Peyton Riley

by Bianca Mori

  "Why are we doing this again?" he asked, running his hands through his brown waves and causing half of it to stick up in odd little peaks.

  "Surveillance." The corner of her lip twitched at his frustration.

  He snorted. "We don't know he's even in there. We could be standing here for hours for nothing."

  "I don't think that's going to happen."

  "Stop smirking at me like this is the world's greatest joke," he hissed. "I really don't see the point of this."

  "The point is to observe the guy. See what makes him tick. And then we'll know how to best plan the takedown."

  Carson rolled his eyes. "And if you do come across him, what would you do? Ask him, 'hey, planning to buy any Magraiths lately?'"

  The door slid open and out came a man, of middling height, wrapped in a gray woolen scarf and a mackintosh. Even from her alcove Peyton was struck by the arresting quality of his clear, nearly colorless blue eyes. They were much more intimidating in person than on TV. In the flesh she was struck by an odd quality: he seemed that strange mix of young and old—a teenager's dewy face sitting on the carriage of a fifty-year-old.

  "Watch and learn, art guy," she said over her shoulder.

  Anders Van Der Luyden surveyed the street with his extraordinary eyes, watching the pedestrian traffic with a slightly furrowed brow, as though he divined something in the ebb and flow of the walkers. He frowned very slightly as he was jostled by a hurrying pedestrian.

  "Oh! I am very sorry, do forgive me," said the lady in a clipped British accent.

  He squinted as he registered her face. She had a shock of red waves cascading down her dark sweater, and deep blue eyes peering at him from a fringe of thick, light-colored lashes.

  "You are forgiven," he said, pursing his mouth as he took in more of her features.

  Her shapely pink lips parted as she caught sight of his face. "B-but—but you're Anders Van Der Luyden!" she gasped. "My word, I hadn't realized—but I—I am great admirer of your work!"

  Anders smiled indulgently at her. The poor girl's eyes sparkled like sunlight glinting off the sea in the late afternoon. "Indeed?"

  "Oh yes," and her voice took on an appealingly breathy quality. "The news of that hovercraft you released—my goodness—never thought we'd see the day—"

  In her excitement her hand clutched his forearm. She seemed to realize what she did and her eyes widened. "I'm sorry, how presumptuous of me!"

  "Not to worry," he chuckled, catching her hand and gripping it against him. "Not to worry at all!" He eyed her up and down and lingered at the pleasant shape her curves made—thank goodness for tight sweaters. "I must say, I hardly come across such genuine interest in my work."

  "You must be joshing with me." She smiled very prettily. "I am quite sure, a man such as yourself—you must be surrounded by admirers all the time."

  He had to laugh at that. "Ah, but you make it sound as though there are science groupies, out to throw themselves at me, offering to have their breasts signed in my presence. That, unfortunately, does not happen, I am sorry to say. Although—" he surveyed her lowered lashes and fleshy lips with delight—"there is always a first time, is it not?"

  She giggled, bit her lip and tucked a flaming red lock behind her ear. "Mr. Van Der Luyden…"

  "Please. Call me Anders." She seemed to glow at that. "And you are?"

  "Caroline," she said, lowering her gaze.

  "Well, sweet Caroline. You seem quite the scientific mind. Would you care to join me for lunch some time?"

  "Oh—but I cannot presume—"

  He waved a hand at her protestations and smiled fondly. "Thursday. Next week, at The Abragat."

  "Mr. Van Der Luyden, I cannot intrude on your day, I am sure you are very busy." She ran her hand through her hair in distress.

  His expression turned stern. "You are quite right, Caroline. I am very busy. And when I choose to clear my calendar for a pleasant lunch, be sure of the priority I account you, and realize what it means." He stepped closer until they were chest to chest. "Thursday. Next week. The Abragat."

  She bit her lip once again and batted her eyelashes. "Of course. See you then, Mr. Van Der Luyden."

  Carson scowled as she walked down the street and completely ignored him. After a few minutes, and after Van Der Luyden had set off his own way, he hurried to catch Peyton, who did not break her pace.

  "Well?"

  "Pretty good, huh?" she said, sounding—and feeling—smug.

  "Pretty good? Pretty good?" He stopped on the sidewalk corner in front of a riotous display of spring blooms, furrowing his hair with his hands. "What was that all about?"

  "What was what all about?"

  "'Oh Mr. Van Der Luyden, tee-hee-hee,'" he said in a falsetto Cockney accent. "The Lady Edith accent was a bit much, don't you think?"

  She smiled, eyes dancing with amusement. "I was getting the measure of him."

  "You were practically letting him measure your tits with his hands," he hissed. "I thought you'd strip right there when he mentioned autographing your breasts."

  "You heard?"

  "He wasn't exactly being discreet," he said through gritted teeth.

  "Well, I learned a lot from that conversation." She bent over and inspected the flower display. "I never knew spring was tulip season. Look at these!"

  "Don't change the subject!"

  "I learned that he likes to be flattered and that his ego—his vanity—is a weak spot. He'd had work done on his face, too, you can tell up close. That's something we can use."

  "We could have learned that through research, asking people who know him, reading gossip—you didn't have to serve your tits on a platter to him!"

  She spun, anger flashing in her eyes. "Will you stop about my ti– what the fuck Carson, are you jealous?"

  He looked like he'd been slapped in the face. He breathed hard through his nose and consciously unclenched his fists, but did not answer.

  "Once you've stopped acting like a caveman you'll realize that I just got you a meeting with our mark next Thursday." She stepped close to him and narrowed her eyes at his tight-lipped face. "Don't apologize all at once." Then she shoved him with one hand and turned to walk towards the bus stop.

  "Peyton—" he called, his voice constricted.

  In front of the bus shelter she turned and coolly watched as he approached. "Get Gustave. I think I know how to do this takedown."

  Chapter 7

  When Peyton had filled in Gustave on her plan over the safe phone, she did not imagine she'd be whisked off to Belgium to wait in a countess's drawing room in two days' time, face to face with her "employer." (Even in her head she said it with air quotes.)

  But she wasn't imagining the straight-backed gilt rococo chair that was starting to make her ass feel like pancake at this very moment, or the too-tight bandage making her forearm itch, or Carson following the swirling lines of the thick antique carpet under their feet with serious concentration, or Gustave—the man himself—pacing the brocade-wallpapered, fussy jewel box of a room.

  It was the first good look she had of Gustave aside from the dark, momentary glimpses during the interrogation. She observed him warily. He wore a well-cut suit of exquisite, smoky gray fabric. His shoes were impeccably shined; and though his hair was longer than what was conservatively expected, it was brushed out of his face and carefully primped with product. But under the suit his body was powerfully built, coiled and tense, and there was darkness to his features that underlined an internal intensity that put her on her guard.

  He obviously knew his way around the room, snaking past a collection of low coffee tables, crystal étagères and swirly-limbed three-seaters to a polished oak table that, within its plum velvet depths, concealed a bar. He extracted a gold-rimmed crystal tumbler, on which he poured out a finger from a bottle half full of what looked like whiskey. It didn't escape Peyton's notice that neither she nor Carson were offered refreshment despite their two-hour wait.

  Suddenly the
carved double doors on the far end of the room opened with a crash. In burst a spindly old lady, mouthing off in French and English.

  "Airports! How horrible! How I deplore commercial travel! I do this all for you, Gustave, you damned man!"

  The woman was skinny but stool erect, hooked nose and chin pushed up to the air, striding across the room like a destroyer. She had a cloud of silver hair shot through with a streak of black. Ropes of pearl and jet hung from her thin neck, swaying against her classic black-and-cream Chanel suit.

  "You're already on the booze," she said sharply, throwing black silk gloves at the table between Carson and Peyton before spreading her arms wide and hugging Gustave. "Ah, mon ami, it has been too long!" she enthused between kissing him on both cheeks. "How are you! Looking quite the hippie, are we?" she brushed the tips of his hair with her spindly pale fingers.

  Gustave responded to her questions with polite, cheerful chatter. As she gushed once again in his arms, she smiled and asked, in French: "And who are these two little shits you've brought?"

  "Careful, my friend," Gustave replied. "They understand you."

  She turned and regarded them with sparkling gray eyes and not a trace of embarrassment. "Is that so? Tant pis pour toi!"

  Disentangling from Gustave, she settled on a large, red velvet seat which seemed to engulf her tiny form: white and black against the crimson throne. "I'd ask you to sit but you're already well settled in my things." Her eyes roved around the room. "My word, but I haven't been here in ages. Has this parlor always looked this poorly? Darling Gustave, you must remind me to take it up with that beastly old Belgian lady who looks after this place. Simply horrid!"

  Gustave smiled with his shark eyes and motioned Carson and Peyton to stand. "May I introduce to you, Anastasia Walsingham de Paravell, Countess of–"

  "Oh Gustave," she rasped in her deep, nicotine-roughened voice. "There's no need for such formalities, not with this crowd."

  "Of course," he said, smiling placidly. "Lady Anastasia, may I introduce my associates Carson Varis and Peyton Riley?"

  "You may," she said, eyes dancing. She held out her hand. Peyton shook it quickly, not wanting to prolong the feel of the old woman's papery skin and delicate bones. Carson stepped forward and, bending low, kissed Lady Anastasia's hand.

  She roared with laughter. "My, my Gustave! How amusing!" Burbling and croaking with mirth, she groped around a side table for a small golden bell and rang it. A hidden side panel opened and a short be-aproned staffer entered, carrying a tray with a silver pot and goblet. The staffer was young and handsome—Peyton thought, height aside, that he looked like a goddamned runway model—and he was stoic as Lady Anastasia beckoned him forward. The goblet was placed in Lady Anastasia's hand, the staffer disappeared just as quickly as he arrived (Gustave's eyes on him the whole time), and the old lady drank deep, drowning her laughter. She emerged from behind the goblet, grimacing painfully, and impatiently waved at them all to sit.

  "Oh, Ana," said Gustave disapprovingly.

  "Oh hush yourself, Gustave!" she snapped. "A woman's got to surround herself with beauty, or what else am I rich for if I should stand for ugly servants?" She turned to Carson and frowned. "I'm not a young girl anymore. You shouldn't make me laugh like that!"

  "I-I-I'm sorry."

  "Hmph," she sniffed, yet the corners of her thin mouth shifted slightly. "Associates indeed. What have you got up in those sleeves of yours?" She rummaged in her black leather pocketbook, pulled out a gold cigarette case and lit a stick of Gitanes.

  Gustave tugged on his pristine cuffs and leaned back on a peach damask chair. "Quite simple, really, my old friend. We have come here to ask your help to thwart a certain undesirable event from occurring."

  Lady Anastasia surveyed them with eyes as hard and gray and shining as pebbles in a streambed. "I find many things undesirable, Gustave, but does this pertain to–?"

  "It does."

  "Well." The word hung in the air as she stared at Carson and Peyton for many minutes. "I say, they certainly do not look that impressive. Good-looking, as the young go, but how do we know they know how to think?"

  "You would be surprised. Peyton, come and tell Lady Anastasia what you told me."

  Lady Anastasia's eyes narrowed slightly and exchanged the merest slip of a questioning glance with Gustave. "Go on then. One does not have all day."

  Peyton steadied herself with a breath. "Lady Anastasia. As you know–"

  "Do not assume, girl, what I know or do not know."

  A burst of temper flared in her chest but she quelled it. Peyton could not shake off the feeling of being in the presence of a fairy tale witch. "I apologize. As I was saying. Gustave hired me and Carson to stop the sale of the Vida Dolor by the painter Tamsin Magraith."

  Lady Anastasia sat imperiously in her red velvet throne, perfectly still but for the smoke curling from her cigarette.

  "We believe it is in the possession of an art dealer named Anja Rubinstein, residing currently in Jordaan," said Carson, voice slightly hoarse from lack of use. "Based on our surveillance and the intelligence we've gathered, we are confident she intends to sell it to Anders Van Der Luyden, a–"

  "I know who Van Der Luyden is."

  Peyton nodded at Carson. "Our goal in this is to halt the sale of the painting, and it seems to me that the most efficient way of accomplishing that is discrediting the dealer."

  The countess raised a thin gray eyebrow. "And how do you intend to do that?"

  "By having her sell a fake painting."

  "Indeed?" A mocking smile settled over her features. "That is all? Why Gustave, this girl is a genius!"

  Peyton licked her lips. "It's really the most efficient way, Lady Anastasia. We pass on a fake painting for her to sell and convince her of a ready, high-profile buyer. The sale takes place, a scandal ensues. Credibility destroyed. She will not sell the Magraith, nor any other, soon."

  Smoke billowed down the countess's nostrils like a particularly irate dragon. "I am beginning to realize exactly why you are all here in my parlor."

  "There really was no other choice," said Gustave silkily, leaning over to pet Lady Anastasia's papery white hand.

  "Somehow I find that hard to believe," she sniffed. "How much are we talking about?"

  "It must be a sizeable figure to be believable," interjected Peyton.

  Gustave named the price.

  The Countess let out a high bark of a laugh. "Consider any possibility of disbelief gone."

  Gustave sipped at his Scotch and smacked his lips. "The accounts are all set up. The sale money comes to me." He smiled wider than ever. "Come on, Ana, you've worked with me countless times before. This is a simple transaction. The sale goes through, it is wired to my account, in two weeks it goes back to you. Easy."

  "Goes back to me with a 25 percent, mmm, service compris."

  "Five percent."

  "Twenty."

  "Fifteen."

  "Done," said the Countess, blowing a plume of smoke directly on Gustave's face. "After all, what should one do with loads of wealth but spend it on foolhardy endeavors?" She faced Peyton. "Now tell me, girl. What is it that you are called again?"

  "Peyton."

  "How do you propose to do this?"

  "Carson will interface with Anja. He's the art man."

  All eyes went to him. The Countess looked up and down his smart blue suit and tan Oxfords and the rumpled easiness of his curls.

  "Quite the charmer. Very wise," said Lady Anastasia.

  Carson tried a humble, wide-eyed tack. "Lady Anastasia, I did help you with an acquisition—a few years back—"

  "Of course I remember, my dear boy, you kissed my hand then as well. So amusing."

  Carson turned scarlet.

  "Dear me, and he blushes like a maid too." Laughter danced in her pebble eyes as she turned to Gustave. "I've always admired your eye for this sort of thing, Gustave; I believe he'll do nicely." She puffed once again on her cigarette. "I don't do appearan
ces though."

  "Of course, Lady Anastasia, all done through wires and the magic of technology," said Gustave.

  "Good. Then I believe this meeting is at an end. Talk to my boy and all that." She stood, brushed off her skirt and picked up her pocketbook. "I must be off. I do detest Brussels."

  She proceeded to the double doors, Gustave, Peyton and Carson following her wake like obedient children. Suddenly, Lady Anastasia turned to Carson. "May I ask? This Anja character. What does she look like?"

  Carson fished inside his breast pocket and pulled out her black and white picture.

  Lady Anastasia donned a pair of black-framed spectacles and peered at the image of the beautiful blonde girl. Slowly her thin lips stretched into a predatory smile, and then she handed back the photograph to Carson with a flourish.

  "Cherchezz le femme," she croaked, and then sailed off in a cloud of flowery old lady perfume.

  Chapter 8

  They wandered the city streets in the pale light of the late afternoon. Much as Lady Anastasia disparaged the city, Brussels was a gorgeous old European town. Or at least they were in the part of the city that still retained that Old World feel, with cobblestones and intricate architecture. Gustave was off entertaining Her Ladyship in some private dining hall or other, leaving them both to their own devices.

  "So where do you think they are?" asked Peyton, slurring slightly. They had found a pretty little eatery inside a 19th century townhouse and proceeded to get well and thoroughly sloshed at the delicious red wines on offer, all on Gustave's tab.

  "Probably back in that stuffy old room," sniffed Carson. He drew her arm and threaded it through his elbow.

  She let him. "And what do you think they're doing?"

  Carson smirked and shot her a smug look. "He has her spread on that red velvet throne, giving the Countess oral pleasure."

  Peyton's shriek bounced off the tram that had just stopped in front of them. Passers-by gave her curious stares; she ducked her head and lightly punched Carson's arm as he pulled her away.