Chapter 4
Only one person would have sent him such a suggestive invitation: Zhanna Khrenkov.
She certainly didn’t give up easily, Malko reflected.
Hearing the click of high heels on the marble entry to the library, he quickly hid the invitation between two books. Alexandra walked in wearing a short, tight dress with enough uplift to cheer a depressive.
“We’re going to be late!” she cried. “Their damned castle is way out in the sticks!”
Malko followed Alexandra down the hall, watching her rump sway like a sexual metronome. But he was so preoccupied by the London invitation that he forgot to caress his fiancée while driving, as he usually did.
His dilemma was simple: go to London or not?
The gala was a week away, and beyond a few social calls, Malko had nothing special on his calendar. Alexandra was busy with the vineyard and couldn’t accompany him, so that was no problem. But how should he respond to Zhanna’s invitation?
In spite of her passionate come-on in Monaco, he felt no special attraction for the blond Belarusian.
But as they neared their evening’s destination, Malko had to admit that the situation intrigued him. Now that he knew Zhanna’s history, he suspected that her insistence on seeing him hid something more complicated than an affair.
Climbing the steps of their hosts’ home, Malko made up his mind: he was going to London.
—
Sitting with a cup of tea in front of the windows of her Grosvenor Place penthouse, Zhanna distractedly contemplated Buckingham Palace’s impeccable grounds with more than a touch of satisfaction. At number 18, her flat was next to the Irish embassy on Grosvenor Place, which ran along Buckingham Park in Belgravia, the most fashionable neighborhood in London.
What a long road it had been from her communal apartment in Minsk and the pathetic salary she earned in the days of the Soviet Union! Just escaping from Belorussia and moving to Moscow was a big step, even though she’d been forced to work as a domorabotnitsa—a housemaid—to survive in the Russian capital.
She would never have dreamed that the Queen of England would someday be her next-door neighbor.
Alexei had left for Bern an hour earlier. He would then travel to New York to deal with an urgent problem that had come up. The Russian authorities had frozen one of their bank accounts, which held twenty-three million dollars.
Zhanna didn’t usually spend much time in London, but she decided to stay behind. A man of few words, Alexei made no comment, but she was wary of his apparent indifference. He took a few of the bodyguards along; the rest stayed behind in London, supposedly to protect her.
In theory, the men were at her beck and call, but she didn’t control their movements and didn’t trust them. They took their orders from Moscow, and she had no power to intervene. In a way, they were the price of her and Alexei’s freedom.
On paper, her “guardian angels” worked for an import company called Petropavlovsk, and all had proper visas.
The men were stationed not far from the penthouse and could come in minutes if Zhanna needed them. But she suspected them of sticking their noses into her private life, checking her mail and even her phone calls.
Alexei’s impromptu trip gave her the idea of inviting Prince Malko Linge to take her husband’s place at the Christie’s gala. She was one of the evening’s sponsors, so making the switch was easy. To her, the funniest part was that the evening was being indirectly paid for by the Russian taxpayers.
Zhanna lit a cigarette and gazed at the trees in the palace gardens.
Would Malko reply to her invitation?
—
On its landing approach, the British Airways flight banked low over the forests west of London. Malko hadn’t been back to London since an unpleasant run-in with the Mossad a year before. He hoped the Israelis no longer bore him a grudge.
Busy with her vineyard affairs, Alexandra hadn’t said anything when he announced his brief trip to London. She didn’t know that the Khrenkovs had a residence there, so she had no reason to be suspicious.
Malko had decided not to contact the London CIA station or even to mention his trip to Matt Hopkins in Vienna. His curiosity about Zhanna didn’t involve the CIA, and probably never would. But while riding in a taxi to the Lanesborough, Malko felt annoyed with himself. He was behaving like a high schooler. Accepting an invitation from a woman he didn’t desire, and who had already caused him pain, was pure masochism.
At the gala, Malko would probably learn Zhanna’s real intentions. British MI5 would probably note his presence in London but realize it was for personal reasons.
Looking elegant in a gray bowler and pink boutonniere, the Lanesborough porter greeted Malko by name, as if he had left only the night before.
—
Taxis were pulling up one after another at 10 King Street, a one-way alley between Piccadilly and Pall Mall lined with art galleries and one old pub, the Golden Lion.
Malko’s cab was followed by a Rolls-Royce with an odd license plate, consisting of just three letters. A heavyset couple got out. The man’s head was shaved; the woman was a dark, chubby gypsy type, with a low forehead and slightly slanted eyes.
A throng of tuxedos and ball gowns hurried into Christie’s, clustering at a long table bearing place cards with table assignments for the Khrenkovs’ two hundred guests.
Malko looked around for Zhanna but didn’t see her. Many people had already climbed the monumental stairs to the first floor, where cocktails were being served. After getting a place card assigning him to Table 8, Malko followed suit.
Battalions of waiters made their way among the guests, carrying trays of champagne and soft drinks. Kazakhstan was officially a Muslim country, but forty years of Soviet occupation had reduced the role of religion in the wealthy desert nation, and the Islam practiced there was soft as well.
Malko tried to take an interest in the paintings on the walls, but most of them were dreck, Soviet realism at its worst: naïve, assembly-line knockoffs of the sort littering the Izmaylovo Market in Moscow.
Christie’s is a venerable, serious auction house, thought Malko, so the evening’s sponsors must have paid a pretty penny to persuade it to display paintings that were worth less than their frames.
After cruising through the crowd a few times, Malko had to face facts: Zhanna wasn’t there. There were few attractive women aside from the handful of Russian, Ukrainian, or Moldovan prostitutes who had married well. Almost everyone was speaking Russian or Kazakh.
The crowd fairly reeked of prosperity. Malko overheard a conversation between two bankers, one of whom whispered:
“I’ve already spotted a dozen millionaires, including four Kazakhs.”
For a brand-new country, even a very big one, that was encouraging.
Malko was on his third glass of champagne when dinner was announced. He followed the crowd into a dining room with midnight blue walls and a very high, octagonal ceiling.
Table 8 was in the back facing the door, next to a stage presumably set up for musicians. The couple from the Rolls-Royce was already seated and greeted Malko with friendly smiles. They were joined by a man with strongly Asian features accompanied by a curvaceous blonde twenty years his junior. They were Russian as well.
A tall young woman wearing a turban sat down at Malko’s right. She had a lean face and an air of class. In Russian-accented English, she asked him:
“Are you interested in Kazakh art?”
“Only very slightly,” he admitted. “What about you?”
“I run a gallery in Moscow, and we tend more to the contemporary. The foreign market for Kazakh art is minuscule. These works are mainly bought by Kazakhs.”
“I hope they don’t pay too much for them,” said Malko, studying the nearest painting. It showed a couple in the field of a 1930 collective farm, their faces as expressive as gargoyles’.
The gallery owner merely smiled politely. No point in ruffling potential customers.
&n
bsp; Nearly everyone was seated now, but an empty chair remained at Malko’s left. Leaning over, he read the guest’s name on the card: Lynn Marsh.
Maybe this was Zhanna Khrenkov, under another name.
A stocky man picked up a microphone and delivered a long speech in Russian that was translated into English, praising Kazakh art, Christie’s hospitality, and the wonderful quality of the guests. Mid-speech, Malko saw a woman making her way among the tables toward him. A tall, beautiful brunette in a scarlet sheath dress. She had a striking face, with high cheekbones and a slightly upturned nose.
To Malko’s delight, she slipped into the seat next to his. Up close, Lynn Marsh was even lovelier, with a slender figure and a decent neckline. She flashed him a dazzling smile.
“I’m so sorry to be late,” she said. “I couldn’t get a taxi.”
It had been a rough day for London transit: an unusual Tube strike had snarled the city’s traffic.
What was odd was that she was apologizing to Malko as if she had a date with him.
The speech over, the toasts began, and their table burst into cheerful cross talk. It now seated four very attractive women, including Lynn. She turned to him and asked:
“Are you in banking?”
“No, why do you ask?”
She laughed.
“There are nothing but bankers here tonight, rich Russians and Kazakhs. Since you’re neither Kazakh nor Russian…”
“I’m Austrian, and an art lover,” he said. “That’s why Christie’s invited me.”
He couldn’t very well admit the invitation came from a woman who had come on to him and then stood him up.
“What about you?” he asked. “Are you a banker?”
“No, I’m a dentist.”
“Well, you’re the most beautiful dentist I’ve ever seen. I’m sorry I don’t have any trouble with my teeth.”
“You’re lucky!” she said, laughing merrily. “I’m very expensive.”
Her own teeth were perfect.
At this point, everyone at their table was speaking Russian except the two of them. Malko continued in English.
“Did Christie’s invite you as well?”
Lynn shook her head.
“No, I was supposed to come with a Russian friend, but he had to go on a trip. I enjoy getting dressed up. It’s a nice change from dentistry.”
One of the covey of waiters set a plate of something in front of Malko. The menu called it foie gras, but when Malko tasted it, he was pretty sure the pâté had ridden from Kazakhstan on horseback, maybe even wearing the saddle. Catching Lynn’s eye, he gave her a complicit smile.
“The foie gras is a bit odd, don’t you think?”
The Russians and Kazakhs nearby were gleefully stuffing themselves with it.
Malko again scanned the room, looking for Zhanna.
There was no sign of her.
He glanced over at his tablemate, who was ignoring her tasteless foie gras and typing on her iPhone. She looked preoccupied.
She’s gorgeous and outgoing, thought Malko. What an amazing coincidence that the most beautiful single woman at the dinner should be seated next to me!
Chapter 5
The foie gras was followed by an interminable musical interlude: two singers with tambourines performing Kazakh songs. A mix of fast rhythmic tempos not unlike Moroccan music, it suggested riders galloping across Kazakhstan’s famously oil-rich steppes. It brought tears to the eyes of the Kazakh couple at Malko’s table.
After a roar of applause, dinner resumed with a main course that made Malko wary. The only edible things he could identify were some green beans huddled next to a chunk of mystery meat, but his Kazakh tablemates cleaned their plates.
This was followed by yet another speech.
Malko was mystified: Why hadn’t Zhanna shown up? Fortunately, Lynn Marsh was happy to chat. Among other things, he learned that she was divorced.
As the evening drew to a close, he was no further along. He gallantly fetched Lynn a plate of macaroons from the dessert table in the next room. She was charming, though she kept glancing at her watch. By the time she finished her macaroons, nearly all the guests had left.
“I think we better get going!” she said brightly, standing up, purse in hand.
They walked down the monumental staircase side by side and stepped out into the icy wind sweeping down King Street. Fortunately, taxis regularly turned in from Duke Street, and several arrived one after another.
Lynn looked ravishing in her long red dress. Malko figured he didn’t have much time if he wanted to end the evening on a more intimate note.
But she beat him to the punch.
“I’m so happy to have met you!” she cried, giving him her dazzling smile. “This turned out to be a wonderful evening. Fate works in mysterious ways.”
They were standing on the narrow sidewalk opposite Christie’s.
“Would you like to have a drink at Annabel’s?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, but no,” she said with an apologetic smile. “I have to get up very early to be at my office by eight. Another time, though.”
During dinner, Lynn had given Malko her card with her phone number. He found it odd that such a beautiful woman should be slaving away in a dental office. He hadn’t dared ask who had invited her to the gala. If it was her lover, it was surprising that he hadn’t shown up.
In the face of the young woman’s determination, he merely smiled and kissed her hand.
“Another time, then,” he said.
Malko followed her with his eyes as she walked toward a taxi.
Regarding Zhanna’s inexplicable absence, he had moved from being baffled to angry and disappointed. What had gone wrong?
There was nothing left but to head back to the Lanesborough.
No doubt about it, he thought. Women just can’t be trusted.
—
Zhanna Khrenkov slipped out of the Leicester Square Theatre before the end of the performance. Protected from the cold wind by her fur-lined Burberry, she walked to Piccadilly Circus and took a taxi. She figured there was little chance of her being followed.
At the Lanesborough, she crossed the lobby to the small lounge next to the bar and ordered an herbal tea. At this late hour, it was empty.
Zhanna didn’t know what time the Christie’s gala would end. From her perch she could see everybody who entered the hotel lobby.
She waited more than twenty minutes, growing increasingly impatient. She knew that Malko was staying here at the Lanesborough; she had phoned earlier to check, giving a made-up name. Of course it was possible that he wouldn’t come straight back to the hotel.
Finally she saw a man in a tuxedo and topcoat enter the lobby and head for the elevators. It was Malko! She immediately got up and went to stand behind him. Opening the gilded elevator door, he sensed her presence and turned around.
“Zhanna! Where have you been?”
“I’ll explain in a moment,” she said with a playful smile.
She had already stepped into the cabin, which meant she intended to go directly to his room. Malko closed the door and pushed the button for the second floor.
When they got to his room, she turned and slowly opened her Burberry, revealing a short pink lace dress and shiny black stockings. She was perched on a pair of Jimmy Choos, whose heels were studded with fake diamonds. Eyes underlined with mascara and a red mouth completed the picture.
Shedding the Burberry, she looked at Malko, a hand on her hip.
“So, do you regret coming to London?”
“Why weren’t you at Christie’s?”
“Something came up. But I’m here now.”
Her nipples were straining against the pink lace, and Malko could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra.
Joining deed to words, Zhanna came over and stood close, moving her hips suggestively. Then she raised her face to his and said simply:
“Kiss me.”
He did. It was as abrupt as in Monte Carlo.
Zhanna twirled around.
“Do you like it?”
From what he’d learned in Vienna, Malko already knew that she loved lingerie. Without waiting for his answer, she came close again and started stroking him through his alpaca trousers.
In moments, she had settled Malko in a Queen Anne armchair and pulled out his cock. Kneeling on the thick carpet, she took him in her mouth and began giving him a blow job worthy of a professional.
Malko soon felt himself losing control. He wanted to pull free so they could fuck, but Zhanna gripped his cock like a drowning man clinging to a life jacket. Moments later, he came in her mouth.
It was all so strange! Here was a woman dressed to the nines who had dragged a man she supposedly wanted from the depths of Europe, yet she wouldn’t make love with him.
Zhanna stood up, straightened her stockings, and gave Malko a look of amusement.
“Is there anything to drink here?”
In the minibar, Malko found a half bottle of Taittinger Brut. Without putting her dress back on, Zhanna sat down in his armchair and lit a cigarette.
After they toasted each other, Malko gave her a sharp look.
“Why did you want me to come to London, Zhanna?”
“Aren’t you feeling satisfied?” she asked with a teasing pout. “Didn’t I show you a good time?”
“Yes, of course.”
Zhanna was acting less like a woman in love than a professional pleased to have satisfied a good customer. Her fellatio had been perfectly executed, but without a speck of eroticism. It was like an after-dinner mint, served expertly and mechanically.
She set down her champagne glass.
“Did you like your tablemate?” she asked, as if she could tell what else was on Malko’s mind. “Dr. Marsh is a very pretty woman, isn’t she? Did she try to pick you up?”
Malko stared at her in astonishment.
Lord of the Swallows Page 4