by David Bishop
“I have given you French traitors.”
“And you’re French. If I’m to convince the necessary people you’re worth seven million American dollars, we need to evidence the width and depth of your knowledge reaches across the Atlantic.”
“Just what do you have in mind?”
“The name of the advisor to President Wellington who sells insider information. This will prove your reach exceeds the borders of France, and that you have information of particular importance to America.”
“Ah, yes. The wolf in the chicken coop. I see.”
Testler uncrossed his legs, putting both feet flat on the floor. “With that information I can close your sale for you.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Does anyone on your end know we’re meeting here, now?”
“No one.”
“I have a reason for being in France. A reason that doesn’t connect to you. Should you refuse to give me what I need, to get you what you want, I’ll simply leave the hotel. You’ll leave later when hotel personnel find your body.”
“What do you accomplish by killing me?”
“Disrupt the terrorists’ money moving operation. Create some confusion in their circles. Eliminate a person who adds no value to the world.”
“The insider in President Wellington’s administration who sells information to your enemies is Senior White House Advisor on Middle East policy, Ms. Henrietta Sullivan.”
“Proof?”
Benoit returned to his case and removed a single sheet of paper positioned between two leather separators in the lid. “This will be more than persuasive.” He handed it to Testler.
The paper listed several banks in various cities around the world, with account numbers and amounts for each. “Over the past ten years, during my travels, I’ve deposited cash into these accounts. Depending on the circumstances of the banking rules in various countries, sometimes I’ve been able to do this through interbank transfers. Before coming up to the room, I left an envelope with the concierge to be given to you after I leave the hotel. It has pictures that further support the relationship between Ms. Sullivan and the various terrorist front organizations. There will be some still photos of Mademoiselle Lefebvre with her lesbian lovers.”
“Do these various people know about each other?”
“Robin? Lefebvre? Sullivan? Is that who you mean?”
Testler nodded. “Yeah.”
“No. They’re different spokes in the wheel of terrorism. They know nothing of one another. Like I told you, cash is the circulatory system of terrorism. I know about all of ‘em because I move the money. And they sometimes come to me for financing, like Robin to acquire the flats for Lefebvre’s lovers.”
Testler pursed his lips and squinted.
“That’s enough for now.” Benoit looked intently at Testler. “Do we have a deal?”
“I think I can sell this to the CIA.”
“Just what is it you do?”
“What I’m good at.”
“And what is that?”
“Not important.”
With that, Testler left the room.
Chapter 12
The next day, Elouise Benoit walked into her husband’s master suite while he was packing.
“Where are you off to this time?”
Henri Benoit placed the shirt he held into his overnight valise and turned to face his wife, “London. The same twice-a-month trip I’ve been taking for the past two years. The same old crap.”
“Are you taking her again?”
He ignored Elouise while he slipped a few more items into his case. “You sound like one of those God awful American wives: bitchy and always jealous. I would never live in America, not in a million years. American wives file for divorces whenever a brisk marital wind blows. They become richer and renew their hunt for a new honey. Like them, your gut is full of angry complaints and unfounded accusations, which you nightly barf onto my lap.”
“And what are you, my dear husband? The great martyr who endures the hell of the shrewish wife? You line your pockets with cash from moving terrorist money. You think I don’t know, but I do. At least those men have the balls to do their own killings. Why don’t you just toss me on the heap and get yourself a new young wife? One with big tits and the desire to use them.”
“You think it’s that simple, that shallow. Older men leaving their wives to take up with younger women?”
“Absolutely. That’s what your friends Guy and André did. Both of them. You can’t deny that.”
“I don’t deny they left their wives after they got older. And, that they took up with younger women is also true. But they did not leave their wives simply because their wives were older and the men desired to replace them with younger editions.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me that you and Guy and André volunteered to staff a new French socialist program for testosterone redistribution.”
“No. But the idea has merit.”
“I suppose it was merely coincidental they fell in love with big-chested whores who are crazy about old men with soft dicks. Is that your story? … Just what planet are you from?”
“You know, if we could talk, I mean talk honestly for once since we were very young. I would tell you why those men left their wives.”
“Oh, please. Enlighten me, oh Great One.”
“I said talk honestly. You’re clearly not in that mood.”
“Okay.” Elouise put up her arms, palms toward her husband, pulsing as if each hand had a mini heart of its own. “All right. I’m calm and it might be refreshing if you told the truth for once. Go ahead.”
“Let me make us some martinis, okay?”
“That would be nice.”
Ten minutes later, Benoit returned to the sitting area off his master bedroom. He carried a tray with a pitcher two-thirds full of martinis, two glasses, a small bowl of olives, and a tiny demitasse of olive juice. “Here we go. I brought along the juice because you prefer your martinis dirty.”
Elouise poured one for Henri, adding two olives, and another for herself with two olives and a splash of the juice. “You were about to explain why those two alley dogs left their devoted wives. Tell me why, after using up the women’s best years, they switched to empty-headed younger women with big tits for reasons you claim are other than the obvious.”
“Those men were content with a wife and a mistress and could afford both. But when the wives learned of the mistresses, the wives, not the husbands, filed for the divorces. So, whether or not they actually left their wives is a fundamental point in dispute. The wives grew intolerant of their husbands’ hobbies and left them.”
“Do you blame them for leaving those cheating bastards?”
“Looking at it from the points of view of the women, no, I don’t blame them. However, looking at it from the points of view of the men, I blame the wives equally.”
“So, the wives are at fault for their husbands taking up with mistresses? Oh, please. Spare me your next course of bullshit.”
“All right. If you can’t handle the truth, we shall finish our martinis in silence.”
Elouise refilled their glasses. She set the pitcher down with a shove, it slid across the pewter tray. “Go on.” She paused her shaking head and took a second drink. “Let’s hear it.”
“Older women forget things they knew when they were younger.”
“Such as?”
“Men are visual. They crave looking at women moving around and posing in sexy things. The evidence of this is found in the marketplace. Last year, over 82 billion, in U.S. dollars, was spent on lingerie. As men get older, our desire to be turned on visually doesn’t lessen. Ah, but women, that’s a different story. As they age they lose confidence in their appearance, and stop wearing things to visually appeal to their husbands. That is the point where women forget what they knew when they were younger. And the point where men start thinking about employing a mistress who will appeal to them through their eyes.”<
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“You can’t blame a woman for her appearance changing as she ages. Do you think we give up perky by choice? It happens to all of us, to every woman.”
“Absolutely true, as far as it goes. But we’re discussing why men leave aging wives for younger women, not why women lose their sexual confidence. It’s not the mere fact the ‘other’ woman is younger, it’s the fact that the other woman still possesses the sexual confidence to dress to visually turn on her man.”
“Okay. I accept there are two sides to that coin, and, at the moment, we’re discussing only the man’s side of it. Go on, but I warn you so far I’m not buying what you’re selling.”
“Most men understand that a woman’s body changes as she ages. But when we love a given woman and are with her over the decades, that change is so gradual it’s not a problem. Not if she continues to take a sincere interest in her appearance. I admit it takes work, but if she desires to retain her man’s eyes, she’ll put in that work. A man’s hands follow his eyes, as surely as a bullet follows the tug on a trigger.”
“So, your point is men continue to lust for the sexy look, but older women, giving greater priority to their own vanity, stop providing what their men want.”
“Qui mon chéri. Our culture establishes that most men enjoy sports, fancy cars, and cleavage. Those desires don’t … dissolve at any age. Hugh Hefner was every man’s alter ego. He made a fortune by always surrounding himself with scantily-clad women. Men with enough money don’t stop attending sports events. They continue to drive fancy cars. And, they continue to yearn for women who entertain their eyes.”
“Damn it.” Elouise gulped her martini. “That’s just too frigging simple. It ignores the upheaval women go through. From puberty to our senior years, our appearance gets a great deal of our attention. We cannot turn a blind eye to the obvious deterioration that comes with those years.”
Benoit put his Martini on the side table. He brought his hands close together, his fingers touching their mates on the opposite hand. “Look, it’s not that what you said isn’t so, it’s that most women somewhere beyond fifty trade in sexy for cute when picking outfits. Cute is a word best left to describe puppies and prepubescent girls, not women, certainly not women who wish to tantalize men. And, believe me, my dear wife, when a woman stops tantalizing her man, some other woman is there to satisfy his desire.”
“And, I suppose, the man’s mind and his dick follow his eyes. Is that it?”
Benoit used the plastic pick to pluck one of his olives from his glass and put it into his mouth. “From when a woman first meets her future husband, throughout their lives together, one of the few absolute constants is the man’s visual appetite. Despite the efforts of many wives in their senior years to starve it into submission, the man’s visual appetite doesn’t die. This phenomenon explains our own nation’s famous French postcards from World War II, Playboy magazine, and the enormous popularity of soft porn films. We did some research with respect to a loan we were considering. Measured by either the number of films produced or the revenues and profits generated, soft porn films dwarf the major studios and their blockbuster films.”
Elouise nodded slowly. “I know mistresses are often acceptable in France, but these two couples have lived for long periods in New York and then in London. They’re not traditional French women. But back to the real issue: Is that why André and Guy left Eva and Aimée? It seems so shallow. Their lifetimes together snuffed out because two older women stopped flashing their sagging tits? Is that your explanation?”
Benoit separated his hands and sat back. “That’s the essence of it, I suppose, but it’s more than the shallowness suggested in the coarse way you expressed the point. It could be said their shared lifetimes ended because the wives put their diminished confidence in their appearance ahead of pleasing their husbands. Those two men were willing to sustain the marriages. They still loved their wives. But a lifetime of desire for visual stimulation can’t be turned off like a giant light switch. And here’s the plain truth. Men don’t want to turn it off. It’s integral to being a man and represents a sense of surrendering their manhood for those who do.”
“So, your buddies went in search of a visual turn-on? Their getting laid was just a byproduct?”
“Maybe you need to be a man to really understand. Somewhere around age ten, we boys start really noticing women’s bodies. Over a lifetime the habit becomes second nature. The pleasure regenerates each time we see a good measure of cleavage or a peek of shapely thighs. In the end, like many women, Eva and Aimée, in a second display of their diminished confidence, couldn’t accept that their husbands took mistresses, so they filed for divorce.”
Elouise sat back and crossed her legs. Her knee parted the robe which slid down each side of her thighs. “So, somehow, that’s supposed to justify those two betraying their vows to their wives?” She grabbed the side of her parted robe and jerked it up and over to cover her legs.
“Justification is not the relevant point, my dear woman. I’m explaining a phenomenon that simply exists, not something that might be or should be or shouldn’t be, but a phenomenon that just is. You can’t change a man’s instinctive desire.”
“That smacks of chauvinism. It says women are less than men, and exist only to pleasure the menfolk.”
“Oh, can that women’s lib shit. Women spend fortunes on pushup bras, sexy clothes, perfumes, and having their hair done, all to look hot. Women are totally equal to men in every way, except with respect to sex. When it comes to that, women are superior. They drive the delivery trucks so they decide which men get to tinker under their hoods.”
Elouise grinned at Henri’s simile, then let it fade when her husband went on.
“Women are the sex symbols in the Western world. Sex is used to sell cars, music, movies, everything. Hell, even toys. Stop by the children’s department and take a close look at Barbie dolls or Shrek’s wife. Everything under the sun is promoted with sex. The one exception is long-term marriage. When it’s time for that sale, most women turn frumpy and adopt the styles made popular by their grandmothers. That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Okay, my dear husband. I admit men are visual, but it is also true that women are vain. That’s the nub of all this. The gender clash of two instinctive behaviors.”
“It shouldn’t go unnoticed that after their divorces, both your gal pals slimmed down. Aimée got a tummy tuck and Eva had some doc lift her tits. They’re back to wearing pushups, low-cut tops, and high heels. Had they done those things before their marriages ended maybe there wouldn’t have been mistresses and no divorces.”
Elouise stood. “What about us?”
“You said you liked my simile. Then you jerked your robe over to cover your legs cutting off the visual stimulation. You drive the delivery truck. How do you see all this applying to us?”
“The way I figure it, we’ve been using our friends to have our own little tête-á-tête about our marriage, so here’s my bottom line. I no longer wish to strut around to charge your libido. I’m comfortable with leaving my days as a seductress behind me. Fate will take you where you must go, so let me be as I am. In return, unlike Eva and Aimée, I’ll continue to tolerate your decision to buy the perky tits and willing mouths of younger women. I only ask you to remain discreet. If you are, I won’t snipe at you, even though I know, to use your simile, that you’re doing lube jobs under the hoods of other delivery trucks.”
“Elouise, this is one of our very rare nights of honesty. Tell me, do you really prefer it the way you just said?”
“I don’t know about prefer, but, all things considered, it seems best. It allows us to continue our separate lives together, you as the provider, with your dalliances, and me to manage the staff, our home, and our social calendar.”
“That’s your major point isn’t it, my dear? You desire the material comforts of our marriage, but not the personal intimacy of being my wife.”
Elouise stood, “Thanks for the martinis.
” She walked out of the room and didn’t look back, crossing the hall into her own bedroom. She didn’t slam her door, but neither did she make an effort to close it gently.
Benoit sat on the side of the bed in his master suite for a while, then went out onto the balcony. An eager wind whipped the wings of his smoking jacket. He tugged its cloth tie tighter. It wasn’t particularly cold, just gusty. He took out a disposable phone and dialed. When he finished his call, he flipped his phone shut, glanced at his watch, went inside, tossed his smoking jacket on the bed, latched his valise, and walked out of his home.
Their marriage, energized by the raising of two children and glued together by the goo of overflowing opulence, was now fully consumed by their massive differences.
When he got to his car, he took a final look at the house. Elouise stood in the upstairs window. One of her hands pinned the edge of the drape against the wall. Her other hand rode the considerable ledge of her hip. Suddenly she jerked the drapes to the sides, slid the robe off her shoulders, looked down at him, topless, and gave him the finger.
Benoit opened his car door, got in, gripped the wheel, and smiled. When his smile died, he started the engine, drove around their circular driveway and out onto the street. He braked momentarily, rolled down his window, and tossed the gate remote back over the masonry wall onto the inside yard.
Chapter 13
Earlier that same morning, Ryan Testler went to the American Embassy and arranged to use the CIA’s secure communications room.
“Yes, Ryan, what’s going on over there?”
“Mr. President, later today I’ll meet with the French authorities regarding your doctrine. I’ll have more then. I’m calling now to share something unrelated to your doctrine, but of the utmost importance.”
Over the next twenty minutes, Ryan told President Wellington about his meeting with Henri Benoit and what he had learned, particularly about Ms. Henrietta Sullivan, the president’s senior advisor on Middle East policy.