Game of Greed

by Charlotte Larsen

  She looks at herself in the mirror. This is certainly a change from the dream from princess to punk. But she’s neither. This is exactly what she loves about her job, the ability to change into various characters without having to live out their boring stories to the end. It is almost like living a life of fiction.

  Slinging a grubby backpack she’d packed the night before over her shoulder, she leaves her apartment. Without realizing it, she has already morphed her body into that of a young, angry, and hungry girl. Hunched shoulders, dragging feet, eyes distrustful. She boards a train to the airport and prepares herself for the rigors that face young, maladjusted women.

  Four hours later, she arrives at Heathrow, secretly pleased by the amount of negative attention she has generated along the trip. Not a single official showed her any sign of friendliness. The man seated next to her on the plane had even tried to put space between them, perhaps believing she was contagious.

  On arrival, she awakens her cell phone with a gentle touch, and a single text message pops up. B809. She walks against the tide of incoming passengers, but nobody seems to notice. People are too wrapped up in their own dramas. She’s quite certain that she has aroused no interest in watchers other than officials trained to look for routine misbehavior. She’s all clear. Just like the best place to hide something is in plain view, dressing suspiciously may just be the best disguise. The art of misdirection. The old spies knew it. And she knows it. It is one of the many truths of the trade she somehow has picked up from her father.

  Jo quickly locates the locker she’s looking for. B809. Dependable, good old Krause. She opens the locker with the key Krause had given her and pulls out a generic, black, nylon sports bag. Resisting the desire to check the contents, she turns the key, leaving it in the lock. In a washroom, she enters the stall furthest from the entrance, and in less than fifteen minutes, she has changed clothes, repaired her makeup, and put on a wig. The sports bag, her punk clothes, and the grubby backpack all go into a small Louis Vuitton travel bag on wheels that had nestled comfortably in the sports bag. Leaving the bathroom is a slender, youngish woman in black jeans and a Burberry trench coat, her straight blonde hair grazing her shoulders. There is not a glimmer, not a shadow left of the maladjusted young girl who’d entered it.

  The sense of excitement, of control, of power is even stronger now. This is what she lives for. Planning and executing a task of which nobody has a full picture. It is the ultimate combination of control and freedom. Two sides of the same coin.

  She joins the usual airport chaos: people who are desperately late; faces show disappointment as loved ones fail to show up; tanned people return from a week of life off the treadmill; porters vie for attention, and passengers hauling their worldly belongings in a race toward the all too few taxis.

  As she walks through the glass doors, she notices a town car pulling out and coming toward her. She recognizes Krause’s face underneath the shiny brim of his cap. He very nicely fits the bill as a newly cleaned-up private driver, grateful for the mundane job of just being alive, unspoken secrets in his shielded eyes.

  The car stops, and the trunk pops open. Krause gets out of the car, takes her bag, and opens the door to the back in one fluid movement.

  They don’t speak until they’re well outside the perimeter of the airport. And even then, not much. Krause simply confirms that a room is booked for her at the Ritz, which just happens to be the location of the fundraising dinner that de Lingua will be attending. How Krause managed to secure her a room there, she doesn’t want to know. All she’s certain of is that the excessively bad taste in décor will make her nauseous.

  Pulling up in front of the hotel, Krause gets to the trunk before the bellhop does and makes sure to slip her the right suitcase. This one is slightly bigger than the small Louis Vuitton and definitely does not contain the outfit of a punk girl.

  The lobby is teeming with people who are clearly staying at the hotel for the fundraiser. There is a lot of air kissing, exclamations of, “Darling!” and well-concealed professional jealousy. There are a couple of hours to go before the dinner starts, but a large number of the guests seem to consider predinner drinks to be part of the job. Or the fun. Whichever way you look at it.

  Jo makes her way through the crowd, eyes hidden behind Jackie O sunglasses, the collar of her trench coat flipped up, hands in pockets. She exercises her best invisibility skills, and hardly anybody gives her a second glance. Except, of course, the very man she’s there to find. He has spotted her before she sees him. His dark eyes follow her closely until she notices him. There is nothing to do but nod and continue as if she’s in a hurry. She debates with herself the consequences of de Lingua discovering her but concludes that it doesn’t really matter. He has seen her. And he will know that the odds are very slim that Jo would be in exactly this hotel at exactly this time for any reason other than that he is here. She never took him for a gambler, or anything other than a meticulous planner. He probably is paranoid, to boot. He will be on the alert now if he wasn’t already. She needs to make that work for her.

  Feeling warm and weightless in the bathtub of the mercifully white-tiled bathroom, she goes over her original plan, playing around with a number of contingencies. She has checked in using an alias that Francis doesn’t know about. Or at least she hopes he doesn’t. And this might actually be the one thing that could tickle de Lingua’s curiosity. If only she could get the information to him that she’s here entirely on her own, on some undisclosed errand.

  A wave of nausea flows through her. She allows her body to accommodate it and then slowly start taking control of it using long, deep breaths. The feeling of sickness is inevitable. The nightmarish clash of colors and patterns in the Victorian decor, combined with the high level of adrenaline pumping through her body, is enough to set off spirals of emotional and physical reactions. She leans back in the bath, closing her eyes, breathing deeply, and letting the various emotions wash over her. Anxiety, claustrophobia, deep sadness, downright fear, and finally, the one emotion she has been waiting for: an intense feeling of raw lust. She jumps out of the bath and uses that feeling to complete her toilette and shake off any residue of inertia. Leaving the room, she feels fresh, clean, and very ready. Somehow, in the midst of the emotional rollercoaster, she rediscovered her decision.

  In Copenhagen, the research team is being whipped into a near frenzy by Thomas, who in turn has had the heat turned up by Francis. Thomas is not sure whether the desperation with which Francis urges them on is due to the ego-deflating beating he’s taken from Schwartz, or because he is worried about Jo. Francis hasn’t said anything specific about Jo, but Thomas can think for himself. He knows her, or rather, he knows her unsentimental approach to problem-solving, and he is worried, too. Hence, the whipping of his team.

  The researchers are still not sure whether Schwartz had planned the merger between Remington Partners and Smith, Turner, and Stevenson from the beginning and sent the agency on a wild goose chase to keep it occupied, or if Schwartz came up with the plan after Francis successfully minimized the risk of exposure for the morality-challenged lawyers.

  They also don’t know whether Schwartz directly or indirectly was behind the death of the monk. Thomas is pretty certain that Pierre de Lingua is somehow responsible, but Francis doesn’t seem to be interested in de Lingua. His sole focus is on Schwartz. To someone who doesn’t know Francis as well as Thomas does, it could look like Francis is obsessed with Schwartz. Thomas knows, though, that it is not personal; it’s just that Francis doesn’t like losing, regardless of whether his foe’s victory was premeditated or accidental.

  There must be avenues for getting even. And for now, he will dedicate every brain cell of his team to finding the best one.

  Chapter 25

  People are slowly getting up from the tables after what must have been a long and tedious dinner with the requisite, well-intentioned speeches about whatever obscure sickness this dinner is supposed to support. There is a c
arelessness in the room, a sense of being released. Jo, wearing a floor-length, dark blue, body-hugging sheath, her neck and ears covered in diamonds courtesy of Krause, of course and a very amiable smile, finds it easy to mingle in the crowd. Just like the diamonds, the smile is not her own, but that of a newly divorced woman on the hunt. She draws a few glances but manages to escape unaccompanied to the bar certain, hopeful that de Lingua will come looking for her.

  Which he does before she’s even had time to order a drink. He slides in beside her, nodding to the bartender, who suddenly seems to lose interest in her, but nevertheless very soon places two cocktails in front of them. Raising her glass and acknowledging de Lingua with a look, she steals a glance behind him and notices two of his bodyguards. They are incongruous in checkered sarongs and dark shirts. Incongruous, but no less than lethal. She knows too well the violence that can hide behind the look of a sarong.

  “You left rather suddenly,” de Lingua says softly, his eyes boring into hers. “I thought I could’ve convinced you to stay. But, alas, patience seems not to be your strong suit.”

  She hesitates, molding her mind into the direction he’s taking the conversation. “Just out of curiosity, how would you have convinced me?” she asks.

  De Lingua’s face creases into a smile that looks indulgent, although to her it is the smile of a sadistic, cold-hearted killer. “Like I said, you don’t count patience among your virtues.” He shakes his head sadly. “Anyway, that wouldn’t be a proper topic for such a splendid evening.” He gets up, buttons his dinner jacket, and offers her his hand. “Care to dance?”

  It is all Jo can do to drop the pipette she had just curled her fingers around back into her silk purse and accept his arm. Her spine tightens, her scalp tingles; he must surely feel her skin crawl. She steals a glance at him. But his beautiful face reveals nothing.

  After two dances, he drops her unceremoniously by a group of men, probably figuring they will pick up his waste. “Lunch. Tomorrow. I will tell you my reason, and you’ll tell me what, exactly, you are doing here.” Whatever smooth charm was in his voice just a few minutes ago is now gone. The charade is over. He has once again called her bluff and taken over the situation, clearly showing her that he considers her to be no match for him. The sense of power and control she felt earlier in the evening is gone. All that is left is a burning, raging desire to kill him. It is stronger than any feeling she has ever felt before, yet curiously, it is mixed with fear. Fear that he will get to her first.

  She makes it to her room without incident. Apparently, her autopilot for exactly such a situation has kicked in. She must have nodded and smiled to a number of people along the way because she recalls a sea of smiling faces. Either that or people mistake this burning, sulfurous hatred for the look of a woman flushed with love. She can’t think clearly. She needs to quell her emotions. And to plan. And plan. And plan. She repeats the words in her head as she enters her room, tears off her dress, and collapses on the floor in something resembling a meditation pose. She squeezes her eyes shut until stars start flashing, and she begins to take strong, long, breaths that reach all the way into her abdomen and release this pent-up, negative energy. She draws in new, clean oxygen. She sees shadows of sulfuric acid rising and falling, slowly being displaced by the pure, white oxygen. Gradually, her pulse slows down, her thoughts ease, and she enters a state of liberating, meditative nothingness. Freedom…

  She’s still asleep when room service knocks and quietly enters with her breakfast tray. Struggling to sit up, be cordial, and remember the current situation all at the same time, she’s shocked awake when she sees an envelope resting against a single rose on the tray.

  Dismissing the waiter, she tears the envelope open. Of course, it is from de Lingua, and of course, he has found out her alias and hence her room number. For a brief moment, she feels pure and unadulterated happiness for being alive. Then the hard facts present themselves: There is no way he would suggest lunch unless there is something he wants from her. The game has only just begun. She shakes off her momentary weakness and finds that inner place where the sense of danger rests. Then she attacks the breakfast with ravenous hunger.

  The restaurant is located on the banks of the Thames. He’s sitting at a table by the window, looking out. The whole side of the restaurant is glass-paneled. Before she approaches him, she observes the river traffic for a moment. Yachts, speedboats, police boats. It’s a beautiful day. Blue sky. A sense of holiday. Like a whole different universe out there. It is separate from this, from floors and chairs and hovering waiters. And from the very real danger lurking in this room.

  He’s looking out the window, his head slightly turned away from her. She likes this about him. He doesn’t feel the need to fill time and space with a newspaper, his phone, or any other distraction in what has, up until now, been a very brief period of waiting. She appreciates people who are able just to sit and do nothing for a while. To her, it signals superiority and strong self-control. While thinking this and observing de Lingua, she spends a few seconds pulling in her abdomen, lengthening her spine, tightening her core, breathing deeply, and getting in control of body and mind.

  Watching him, her feelings are ambivalent and yet so pure in their duality. He’s a gorgeous-looking man, so very beautiful and clean, which speaks to her sense of aesthetics. He’s also very good at what he does, which is usually what attracts her in a man. And yet, the strongest feeling is her hatred of him. A complete desire to rid the world of him. To rid the world of this vermin who is hurting, killing, and terrorizing the very people whom he should be protecting. And if one thing upsets her, it is this: strong people who misuse their trust and privileges.

  Clearing her mind, she walks toward him. She senses that he knows she’s there. Then he slowly turns his head and regards her. Calmly, even softly. Measuring her up, although it is not clear exactly what he’s measuring, her coffin or his bed. She walks over to his table but makes no attempt to reach out and greet him. She just sits down opposite him. He surprises her by placing his hand on hers, saying, “I am glad you made it, Jo. May I call you Jo?”

  She looks at him. Doesn’t answer. Why shouldn’t he call her Jo? He’ll be dead before the night is over. Or she will be in a state in which she won’t care about her name anyway. He’s going to take her name with him into the grave one way or another. Why should he not use it?

  She pulls her hand aside, looking through the menu, asking him without raising her eyes, “What’s good here?” She’s aware that he shakes his head slightly at her immature behavior. But she needs this; she needs to maintain control, to make sure he’s not the one setting the agenda.

  “The seafood chowder,” he answers.

  She snaps the menu shut. “All right, I’ll have that.” Reaching into her purse for a lipstick, she’s playing the game of not paying any attention to the food. She hopes to lure him in that way and to remove any vestige of fear he might have that she might do something drastic. She looks at him, and then at the waiter. He gets her hint, signals the waiter, and asks for a Chateau Haut Brion Blanc from 2006. She’s looking out the window, doing her utmost to look bored, which is never hard when men order wines the equivalent of the waiter’s monthly salary.

  After the waiter has returned and reverently served the bottle, de Lingua turns his attention to Jo. “What exactly is your business in London?” His voice is creepy with a menacing charm.

  She faces him. “Why would you want to know, de Lingua?”

  “I need to know because, for some reason, I have a very strong sense that you are here because of me.” He looks at her directly.

  She returns his gaze, not wavering, not blinking. “I might be,” she answers.

  He smiles. “Hmmm. It will take more than that, I guess, for you to reveal the nature of your stay.”

  She doesn’t answer. She just keeps looking at him.

  “All right,” he says. “Here is what I promised you. Let me go first. Let me be the gentleman that you
want me to be by giving you an idea of what I can offer.” He settles back in his chair, lifting his glass with an ironic smile. She mirrors his movements, making sure she drinks as little as possible. She needs her wits about her. “Schwartz is an old man; you know that. He’s blessed with an enormous vision. A true visionary. A very, very inspiring man. Yet he’s slipping, as you may be aware. Somebody younger and stronger needs to step up. He’s clinging to some old-fashioned ways of doing business. You know, the equivalent of being a good British sport kind of guy?” De Lingua shakes his head fondly at the thought of his old mentor.

  “He hasn’t quite mastered modern technology, nor the advances and possibilities of this day and age. He’s also rather soft for this new millennium, for the kind of deals we need to make, for the people with whom we are dealing. His time is over.” He pauses.

  She nods, not so much because she agrees how could she? but for him to continue.

  “So, here is my proposal: I am going to build an organization that will completely take over the management-consulting industry, building on Schwartz’s work. And I want you by my side. I want you as my forward partner. The one I am showing the world. And if you have done your homework, which I am certain you have, you’ll know there will be absolutely nothing intimate between us. However, I need you on my arm when I mingle with the best and the brightest. You’ll be perfect for that role.” His smile creeps under her skin. He is much too close to her. It’s all she can do not to react.