Predator

by Wilbur Smith

  He let her pull him out into the crowd and responded as she guided him with her hand, towing him around the corners and showing him how to get into a nice, even rhythm on the straights. They completed a lap, and then another. Cross didn’t tell her that he’d been doing fine on his skates for a while now, gaining confidence every time he negotiated a turn or managed to slow down of his own accord, but the feel of her hand in his was so magical he just didn’t want to let go. Then, on the third lap she pulled away a little, only keeping her fingertips very lightly touching his. The occasional brushing of her skin against his was even more thrilling and when she took her hand away at the end of the circuit and said, “You’re on your own now! Follow me!” he felt like an addict whose drug had been taken away. But then he discovered that there was something new to excite him: the sight of her perfect bottom, caressed by skintight denim, swishing to and fro in front of him.

  Cross set off after it like a donkey after a dangling carrot, seriously aroused now, wishing he could grab that fabulous body, press his mouth against her perfect lips and breathe in the scent of that tumbling chestnut hair. But how could he make a pass at Zhenia with Nastiya and O’Quinn, both of them his employees, watching him? Nastiya would kill him . . . or would she? She’d invited him to lunch, after all, telling him that he should meet Zhenia. She’d even told him to go and ask the girl an obviously leading question. Was Nastiya setting the two of them up? Or was it that she simply couldn’t imagine he would ever actually stoop to seducing her baby sister?

  In the end, when the session had ended and they’d all taken off their skates, it was Zhenia who spoke out. “Take me for a walk, Hector. Show London to me.”

  “Isn’t Nastiya expecting you to come home with her?”

  “Nastiya is not my mother. And anyway”—she flashed a wicked little smile—“she won’t mind. She says you are too sad and too alone. You need some happiness in your life. We are Russians, you see. We have a more joyous view of life.”

  “I’m not actually dying of sorrow,” he protested.

  “No,” she said. “Not now, you aren’t.”

  They walked down the Strand and into Trafalgar Square. A choir was standing beneath the Christmas tree given to London annually by the people of Norway, and singing carols.

  “This is so beautiful,” she said, looking around at Nelson’s column, the National Gallery and the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields.

  “So are you,” Cross said, and she turned her head to regard him quizzically, placing it in exactly the right attitude for kissing. Hector hesitated for the smallest part of a second and then took advantage of it.

  “You two should get a room somewhere!” a stranger called out to them good-humoredly, prompting laughter from a few other passers-by. It was hardly the most poetic of compliments, but it made Zhenia giggle and cling to him, which in turn boosted Cross’s good humor; both of them revelling in the joy of the magic moment when they realized that they wanted the same thing.

  They strolled up to Piccadilly Circus holding hands, and suddenly she asked, “Do you live very far from here, Hector?”

  “Only about fifteen minutes away,” he answered.

  “Is your bed comfortable?”

  “My bed is the most comfortable in the whole of England.”

  “OK! Then I bet you that I can make it to your house before you.” She challenged him with eyes that shone.

  “How much?” he demanded. “How much will you bet?”

  “A million.”

  “A million of what?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “That will do for a start,” he agreed and they started to run.

  Shelby Weiss was in his den, watching the University of Texas Longhorns take on the Oklahoma Sooners in front of 100,000 fans at the Memorial Stadium in Austin, cracking open his second can of Coors and generally feeling good about life. Then the phone beside him rang and suddenly his Saturday afternoon took a serious turn for the worse.

  “Yo, Shelby, how you doing, man?”

  The color drained from Weiss’s face. Only half-a-dozen words, spoken by a man who hadn’t even given his name, but they’d been enough to chill his blood as cold as his beer and scare him absolutely witless.

  “What . . . what the hell . . .” he babbled, trying to collect his scrambled thoughts. “For Chrissakes, man, you can’t just call me up on my cellphone! What, you’ve never heard of the NSA? Those guys listen to everything—everything! And you’re a wanted felon. Oh yeah, you made the Feds’ Ten Most Wanted list. You’re a frickin’ rock star of crime. And you’re calling me?”

  “Whoa, easy, tiger.” Weiss heard a deep, throaty chuckle that was as scary as a naked blade. “You musta got me confused with some other dude. See, my name is Juan Tumbo, says so right there on my passport. And I’m a law-abiding citizen with no criminal record, no reason for you not to take my call, ’specially when I happen to know you’re sitting on a coupla million bucks a buddy of mine advanced you, just in case he should need some legal representation.”

  “Hey, Johnny . . .”

  “Juan. The name is Juan Tumbo. I told you, I got nothing to do with no Johnny. Now, you listen to me, Mr. Weiss. I’ve been entering into certain business transactions with a guy in New York, Aram Bendick. He’s a big-time investor; you may have hear of him.”

  “The name is familiar to me, yes,” Weiss agreed, wondering where the hell this was all heading.

  “OK, so Mr. Bendick and myself have entered into a series of financial arrangements. Matter of fact, I’ve given the man a hundred million bucks.”

  “Did I hear you right?” Weiss gasped. “One hundred million dollars?”

  “Yeah, lotta coin, right? Now, I can imagine that some fools might think: This dumb nigger put a hundred mill in my pocket, I’m’a takin’ it all for myself. I don’t believe Bendick is that crazy. I think he knows that I might make my objections known, if you understand what I mean.”

  “Yes, Jo— Mr. Tumbo, I believe I do.”

  “But it doesn’t hurt to take precautions, am I right?”

  “Totally.”

  “So, that being the case, I’d like you to pay a visit to Mr. Bendick, talk to him about the situation and draw up contracts, specifying exactly what he’s going to do with my investment, and how he’s going to make sure that I get the best possible return. And I mean the best possible. Not an OK deal. Not a good deal. The best.”

  “When I make a deal for my clients, it is always the best it can possibly be.”

  “Good. So you fly up to the Apple tomorrow, go see Bendick bright and early Monday. He’ll lay out what it is we have in mind. My guess is, you’ll want a piece of the action. So if you want to buy in, be my guest.”

  One thing Shelby Weiss prided himself on was that he could always smell money and now he was getting a real good sniff of it. “Tell you what,” he said. “How about I forgo my fee and just take a percentage of any profits?”

  Silence fell. Five seconds went by . . . then. “Hello?” Weiss called. “Hello? Mr. Tumbo? You still there?”

  Finally he received an answer. “Yeah, I’m here. I just been breathing deeply, counting to ten, trying to calm myself down. See, I thought I already mentioned the two million bucks you got in your account.”

  “But they weren’t paid by you, were they, Mr. Tumbo?”

  “Listen to me, Mr. Weiss. Listen carefully now, ’cause this is important. I’m gonna give you a chance now to save your own life. All you have to do is go to New York and cut a deal for me, the best deal you can possibly get, just like you said. You want to try to make your own deal with Aram Bendick, on the side, be my guest, it’ll make you rich. Now you do that, everyone’s happy. You don’t do that, well, cast your mind back to the events of, what was the date now? Yeah, November fifteenth. Think about the people that died that day. Consider, if you will, the power and planning and resources it took to carry out an operation like that. Now consider what would happen if that same power and
planning and resources was all directed to the task of ripping your head off and stuffing it up your ass, and crucifying your wife, and sticking your children on skewers and—”

  “Stop! For God’s sake, stop. I’ll do it. I’ll do anything you want. Just leave my family out of this.”

  “No problem, Mr. Weiss. I was just pulling your leg anyway, exaggerating a little so’s you got my general point, you follow me?”

  Weiss threw his empty can of Coors into the bin, jumped up from his desk and strode across the room to his private minibar. Screw beer, he needed something stronger. “Yes,” he said, unscrewing the cap on a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “I understand. I’ll go to New York. I’ll cut you the best frickin’ deal anyone ever got out of Aram Bendick.”

  “Now, that’s the Shelby Weiss I’m used to hearing! You go to New York, take care of business, catch a show. Believe me, brother, you’ll be glad I called.”

  Holding Zhenia’s naked body in his arms Hector smiled secretly as he realized that there was no greater proof of youth being wasted on the young than the insecurity that afflicted even this most gorgeous young woman when the critical hour struck, and he found that Zhenia’s psychological armor fell away along with her clothing and the fiesty, flirtatious Muscovite socialite became shy and even slightly awkward.

  Hector had been very gentle with her. He had undressed her lovingly. He spent time kissing her and stroking her hair, whispering to her how beautiful she was and describing how wonderful it felt to run his hands over her lovely high breasts. Then he kissed her neck and sucked her erect blood-darkened nipples. Very gently he held each delicate bud between his teeth, feeling them swell and harden. Then he was caressing her belly with his lips. He cupped her tight around buttocks in his hands, drawing them toward him so that her thighs fell apart and the secret cleft between them opened shyly before him. Her inner lips were pink and glossy, pouting in shy invitation. When he ran the tip of his tongue deeply between them, she gasped with shock, then clasped her hands around the back of his head and drew him even closer to her.

  “Yes!” she whispered. “Like that. Don’t stop. Please don’t ever stop!”

  Later when he awoke the sun was shining through a gap in the curtains. Zhenia was sleeping in his arms, curled up with those firm around buttocks thrust hard into his belly, gripping both his arms firmly by the wrists and holding his hands in front of her to cup her breasts; her breathing was soft as the wind and the smell of her lubricious sex filled his head and heightened his senses.

  He was suffused with a sense of warmth and contentment such as he had not known since the death of Hazel Bannock, his wife and the mother of Catherine Cayla. Then as he came fully awake his wellbeing was replaced by a sensation of guilt.

  “Cradle-snatcher!” he accused himself silently. “She’s a baby.” Then he rallied against the accusation and came to his own defense. “An infant is one thing she’s not. She is a full-grown woman in her middle twenties: old enough to drive, vote, work, marry, fight wars and have children. When I was her age I had already commanded a platoon of men in combat, shot and stabbed enemies by the score, seen friends and comrades killed and maimed beside me. She’s old enough to make her own decisions and she was absolutely party to this one. The jury finds you not guilty.” He grinned with self-satisfaction. “And strongly suggests that you do it again just to make certain of your motives.”

  He could not deny that basic, red-blooded lust for a delicious member of the opposite sex was one of his motives. But it wasn’t the only reason he revelled in her presence in his bed.

  Zhenia was every bit as smart, funny, feisty and beautiful as her big sister. He was not in any doubt that both girls had inherited from their father the drive, hunger and unfettered ambition that had made him an oligarch. But he would never suggest that to either of them.

  Of course, Zhenia wasn’t a trained fighter like Nastiya, but she had the spirit and the courage for it: Cross was utterly certain of that. And she made him feel young; rejuvenating him with her lust for life and her sense of fun. He would never have gone skating if she hadn’t suggested it, nor would he have been willing to make a fool of himself on the ice without her presence to spur him on. His relationships with both Hazel and Jo had been overshadowed by fear, violence and danger, right from the off, but today had just been fun, from his first sight of Zhenia at that little house in Barnes, to the ecstasy of their orgasmic lovemaking.

  Suddenly Zhenia turned in his arms and stared at him, the pupils of her hazel eyes enormous with sleep. “Why so serious, Hector,” she mumbled. “What are you thinking about?”

  “I was just thinking . . .” He broke off but continued to stare at her enigmatically. She came fully awake and raised herself on one elbow, her expression taunt with consternation.

  “Tell me. Is something wrong?”

  “I was just thinking that we must do that again immediately to make absolutely certain it was as good as I thought it was the first time.”

  “Well, then tell me why are you wasting precious time?” she asked demurely.

  These contracts . . .’ Shelby Weiss began, sitting in Aram Bendick’s Manhattan office and trying very hard to act a great deal calmer and more unflappable than he actually felt. “As far as I can see, they are all, ah, predicated on the collapse of Bannock Oil’s stock and even of the entire corporation.”

  “That’s correct,” Aram Bendick agreed. “As I explained to Mr. Tumbo, the regular put-option trades will become profitable once the stock price drops below the level at which I bought, which it’s already on course to do, following my very public attacks on the Bannock board. And the credit default swaps will similarly increase in value as the market starts to see an increased risk of Bannock Oil not being able to pay its debts, so we can either sell them then, or wait to see if the company does, indeed, default. That’s when profit would be maximized, obviously. My advice to Mr. Tumbo would be to mix’n’match. Sell some on the way down, take enough profit to eliminate his downside, but then hold on for the really big bucks when and if Bannock Oil does collapse.”

  “Excuse me for being confused, Mr. Bendick, but are you aware that Mr. Tumbo has a very large personal interest in Bannock Oil?” Weiss replied. “His financial security is tied up with Bannock’s.” Not to mention the fact that I just blew every dime my partners and I have got buying a law firm that barely exists without Bannock, he thought to himself. “Can you explain why he would consent to enter into financial agreements that are predicated on the failure of his greatest asset?”

  “Because he’ll make far, far more out of Bannock Oil dead than he ever will when it’s alive.”

  “That can’t be possible.”

  “Sure it is. Back in the early Nineties, George Soros made a billion dollars on one trade, betting against the British pound. John Paulson called the property crash of 2007, bought credit default swaps on mortgage-backed securities and made four billion when they all tanked. If Bannock Oil collapses, we’re gonna make so much money those guys’ll look like two-bit day traders.”

  Weiss fought hard to keep his jaw from dropping open. “You mean, you’re in this for billions?”

  “Many billions.”

  “And what makes you think it’s going to pay off? I mean, I’m very aware that Bannock’s taken a helluva hit up in Alaska. But word on the street in Houston is they’re going to make up for it and more in Africa.”

  “Let’s just say that Mr. Tumbo was very certain that there would be a precipitous fall in the value of Bannock stock. I got the feeling it was a personal crusade for him, that he was going to make it happen. Now, you’re the man’s attorney, you tell me: can Juan Tumbo make things happen?”

  He bust out of the convoy taking him to the Death House: yeah, he can make things happen, Weiss thought. He said, “Sure, in my experience he’s a very resourceful individual.”

  “Then Bannock Oil will collapse and Mr. Tumbo will become much, much richer than he already is.”

  “Th
en I guess I don’t have any objection to approving the contracts on my client’s behalf.” Weiss was frantically running calculations through his mind: If I remortgage the house, and the condo at Vail, and I empty the kids’ college funds, maybe I could raise a mill . . . “In fact, this deal looks so sweet”—Weiss forced a sickly grin across his face—“well, I might just be tempted to get some of it myself.”

  Bendick laughed. “Yeah, Tumbo told me you might say that. He also figured it would be a good way of making sure we were all on the same team, aligning our interests, so to speak. So, sure, if you want to join the party, I can make that happen. Just one condition, though: you keep this to yourself. No one, but no one outside the three of us gets to hear exactly what I have in mind. Understand?”

  “Believe me, Aram—I hope you don’t mind me calling you that, now we’re in business together—this one’s strictly private.”

  “Glad we got that clear,” said Bendick. “So, you want a Scotch to celebrate?”

  He poured the drinks and handed one to Weiss. The mood was much more relaxed, both men feeling certain that they were on to a winner. “Just out of curiosity, what kind of name is Tumbo, anyway? Like Dumbo without the ‘D.’ I mean, come on . . .”

  “Why don’t you ask him that question?” Weiss asked.

  Bendick laughed. “Oh no! I’ve met the man. Whatever he wants to call himself, that’s just fine by me.”

  Hector Cross spent three days and nights with Zhenia Voronova before he and his team left for Angola. As he kissed her goodbye at Farnborough Airport he was so physically exhausted that he knew he’d be asleep before the wheels of the Bannock Oil jet had left the ground. But at one and the same time he also felt refreshed, re-energized and filled with life in a way that he hadn’t since before Hazel died. Zhenia had worked some kind of magic on him: “Let me be your second spring,” she had said, and she had been just that, warming his soul, melting all the winter ice and reviving what had once seemed dead.