by Sharn Hutton
Jerry and Spink stared at each other wide-eyed.
“Holy shit,” Jerry gasped. This was either a massive opportunity or a fucking disaster.
“Don’t get excited, Adler,” Spink growled, composing himself. “I’m not going anywhere,” and with that he stood and stepped out in front to shake Locksley’s hand. “I won’t let you down, sir.”
Jerry unfolded himself from the sofa and crowded up behind Spink to urge him out of the way. He too shook the now standing Locksley’s hand, but couldn’t find the arrogant confidence that Spink seemed to have in such abundance. He thrashed about his head for something suitably impressive and business-like to say and, “I’ll get all my ducks in the pond, sir,” was all he could manage.
Spink snorted with delight.
FOURTEEN
STUCK AT THE OTHER END OF THE BUILDING, JERRY’S OFFICE WASN’T FEELING THE BENEFIT OF THE AUTUMN SUN. He kicked at the ancient squat heater and it stuttered into life.
His desk was shoved up into the corner of a small dowdy room, in the original Georgian building that fronted the office space. Grey northern light seeped in through sash windows which were barred into eighteen tiny panes, chopping up the unsavoury view of the car park into bite-sized chunks. Their old frames rattled in the wind and Jerry rubbed cold hands together.
Precarious piles of files and loose paper teetered on his desk. This was no way for the next Sales Director to organise himself. Jerry resolved to tidy up. He selected a pile at random and worked his way through it. His nerves jangled and his head ached. What a surreal day.
The meeting with Dial had been a nightmare. Now he understood why Brian Cripps was such a miserable bastard, with Marcus Barnes as his boss. The pair of them plus Spink’s off topic ramblings had sent the whole thing down the Swanny. Jerry had never sweated so much in half an hour as he had in Conference Room 2.
And now this job bombshell. Jerry had known the company was under pressure, but to be put into competition with Spink, well it was unexpected and more than a little bit scary.
An hour later, Jerry had put away all his filing, created an ‘action’ pile and a worrisome stack of personal bills. Rifling through his work bag, looking for today’s cheese and pickle, he’d found a wad of unopened envelopes and thought better of continuing to ignore them. It turned out that only a handful had been the junk mail he’d hoped for, the majority being ever more pressing unpaid bills.
He gritted his teeth and opened the bank statement.
As usual, Isabell’s monthly maintenance payment cut his salary in half. The nursery furniture had made a substantial dent in what was left and, if history was anything to go by, they’d be in the red by the end of the week with payday still a fortnight off. Jerry scrunched up his eyes and rubbed at his hair. He was living to regret the ‘quickie’ divorce settlement he’d reached with Isabell.
He should call her and tell her it was too much, that he was getting a solicitor this time. He could handle the hysterics and the late night phone calls and the overdramatised ‘suicide notes’ posted through his door. Hmm, well solicitors were very expensive and he wasn’t feeling all that flush and he needed to be a home for Peanut and, well he didn’t like all that confrontation business. OK?
He was scanning through the third page of the credit card statement when his phone rang.
“Hi, Jerry, Phyllis in Accounts. Your expenses have come back unsigned. You coded them against client accounts that aren’t yours.”
“I don’t think so.” Jerry frowned into the receiver.
“Well I’m looking at the system now. PC City, Parker & Co and Dial Diagnostics are all allocated to someone else,” Phyllis whined.
Jerry tapped at his keyboard and brought up the accounts. The account hander details had been changed to Spink.
“I’ll come back to you.” He hung up and tabbed through the client list. Spink had gone through the system, claiming any account that he’d visited even once as his own.
Jerry stabbed out his extension number on the internal phone.
“Speak.”
“Spink, you can’t just troll though the system stealing my accounts,” Jerry wailed into the handset.
“Your accounts? No, no, Adler. I’ve just been doing a little housekeeping, updating the system. I’ve had a little chat with MY clients this afternoon, just so they know who to call. I’ll keep them happy now.” The menace in his voice was unmistakable.
Jerry hung up, shocked by how fast things had degenerated. While he’d been farting about and tidying up, Spink had been pilfering his best customers. Jerry pulled out his card file and punched in the first of many numbers. He needed to get busy before Spink stole the lot.
FIFTEEN
REMI SPRANG FROM THE SWELTERING HELICOPTER. Its blades still beating overhead whipped the air into a thick dusty soup. He slipped through the open limo door and settled into his air conditioned haven from the choking desert heat.
Stretching out, he rolled his head, pulled the pack from the door pocket and scanned through its contents. His mission ID was Charles Bamford-Irons, eccentric billionaire, playboy and philanthropist. Remi smiled: Aqua had set it up, just like he’d asked.
Knowing his destination was a mere ten minutes transfer, he was keen to get into character. He stripped away the sweaty black T-shirt and combats, relishing the icy air on his naked skin, before dressing in the sharp charcoal suit laid out on the seat. The limo pulled out into four lanes of traffic and Remi looked out though tinted glass at his surroundings. The gargantuan forms of hotels and casinos that had excited the skyline from the chopper, now seemed looming and oppressive, were his task equally as tall. Remi felt the throb of adrenalin and snapped his attention back to the pack.
The envelope contained a passport featuring one of Remi’s more suave headshots, a driving licence, Platinum and Gold cards, fifty thousand dollars in cash, a wad of business cards and an earpiece, which he slid into his ear. A small thin screen unfolded from the ceiling in front of his face and performed an identity scan. Aqua spoke in his ear, “Briefing commencing in five, four, three, two…”
Passport photos and intelligence snap shots flashed up on the screen. “Maximus Pink has been located attending the ‘Crusaders of Justice’ consortium at the Bellagio, Las Vegas. Already well-established as an underground faction of high level weapons dealers and terrorists, the COJ have decide to branch out. They’ve set their sights on a new goal: to hold the world’s superpowers to ransom and redistribute gold reserves into their own back pockets.
“They intend to achieve this via a syndicate of third world governments.” Images on the screen scrolled and changed. “The COJ have corrupt government officials contracted to feed the majority of funds straight back into the consortium to ensure continued inclusion. This front is essential to gain the financial support of philanthropic investors beyond the group’s core membership.
“The plans you stole from Kitty Princesa have allowed us to block major resources, but if investors continue to be taken in by their deceptions, it’s only a matter of time before they circumnavigate our blockades. Your mission is to gain the consortium’s confidence as a backer and infiltrate their circle. Obtain any information you can on the fund management and membership. Good luck, Agent Red. This message will erase in five, four, …” Remi tossed the earpiece to the floor where it fizzed for a moment, then lay inert.
The screen folded itself away and Remi looked out onto The Strip, its neon taking on new life in the creeping twilight. The pavements were alive with people, all on diversions from their run of the mill. Remi felt their excitement and it compounded his own. Tangling with Kitty Princesa had been a breeze. He’d researched Maximus Pink already and he knew his weaknesses. Pink was fiercely competitive. Perhaps it was his less than average height that made him want to more than measure up. Or maybe looking old beyond his years, ravaged by tussles with other villains and a life of excess, he wanted power to be what attracted others to him. He had to be the richest; th
e bravest; the smartest. His competitive nature was a flaw that Remi could exploit.
If only Jerry could work out how to exploit Spink’s flaws.
The limo turned in ahead of the famous fountains and pulled under the Bellagio’s ornate entrance canopy. Straightening his clothes, Remi absorbed the identity of Charles Bamford-Irons and pocketed his wallet.
One nonchalant hand in his jacket pocket, he strode, straight-backed, across the polished marble of the foyer. Head held aloft, his confident demeanour drew the attention of interested eyes behind reception. They followed his progress to an empty stretch of counter, away from the gaggle of weekend gamblers and holidaymakers, and a young smart suited receptionist scurried to the spot he had chosen to greet him. She smoothed her hair.
“Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to the Bellagio. How may I assist you today?”
Remi raised his eyes to hers. “Charles Bamford-Irons checking in.” He smiled with a twitch to one eyebrow. She fluffed at the keyboard and blushed, staring hard at the screen. Remi guessed she was scanning his profile: Charles Bamford-Irons would be listed as a primo high roller who warranted special attention.
“Our pleasure to welcome you again, Mr Bamford-Irons. We are delighted to offer you our Presidential Suite for the duration of your stay. Your secretary has called ahead to check you in. If I could just have your passport, please, sir.” Remi plucked it from his pocket and placed it in her hand. Their fingers touched for a moment and she blushed a deeper shade of pink.
“Here is your key card, sir. Please also accept our Noir Loyalty and Club Privé cards with the Managers compliments. These cards will afford you access to privileges reserved only for our most treasured guests.”
“Oh?” Remi raised a quizzical eyebrow. She gazed back at him.
“Yes. Our spa therapists are at your disposal. We can make dinner reservations or perhaps you would like some show tickets? Of course you are also welcome at Club Privé—our most exclusive private gaming rooms.”
Remi drew his cards and passport across the cool counter and tucked them into his top pocket.
“I’ll be sure to remember that, thank you.” With a smile he turned to the patient bell hop, now clutching his Louis Vuitton. “Lead the way.”
~
Remi strode through the welcoming doors of Club Privé the very image of a billionaire playboy. Debonair in bespoke Armani and expensive cologne, diamonds glittered at his cuffs. Comfortable with the art deco splendour of warm wood and sparkling glass, he tasted the oxygen-rich air and felt his confidence grow. He’d have to be careful not to relax too much.
The small group of men inside this room were the elite staying at the hotel. A couple were rich businessmen, a handful of celebrities, others from titled families, but most important of all, members of the COJ. Remi had had no doubt that the top brass would be here tonight and his confidence was rewarded. Right away he recognised Maximus Pink from the briefing and other faces fell into place as he scanned the room.
The club hostess swept across the oriental carpet in Chanel and Louboutins to greet him.
“Mr Bamford-Irons, good evening. What is your pleasure?”
There was an opening at Pink’s table. “Blackjack. Let’s start there.”
“Of course.” She guided him to the seat he’d already picked out for himself.
“A bottle of Krug, 1990 if you’ve got it,” Remi said, surveying his fellow players.
At the other end of the table a fat man in a grey lounge suit pressed himself against the cushioned table edge, eager for the next hand: unlikely to be part of the consortium. Beside him a swarthy man, probably mid-thirties, uncomfortable in a tuxedo, worried at his collar: a henchman. Next along was his target, Maximus Pink. The long scar that ran through his eyebrow and on to his cheekbone marked him out from the crowd. His hair greyed at the temples to match unruly eyebrows and his diet of cigars and single malt had yellowed his eyes and drawn a thousand tiny thread veins across a bulbous nose. His tuxedo was crisp and well cut. He spun an emerald pinkie ring with the adjacent finger and starred at Remi quite unselfconsciously. Remi had interrupted their game and pressed Pink’s first button by ordering expensive champagne. Another knowledgeable and rich man at the table would need to be enlightened as to who the alpha was.
“Good evening, gentlemen, may I join you?” Remi wore his most congenial smile.
Pink appeared content to have been asked and nodded. “Please.” He eyed the bottle, placed between them in a cooler. “Celebrating already?”
“It’s been a wonderful day.”
Pink pursed his lips and returned his attention to the game.
The players pushed their chips out onto the table and the dealer placed two cards before each man, flipping over a jack and leaving another face down in front of himself. Fat man took another card and bust. Henchman watched, detached. Pink took another card and bust. He didn’t look all that bothered about losing five hundred dollars. Remi turned over his cards. Seventeen. His five-thousand-dollar bet loomed large on the table and he felt the eyes of the other players on him.
“Hit.”
The dealer laid the four of hearts next to his hand and flipped his own remaining card to reveal a six. Twenty-one for Remi and sixteen for the dealer. Pink exhaled. Now Remi had shown him Bamford-Irons was a risk taker and a potential threat.
The next hand and, not to be outdone, Pink matched Remi’s five-thousand-dollar bet. This time he won and Remi lost. He twiddled the ring. “Bad luck.”
“No problem, I’ve had a superb day. Won’t you join me in a glass of Krug? I hate to drink alone.”
Pink accepted the drink and the two men chinked glasses.
“I come every year. It’s my vice.” Remi went on, “Everything I win goes to my charities. Makes the gambling OK in my book.” He snorted a laugh into the flute.
Pink watched him with scepticism. “Oh yes? What did you win last year?”
“Just shy of a million. It would have been more, but I was just learning Baccarat and couldn’t get the hang of it.” He grinned at Pink. “Men like us, well we don’t need the winnings, do we? The payoff is in the exhilaration of the game and a bloody good holiday. I’m giving it to the street kids in Mumbai this year. Poor little buggers.”
Pink twisted his seat to face Remi full on. His head tilted in thought. “You like to think of yourself as a philanthropist?” Pink was probing.
Remi chuckled. “Well that’s a big word for a small deed. I like to share things out a little.” He pushed ten thousand dollars into his betting circle ready for the next hand. Pink watched it slide and turned back to the game. “You and I are similar creatures,” he said.
Pink was taking the bait.
“I’ll leave my winnings in play,” Remi told the dealer. They played the hand, both Pink and Remi won. They grinned at each other, Pink sizing up his competition.
“So how are we similar?” Remi leaned in. “You looking out for the street kids too?”
“Not specifically, but I am in Vegas to be part of a group of like-minded men—all looking to help our third world brothers and sisters.”
“Oh?” Remi nodded with enthusiasm and Pink indicated to the dealer that he too would let his winnings stay in play. A pair of jacks for Remi: another win. Pink’s nineteen beat the dealer too.
“The superpowers have held too much of the world’s wealth for too long.” Pink’s nostrils flared. “My colleagues and I want them to see the error of their ways. We must convince them to be more even handed.”
Another hand, the winnings added to the pot. Remi had around thirty thousand dollars in play, Pink a little less. Henchman was pulling at his collar. Fat man removed his winnings, if any, each time and stacked them with precision. The bet was always the same. He was breaking even.
“How would you go about convincing these superpowers?” Remi asked, looking at the next pair of cards placed before him. A five and a six. “Hit.” A queen. Pink checked his cards, a natural Blackjack. The
cards were running in their favour.
“It’s no easy task. A political minefield, as you can imagine. Our consortium seeks the thing that is most important to them and threatens to deprive them of it if they don’t do what we want.”
“Sounds like terrorism.”
Pink bristled. “More like disciplining a naughty child. They must behave themselves or get their treats taken away.” He looked down, his eyes almost closed for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was hushed. “Our members have the power to redirect oil away from its intended destination. Convoluting the route has huge implications farther down the line in our favour, but the cost to us is enormous.”
Remi nodded, “How exciting, a truly proactive approach. Straight to the heart of the matter.”
Both men nodded to the dealer that their chips remained in play. An ace and a nine for Remi. A king and a seven for Pink. Pink paused in deliberation then decided not to risk another card. The dealer revealed nineteen, beating Pink’s hand. Henchman went rigid, flicking only his eyes to Pink, whose jaw clenched as his chips were swept away, regret of his cowardice evident in his expression.
“Oh bad luck,” said Remi, resisting a smile.
Pink declined to make another bet, but Remi’s chips remained in play: seventy-five thousand teetering in his betting circle. All eyes at the table were on him. He accepted two cards. Just him and the dealer now.