Final Target

by E. V. Seymour

  After two brief stops, one at a chemist, the other to pick up a purple dress shirt, collar size 16, I crossed the moody, darkened foyer of the hotel and returned to my room loaded with antiseptic, painkillers, the all-important steri-strips, and enough bandages to embalm a mummy.

  Peeling off my leather jacket and sweater exposed the extent of the damage. Experienced in the art of patching myself up, I wasn’t certain this time that I was up to the job without medical attention. The first slice to my arm wasn’t as bad as I’d feared; the second, close to the previous injury and Mace’s handiwork, would have been deeper had the arm not already been dressed. In spite of this, a nasty gash outside the hurt zone probably needed stitches. Throwing painkillers down my throat first, I washed my wounds and treated them with antiseptic. Then I bandaged the first and applied steristrips to the second, before again bandaging it. This, together with the multi-coloured skin around my eyes and the strip across the bridge of my nose, was not quite the image I’d hoped to convey at a sex party for the seriously wealthy. Nevertheless, I shaved, changed, ordered dinner from room service, kicked back with a beer from the minibar and opened up the laptop. It got me nowhere.

  My computer skills had improved immeasurably during the past year, but I was no hacker. Password protected, probably encrypted, the laptop stared sullenly back at me. It freaked me out a little to know that China Hayes’s bloodied fingers had travelled all over it. Wishing it wasn’t necessary, I phoned a contact I’d used when I was in the game. A computer analyst by day, Jat broke through all types of firewall by night. Previously, I’d used him to check out potential clients so that I had some idea of exactly what I was getting into. Jat spent his life communicating either by phone or online. He answered as soon as the line connected.

  ‘Yup.’

  I pictured his toffee-coloured eyes, slightly too close together, looking into the screen next to him. ‘Got a job for you.’

  A sharp intake of breath signalled his surprise. ‘Thought you were –’

  ‘No, I’m not dead,’ I said, beating him to it and feeling like I’d been resurrected. ‘I’m very much alive and I need your expertise.’ It was my turn to hold my breath. I wasn’t at all sure whether Jat’s little brother had survived my last escapade. He’d fallen in with a bunch of fundamentalists who, coincidentally, I happened to be hunting down. I couldn’t be certain that I hadn’t killed him. I thought Jat might make some reference to it.

  ‘I’m listening,’ he said.

  Seemed we were all good. ‘Meet me tomorrow at ten.’ I mentioned the name of a café in Kensington and that was that.

  Mid-way through confit of duck, my phone rang. Simone.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten this evening’s arrangements?’

  I glanced at my watch. I had plenty of time. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘Work has been good?’

  It seemed an odd thing to say. I guess if your man allegedly works for the security services, you can hardly ask What kind of a day did you have at the office, sweetheart?

  ‘Busy.’ Which was true. ‘I should warn you I’m slightly battered and bruised.’

  ‘You are all right?’ Her voice pinched with concern.

  ‘Nothing that won’t mend.’ In the background, a phone rang at her end of the line.

  ‘Merde, I have to go – a client. I will see you at ten. Stay safe.’

  Nobody has ever said this to me. Most have wanted me dead. It made me smile inside. Then I realised I was mistaken. McCallen had never wanted me dead either.

  * * *

  The address was in Eaton Square. Stucco, with grand elevations, worth around a cool £40 million at a guess, the house was instantly identifiable because Frederick was posted outside the impressive entrance. Attentive as ever, Frederick wished me good evening, opened the door, and informed me that Miss Fabron was waiting ‘in the basement area, sir.’

  Handed a glass of pink champagne by a classically good-looking young male with oiled limbs and dressed in a purple loincloth, I headed inside to a vast room that resembled the set for the court of the Sun King. The buzzwords were lavish, hedonistic and exotic. If the building was worth a packet, the baroque interior doubled it. Most of the invited men were foreign, from parts of Asia as well as the almost obligatory Middle Eastern contingent, an aura of wealth enveloping every guest. Every item of clothing and accessory was designer, the jewellery on show alone ran into hundreds of thousands. This crew might be a very different crowd to the Cheltenham clientele but, on cursory observation, they fucked the same.

  I made my way down a walnut polished staircase to an excavated basement area. Here, the vibe was ultra-modern and cool. A wall-mounted screen played an art house movie – or pornographic, depending upon one’s point of view. A snooker game on a full-size table was in full swing with two teams of players, the women seductively leaning over the baize to better display their assets. At my arrival Simone rushed towards me.

  ‘You are late. I thought you were not coming.’

  She looked fabulous as ever in a striking green muslin see-through blouse, her naked breasts hugging the fabric beneath, and a magenta lace skirt in which tiny jewelled fragments sparkled when she moved.

  ‘Cherie,’ she whispered, slipping her small hand through mine, drawing me close and kissing me in a way that said to everyone, He’s mine. I wasn’t complaining.

  She drew back and studied my face, her soft dark eyes etched with anxiety. ‘You need to take care, Joe.’

  ‘Simone.’ We both turned towards a stunning-looking redhead called Dido. Chic, with a vampish in-and-out figure, she smiled an apology. I didn’t mind. Purple was definitely her colour. ‘Might I drag you away from this gorgeous man for a moment, darling?’

  Simone tipped up on the toes of her high heels and muttered that she would come and find me.

  I drifted upstairs where the noise was louder, the action more intense. Conversation among the cognoscenti ranged from property prices to independent schools and fantasy sex. Casting around for Zara, I spotted a couple of minders – big-boned men with shaved heads and upper arms the size of gammons. Refreshing my drink, I followed a winding staircase to a vast landing with doors off, some open, some closed. Inner sanctums for pleasure, from which came the unmistakable sounds of people lustily having sex. As I wondered what to do next, two women bowled past me, the taller of the two pushing the other woman up against the nearest wall, her hand darting up the woman’s skirt. Bored, wondering where the hell Simone was, I ran straight into Zara.

  ‘Hi.’ The lascivious expression in her baby-blue eyes indicated that she was immensely pleased to see me. ‘I hoped you’d be back.’

  To be fair to the woman, she’d upped her game in the sophistication stakes. Her hair was swept up, revealing perfect skin, and the neckline of her silk sequin dress was demure. Only the racy gunmetal cuff on her right arm hinted at something more risqué.

  ‘What the hell happened to your beautiful face?’

  ‘Got into a scrap.’

  She ran a manicured nail down my arm, turned on, apparently, by the thought of violence. I flinched and glanced over her shoulder. ‘No husband?’

  ‘He couldn’t make it. He’s in Dubai.’ In other words, come and get me. I fully intended to, but not in the way she thought. Observing the rules of the game, I let her make the first move.

  ‘Want to come out to play?’ Her voice a low seductive growl, she ran the tip of her tongue along her top lip.

  I hesitated. I didn’t want Simone getting the wrong idea. Zara appeared to read my mind. ‘Simone is a very liberated woman and I am exceptionally discreet.’

  Discreet was good. ‘Show me the way,’ I said.

  She took my hand and led me into a room where a naked couple were wrapped around each other in a way that defied physiology. I dragged her back.

  ‘You’re shy.’ She smiled as though she found it an endearing quality.

  ‘Here,’ I said, toeing open the door to another ro
om, which, although it housed a huge bed that bore the hallmarks of someone having made full use of it, was empty. As soon as we were inside, I kicked the door shut, and turned the key. Zara instantly threw herself against the wall, arched her back, and revealed that she wasn’t wearing underwear. Next, she reached out and grabbed my hair, forcing my head down between her legs. Amazed by her strength, I pulled away, straightened up and captured both her wrists, pinioning them above her swept back hair. Expecting this to be the entrée, she let out an animal sound from the back of her throat.

  ‘I want answers,’ I said.

  ‘You’ll have to beat them out of me.’

  ‘Lars Pallenberg. Tell me about him.’

  Mistakenly thinking we were role-playing she pretended to struggle. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘You have. He’s German, an artist.’ I didn’t say that he was also dead. ‘Blond, good-looking, sensitive.’

  ‘I don’t like sensitive men,’ she said breathily, and through half-closed eyes. ‘I like cruel men like you.’

  ‘He was an invited guest maybe a year ago.’

  Her eyelids flickered. Unsure where we were heading, she thrashed about in a doomed attempt to spice things up.

  ‘Stop that.’

  Pressing her breasts against my chest, she pushed herself into my crotch and tried to kiss me. I recoiled enough to miss her lips, not enough to loosen my grip. ‘Fuck me,’ she moaned, squirming in my grasp.

  ‘Answer the damn question.’

  The edge in my voice finally hit home. Shock gave way to fear, her blue eyes popped open and she caught a glimpse of the darkness contained inside me. Her skin turned pale and pallid. ‘You’re serious.’

  ‘Deadly.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Simone’s friend, remember.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Do not play me. Pallenberg, who invited him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never heard of him.’ Her eyes glistened with tears. I hated doing this to her, but McCallen was my big priority and, if any light could be shed on her whereabouts, I’d pretty much do anything to get it.

  ‘Wait,’ she said, ‘He might have signed in under a different name.’

  I’d already considered this. ‘Simone has the guest lists?’

  ‘On her computer, yes.’

  ‘And Simone, tell me about her.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ It came out as a wail.

  ‘Who she hangs out with, what she does, who she sees.’

  ‘I don’t know. I –’

  ‘Ever heard the name China Hayes?’

  Zara narrowed her eyes in recollection. I got the impression that she was desperate to help me so that she could leave and never come back. I loosened my grip slightly. ‘I’ve never heard the name. I honestly don’t know if she has close friends. She never strikes me that way. She’s a party animal, but you know that already. She’s a good-time girl, sporty. She skis, scuba dives, fences, likes big events.’

  ‘What kind of big events?’

  ‘Music gigs, horseracing, polo. I can’t tell you any more. I don’t really know her that well, nobody does. This,’she said, glancing at the door, ‘it’s superficial, for kicks, for fun. Nobody gets hurt.’

  ‘What about the drugs?’

  ‘What drugs?’

  ‘Heard any rumours about her dealing?’

  ‘Never.’ She looked at me with such bewildered, haunted eyes I released my grasp. Her entire body shivered.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said, relieved, her tone clipped and reproachful. ‘I don’t want to know what this is about. I won’t say a word to Simone, I promise,’ she added quickly.

  ‘Zara, I’m not going to hurt you.’

  ‘No?’ she said. ‘Can I go now?’

  I nodded and unlocked the door. Feeling shitty about what I’d done, I wondered whether she’d set her husband on me. She made a move to go then stopped in the doorway, as though she’d remembered something.

  ‘We don’t get a lot of Germans, but there was a guy around the time you mentioned.’ She had my full and undivided attention. ‘Fucked like a bull. He wasn’t an artist. He had a name like the German car.’

  ‘Benz?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said with a sudden, glacial smile. ‘Dieter Benz. I hope he screws you over.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Simone was coming upstairs as I was going down. ‘I’ve been all over looking for you.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not feeling well. I’ve spent most of the last hour in the bathroom.’ I gestured vaguely towards a door.

  She let out a sigh and rested the palm of her hand against my brow. ‘Darling, you look terrible.’ I felt terrible but not in the way she imagined. ‘Do you want to take a lie down?’

  I shook my head. ‘I think it’s better I leave.’

  She fished in her clutch bag for a room card. ‘Here, take this. We are booked in up the road. Get some rest and I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She inclined her head, almost coquettish. ‘I am positive. Don’t worry, I’ll be good,’ she added with a sudden fabulous smile. Then she looked anxious again. ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I had to be.

  In the heart of Belgravia, the hotel was a short walk away in Ebury Street and close to Victoria Underground station. As ever, I admired Simone’s choice. Boutique style, it exuded class and luxury. Our room on the second floor was a picture of calm and elegance.

  Simone’s laptop sat on a small desk underneath the only window. It was still plugged in. I flipped it open. One touch and it sprang into life. I took off my jacket, loosened my tie and sat down. Without thinking, I punched in ‘Bagatelle’ as the password. Immediately, I was launched into another world, Simone’s universe. I scrolled through files on lifestyle, fashion and design, dipped into emails, mostly to and from women seeking Simone’s services in one form or another. Some in French, most in English. There were screeds of stuff that I could collectively classify as female. Eager not to miss my opportunity, I opened the ‘Party’ file and ran through hundreds of names in random order, and then a separate folder marked ‘Venues’. Finding a sub-file marked ‘Berlin’, I opened it, hoping either Pallenberg or Benz would appear, only to remember that Bagatelle had a women-only membership. I ran through names and locations and flipped to another file marked ‘Guest Lists’. Sure enough, Benz appeared, although his name stood alone and it was impossible to match him with whoever he’d accompanied. Not one to give up, I returned to the female membership. I had at least four hours before Simone returned. An hour later, I stumbled across something that spun me out.

  Shaken, I poured myself a glass of water and wondered why Mathilde Brommer, Lars’s former girlfriend, had lied to me and why her name was in the file. I looked at my watch. It was two in the morning. She’d be asleep. If I spoke to her now, she’d be confused. I smiled. Disorientated people make mistakes and say things they shouldn’t. I called.

  She picked up with what sounded like a full-throttle curse.

  ‘You didn’t tell me about the sex parties.’ My tone was blatantly accusing.

  There was a long silence. When she eventually spoke she was cold, controlled and exceptionally angry. ‘You phone me at this time in the morning to lecture me about my private life?’

  ‘You don’t deny it?’

  ‘What is there to deny, Mr Porter? Are you looking for an invite?’

  ‘You know Simone Fabron?’

  ‘Not intimately.’

  ‘You told me that you’d never heard of her.’

  ‘I told you that I’d never heard of her in connection with Lars.’

  I wasn’t going to get into an argument with her over semantics because I never fight battles I can’t win. ‘How do you know her?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? Through her web
site and services. It’s a professional relationship,’ she said smartly.

  I rubbed my eyes. I was going wrong somewhere. Things were shifting in ways I couldn’t pin down. It was akin to walking through a wild Arabian desert riddled with quicksand.

  ‘Did you ever take Dieter Benz with you?’

  She swore in German. I got the message.

  ‘Did you ever take Lars with you?’

  ‘Never. He was already with your Miss Spencer by then. How is she, by the way?’

  Her nasty question broke over me like a huge wave running at high tide. ‘What the hell is it to you?’ I said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘What do you know about her disappearance?’

  ‘She has disappeared?’ She sounded triumphant. I repeated the question.

  ‘I know nothing. It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that, Mathilde. You had the motive. I’ve already caught you in one lie. How many more?’

  ‘You think I am responsible?’ Her voice roared down the line.

  ‘Why not?’

  She gave a short, incredulous laugh. ‘Because it is ridiculous. I wouldn’t have the first clue how to go about it.’

  ‘You don’t need to. You could have given the order to someone else.’

  ‘Sure, of course,’ she said, the tone as dramatic as it was ugly. ‘Send in the cops. They can check my passport. I have only one thing to say about your lovely Miss Spencer.’ I waited for the punchline. ‘She was a bitch.’ The line went dead.

  Mathilde’s denial weighed heavy. Dispirited, I resumed checking the laptop but nothing leapt out at me. It was all business stuff; there was no link to China, no link to either Pallenberg or Benz. Again, I was stalked by a memory from the previous job – people often operated from more than one computer.

  Opening a personal file, I unearthed more email correspondence written in French to people I assumed were friends, with names like Anaïs, Guillaume, Nicole, Jacques and Davide. Details of hotel bookings in all parts of Europe revealed no startling surprises. Using the camera on my phone, I captured as much varied and random data as I could so that I could study it at a later date, match it to other information or, if necessary, send it to Jat.