He scrawled his signature on the documents. Mayberry’s crash and burn would be the board’s problem now.

  Louis Foche silently passed the documents to the limey lawyers. They studied them for an age. Pete just sat there. Two could play that game. He wasn’t about to ask them a fucking thing.

  “Everything is in order,” the limey, Elgin, said gravely. “The in-house counsel has appended a memorandum. It is within the power of the chief executive to order the sale of any division worth under eighty million dollars. The approval of the board is suggested, but not strictly necessary in this case.”

  “I concur,” said Foche. The other limey nodded.

  Fools! Like he’d take a chance the board could reverse this. He was about to get paid in shares of Bagatelle. It was in his interest to make sure the deal was airtight.

  “Very well.” Tom Massot took a heavy gold Montblanc pen lying beside him on the burgundy leather of the desk, and signed his name on the contract. He passed it wordlessly to Foche, who witnessed it.

  “Mr. Hartford . . .”

  Tom passed the signed contract to the third lawyer, who folded it crisply and placed it into his jacket pocket. He then said, “Excuse me,” stood up, and left the room.

  “Wh
ere’s he going?” Stockton asked.

  “To ensure the transfer of ownership of the shares is registered with the financial authorities. There’s an office in the south wing that has a high-speed Internet connection and other modern communications.”

  “Well, aren’t we perfect,” Stockton sneered. He had his own three million safe and sound in his pocket. He didn’t need to suck up to Massot any more.

  Tom turned to the remaining two suits. “Would you give us a moment, gentlemen, please? And kindly issue the press release we have prepared.”

  They nodded. The Frog lawyer said good day to him as they left the room. Stockton ignored the old fool. He didn’t have time for the hired help.

  Massot stood up, and Stockton followed him.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  He gestured to the decanter of whisky sitting on an oak side table, with a single cut-glass tumbler next to it.

  “I guess it’s a bit early for me, son. We’re not all drunks like you,” Stockton said rudely.

  “Don’t call me son.” Massot shrugged. “I thought you might need it.”

  “And why’s that?”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” said Tom Massot. And he smiled.

  Pete Stockton stared. In walked Hugh Montfort and Sophie Massot. Or Montfort. What-the-fuck-ever. Cool as a freaking cucumber, Montfort in one of his classy dark suits and the Sophie woman in a butterscotch silk skirt, hose, matching shoes, and a cream shirt, dripping with pearls and gold bracelets.

  “Maman, Hugh; Pete here was just asking me why he’d need a drink at eleven o’clock in the morning.”

  Sophie spoke up. He remembered that voice, soft and gentle, English with a Frenchified accent; he’d always laughed at her naivety, but today when she spoke there was a thread of steel to it.

  “That would be because Tom has ruined you, Mr. Stockton. The way you sought to ruin us, the way you plundered the savings of millions of House Massot shareholders.”

  Pete laughed. “Don’t let’s get crazy, lady. He got his daddy’s company back, but he paid plenty to do it. You want to call yourselves the victors? All you did is pay my ransom money.” He stared at Tom contemptuously. “And that’ll hurt a lot worse than a kick in the balls—son.”