Last Call For Caviar (16 page)

“Thank you for saying that. I feel so guilty when I think of Beatrizinha. I feel like I let her down.”

She raised her glass, “To Beatrizinha Burnier Azviedo… the most beautiful and generous, sexiest, badass chica to ever rumba!”

“To Beatrizinha.” We clicked glasses.

“But how did you get from running with the wild bunch in Miami to here in Monaco? I wasn’t sure if it was you at first, either. You have changed. Anjuli del Solaire? That must be an intriguing story.”

“You really want to know? What the hell… Interpol isn’t on my tail. The authorities are facing bigger problems than tracking down little old me.”

“I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but I’d heard over the years you worked,” I racked my brain for a polite euphemism, “as a special courier for South American businessmen. I really would like to know, if you don’t mind telling me.”

What I really wanted to ask was, “How did you get away and live to tell the tale?”

“I guess it all started to unravel even before Carlos Montoya from the Norte Valle cartel was indicted in Miami. By then, Colombia became too hot to do business, and most of the cartels moved their operations to Mexico. Carlos must have cut a deal to get immunity, because a lot of guys were suddenly getting popped by the DEA, and Gonzalo Gacha was starting a turf war in Sonora and Baja. It was getting too bloody and too crazy. Ice coolers left by the side of a busy main street in Tijuana with a dozen decapitated heads of Mexican Federales inside—as a warning. I mean, it was just a couple of blocks from the San Diego side of the border. That’s just crazy shit—like poking a rattlesnake with a stick—to bring down that kind of heat. There were payback hits all over the place. It was insane.” She took a long swallow from her drink and filled up her glass once again.

“When Jose Cruz was killed—he was Ochoa Vasquez’s younger half brother—I got out. I don’t know if I was ever really in love with Jose, but we’d been together a long time, and he was always good to me, so I stuck with him. I knew too much by then, even though all I dealt with was the money placement side of the business, and I couldn’t start over in that world again. I could have been indicted along with the rest of them, or killed to keep my mouth shut.” She stopped and took a breath.

“I’d stashed enough money away over the years, so I decided it was time to run. I always knew this day would come. I wanted to get as far away from South America—and North America—as I could, so I went out to India.”

“Why India? That’s such a change from what you knew.”

“But that’s just the point. I didn’t know anyone—or anything about anyone—there. I had enough money to live well while I figured things out. I guess I just felt so dirty after all I’d seen. In the beginning it’s all parties, jewelry, sexy Latino guys who know how to mambo, and fast cars. I got in so deep, always running so fast, I couldn’t stop. I chose India because all I wanted to do was get lost in the crowds, to hide out. I didn’t realize it at the time, but subconsciously, I was trying to find a way to cleanse myself of the stench, the moral stain of those years. I guess I hoped somehow I could find my way back to who I once was. I was so tired of it all… so fucking tired.”

It seemed like Lucy was being straight with me, the rum loosening her tongue. But I reminded myself that Lucy needed me sympathetic to her cause.

“So you went directly to India?

“Eventually I ended up there, but first I made a detour to see Dr. Pitanguy in Rio. Dr. Ivo didn’t do the work—he’s retired now—but he was the best. It was one of the doctors at his clinic. I wanted to start over and not have anyone from my past, especially from the cartels, recognize me. But I guess you proved that I haven’t changed enough.” Her eyes narrowed in speculation at that thought.

“But why did you start studying Vipassana meditation? And the meditation centers?” I prompted once again.

“I knew India was a place where people from all over the world came to seek spiritual guidance. I met some people in Mumbai who were going on a retreat, and they invited me along. I didn’t really know what I was getting myself into, but that trip saved my life. It was a silent retreat, meaning two weeks of meditation, fasting and no speaking allowed. I’d never done any meditation or yoga before. It simply changed my life. I felt reborn, like I had a new slate to start again. It actually started as simply as that.”

“Wow, that’s amazing! I can see you’re nothing like the girl you were before. You’ve been reborn.” I hoped I wasn’t laying it on too thick as I tried to bond with Anjuli-Lucy and get her to spill more beans. “I’m really interested in what you’re saying. You really feel this can help anyone who is lost—even someone like me—in need of answers?”

“When I understood how it had transformed me, healed my self-hatred and sorrows, I wanted to share this with the world. And I feel like I have a mission now to help bring everyone to this awareness. The power we hold inside us, in our consciousness, is more powerful than any nuclear bomb. It’s a power that can literally heal the world. And yes, if you gave it a chance, I’m sure you would be transformed, too.”

Anjuli’s voice was slightly slurred, and I wondered when she’d swapped out the Cacique rum for the Kool-Aid. She seemed truly to believe this new-age mantra she was spouting. I tasted my glass again and felt only a mellow glow. Nope, it wasn’t working on me; all I could taste was the delicious bite of the rum.

“These last couple of years, I’ve been traveling the world, raising money to open new centers, trying to spread our message of peace and hope. I met Graciella in India last summer when she was doing a retreat at one of our Sun Centers, and she told me about her life in Monaco. Because of her generosity, we’ve been able to open a center here in Europe. This continent is our newest initiative. The people of Europe are exhausted and decadent. They need healing. With so many people terrified and lost, our spiritual side is the only hope for mankind.”

“I’ll bet you’re already finding Monaco to be full of people seeking guidance.”

I hoped I was making all the right noises and sounding suitably impressed. But what I really wanted to hear were the juicy bits about how she’d come to be hooked up with that psychotic bad boy, Slava.

Giovanni had laid down the law before my meeting: it was a thirty-minute lecture on how I wasn’t here to dig up any information on the connection between Anjuli and Slava. I was here to convince Anjuli-Lucy I was harmless and get out in one piece. Joe seemed to think I was too much of a smart ass for my own good; he’d even called me that! I didn’t see why I couldn’t do both: convince Anjuli I was no threat and do some amateur sleuthing on the side as opportunity allowed. I sat there trying to figure out how to turn the conversation Slava’s way.

“I didn’t realize this was the first Sun Center in Europe. Which other countries do you have a presence in?”

“Well, of course, the heart of our faith is still in India, but we also have centers in other Southeast Asian countries like Thailand, Sri Lanka and Bangladesh.”

“How about in Russia?”

She looked at me quizzically, then answered in the same serene, slurred manner, as if she was reciting from a brochure: “Until recently, countries where people already have either a strong spiritual heritage or have known great deprivation have been the most receptive to our message. But we hope one day to make inroads into all nations and touch all souls.”

“So you came here to Monaco by Graciella’s invitation? The night at Sheik Sakr bin Zayed’s party, you seemed to know a lot of people. For some reason, I thought you had met Graciella in Monaco and come here on your own, or possibly sponsored by someone else?”

“I came here last summer with Graciella, when we first decided to open a center in Europe, to look for a suitable location. I’ve only been here since April, getting the center up and running.”

As for Lucy, her story seemed plausible so far. I could readily imagine Graciella flying her newest guru into town on her G5. It was a great set-up she had here: a mansion, light meditation in the morning, afternoons free. That she skirted my question about any centers in Russia proved nothing. Short of tossing her rooms for evidence, it seemed my interrogation techniques weren’t going to get me the information I sought.

I decided to switch tack and jump in feet-first. “Does Graciella know anything about your past?”

“No. She only knows I am from Brazil originally. She thinks my father was a diplomat and that I grew up all over the world. I told her India was his last posting before his death, and I made it my adoptive homeland. You, in fact, are the first person in years to confront me about my past. So what is it that you want, Maya? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” From the look she gave me, I realized Anjuli-Lucy wasn’t as drunk as I thought.

I thought about what I could say. I could tell her about Julian, or about my family hiding out in Oregon, but decided the best strategy was to keep it simple. As behavorial science books say, mirroring someone else’s gestures or thoughts can make one appear more sympathetic, and an ally, so I took a page from her book.

“I just want to go home. Like you said, Lucy—I’m tired… so fucking tired. I want to be with my family. I’m done here.”

“Where is your family? Aren’t you from California?”

“They’re in the Pacific Northwest now, but it’s too dangerous to fly into New York and then travel overland out west. I need to find a way to get to Vancouver in British Columbia. Going through Canada is the safest route. I can cross the border easiest into the U.S. from there.”

“I can see your problem. There aren’t many commercial flights going that way. Traveling alone—a woman—across America…It would be safer partying with the cartel in Medellin! You’ll need to go private to Vancouver.”

Even if I gave her the benefit of the doubt and accepted she truly had found religion, her years running money for the cartels must have taught her that sometimes there’s no avoiding dirty work. The idea that I disappear from Monaco by my own free will appealed to her.

“Well, obviously you don’t have your own jet, or how to get there wouldn’t be an issue. So that’s what it comes down to… for your silence? Help you get to Vancouver? I didn’t imagine it would be easy. I expected you were going to ask for a lot more.”

“I’m done here, Lucy… I just wanna go home.”

“And you will keep my secret?”

“Girl, I knew you in the day. I told you I was a big fan. I’d never drop a dime on Lucia Montero Brown. And also because of Beatrizinha. She wouldn’t want me to harm her little girl.”

“Let me ask around and see what I can do. I’ll let you know.”

I wasn’t sure if I could trust Anjuli del Solaire, although maybe I could once have trusted Lucy Brown. And she wasn’t sure if I was too good to be true, either.

Anjuli-Lucy del Solaire Montero Brown and I clinked glasses to our tentative understanding and tossed our shots of rum back down. We were stuck with each other for now.

If nothing else, I had bought some time. But that’s all I seemed to be doing these days—buying time.

.

CHAPTER 19

M
IDNIGHT AT THE
O
ASIS

Bilal took me directly to the Emirati Embassy from the Sun Center. I thought the cover story about a reception there had been just that, but it seemed he’d gotten new orders while I was whiling away the afternoon drinking rum in Anjuli’s boudoir. If joining the Sun Center was really about afternoon booze-ups instead of incense and chanting in darkened rooms, I might seriously have to reconsider.

The truth was I’d had fun. Lucy Brown was a gal who left a wide trail, as they say in Texas, and once we made our truce, with the rum greasing her memory, she regaled me with tales from her colorful past. It must be hard to always have to play a role, and maybe Lucy found it a relief to let her mask drop for a few short hours. There was a part of me that wanted to believe she’d found redemption in India, although seeing her lounging on that endangered animal skin-covered divan brought to mind the old adage that a leopard never changes its spots.

So here I was, standing before the imposing gates of the Emirati Embassy. After the buzz from the Cacique, I wasn’t up to making the switch to polite conversation with the politicos of the Principality. Besides, my meeting had brought a lot of old memories to the surface. I really just wanted to go home, kick off these heels that were killing my arches, let my hair down and pass out.

It was a relief to find there was no diplomatic reception taking place. Abdul awaited me in a small sitting room, eager to hear what had transpired.

Today, he was dressed casually in jeans, a black Dolce and Gabbana t-shirt and tennis shoes, the tribal gear packed away. He was leaving in the morning for Abu Dhabi, for the month of Ramadan. I imagined this is how he must have looked back in the days when he was studying at Caltech, and wondered for a second how our lives might have been different if we’d met then.

We’d spent a lot of time getting to know each other in the last week. He had a wife and two young sons back in the Gulf, and though the attraction still simmered between us, I didn’t really see how I would be able to fit in with his life.

Recently, life along the Riviera was imitating an iconic film noir; we were all characters—gay smiles plastered on our faces to hide the desperation—gathered around the piano in Rick’s American Café, waiting for the next plane out: thugs and resistance fighters, crooks and princes, crooners and whores. People whose paths would never have crossed in our old life were now thrown indiscriminately together.

Abdul had a whole other life waiting for him back in Abu Dhabi. I didn’t know, in the end, if he was Rick, the hero, or just a mystery that might never be solved.

Lately, he insisted that Bilal drive me. Moreover, more than once I smelled the peculiar odor of the Turkish cigarettes Bilal smoked wafting on the night from the street side of my wall at home. I guess he’d set Bilal to guarding the perimeters of my property on certain nights.

I confided my situation to Abdul, glossing over my need to see Julian one last time, and leaving out the part of my midsummer’s night fantasy. Nor did I tell him anything about my afternoons roaming the hills with Buddy or the location of my hideaway at the Astrarama. Intuition—or possibly self-preservation—made me keep quiet about my back-up plans.

I knew Abdul—and Giovanni even more—would freak out if they knew I sheltered out in the hills far from home, with only Buddy for company and my gun for security. Neither would understand the freedom I experienced that night after the storm, my worries forgotten during the hours I spent stargazing before dawn.

I didn’t even want to contemplate their reaction if they knew about the runaways, Luca and Joanna, or my part in helping them to escape the hunters from the Farm.

Nor could I share with either Giovanni or Abdul about my run-in with the back country psychopath. Even though I’d been resourceful enough to escape his trap, forget it! If they knew, I’d have a babysitter from then on, even when I went to the loo.

Everyone had an agenda these days, and while Giovanni, in his preoccupation with Slava, appeared to have forgotten his promise to help me find Julian, I hadn’t. Abdul was leaving tomorrow for the month of Ramadan, but Bilal would be staying behind in Monaco. If Abdul offered his services while he was away, I had a plan in my devious little brain for how to put Bilal to use.

Still, I would miss Abdul when he was gone. Tonight would be our last night, and finally, we were dining alone. I didn’t know where he was taking me. It was to be a surprise. He would pick me up at 9 p.m.

He saw me looking at him, taking in the broad shoulders and muscular arms, straight black hair, sexy mouth and long-lashed dark eyes. He recognized the speculative gleam in my eye.

He came from behind the desk and stood close, our bodies almost touching, I could feel the heat radiating from him, and he whispered, our lips a fraction apart, “What are you thinking? You have a devilish look in your eye.”

“Oh, nothing. Just enjoying the view. I better get home or I’ll never be ready for our date tonight.”

He pulled me close and lightly brushed his lips across mine. The butterflies in my belly started doing back flips. Laughing, he gave me a playful swat on my butt. “You’re right, Maya… You better leave now or you’ll never get away… Go on then…I’ll pick you up at 9 p.m.”

I stood in front of my closet, trying to decide what to wear. If I wanted to become the mistress tonight of this sexy-but-very-married man, the way to go would be easy-access, meaning slinky and commando.

If I didn’t want to become the mistress of this sexy-but-very-married man, my only option would be an industrial-strength chastity belt whose key I would swallow before leaving my home, so I couldn’t change my mind later in a moment of weakness. Still, Abdul radiated such heat, he would probably be able to melt the lock with one sizzling glance.

The heat, humid and heavy like a towel left in a steam room, decided it for me. This was no weather for sweating in a burka. I decided to go island-bling and choose a dress perfect for sultry Caribbean nights. It fell in a drift of sheer jade silk to my ankles. A pair of evening beach thongs, my toenails painted Hot to Trot shocking pink, peeked demurely from beneath the hem. Chic and semi-transparent in the right light, it wasn’t so elegant I couldn’t run barefoot through the sand if the mood came over me.

I decided against going commando. I could always slip the offending garment off later in the evening, if the need arose. I had plenty of room in my bag for the Glock and to stash my g-string if circumstances warranted. Trying to fit a chastity belt in there would have been impossible.

At 9:05 p.m., Abdul arrived, dressed all in white. He still wouldn’t tell me where we were going, but we headed west on the Basse Corniche towards St. Jean Cap Ferrat. There was rarely any traffic on the roads this late; there weren’t any restaurants that stayed open for the dinner hour, as most people were cowering at home by nightfall. Though the gangs from the “quartier chaud” of L’Ariane kept the Gendarmes busy on the nights they went on a rampage, looting and vandalizing properties closer to Nice.

Abdul took the road that led onto the Cap Ferrat. The purr of his Porsche Turbo’s engine down-shifting was the only sound to break the stillness of the night as we wound through the narrow streets lined with walled estates. Most were shrouded in darkness and stood empty, though occasionally we would pass a security detail at the gate to one of these properties, the glow of cigarettes and semi automatics at the ready, a sign the owners were still in residence behind the massive walls.

We finally pulled into a parking lot at land’s end on the Cap, the darkened silhouette of the shuttered Grand Hotel du Cap Ferrat on the rise behind us and the sea crashing on the rocks below. The Club Dauphin lay nestled among the winding paths and gardens just above the shore, but like the Grand Hotel, it had been shuttered and closed for six months or more.

Surprisingly, there was a guard at the gate to let us in; glowing lanterns illuminated the path. The glass funicular was waiting, and we descended to the pool and restaurant below.

A liquid world of moonlight and water spread around us; soft music played and in the center, a candlelit table for two. Champagne cooled on ice, everything prepared for a poolside dinner, although the rest of the open-air restaurant was deserted. Maybe there were guards stationed on the perimeter to make sure we wouldn’t be disturbed, but there were no visible restaurant personnel. On this magic night, there was just Abdul and me.

The rich could live out any fantasy imaginable, and tonight Abdul had orchestrated the most perfectly sexy and romantic setting for seduction. I could already feel my g-string stirring; trying to untie itself and slither down around my ankles.

Caviar and blinis, thin slices of smoked salmon, slivers of perfect oysters, avocados and crab, crisp ice-cold Chablis Premier Cru and pink Cristal; I gave in… who could blame me? Abdul stuffed me full of aphrodisiacs, poured delicious nectar down my throat. Though he didn’t hold a gun to my head. He danced with me barefoot in the moonlight and swam with me naked in the pool.

When he led me to one of the tented cabanas—more candlelight, soft sheets and rose petals strewn on the bed—I was so well and truly seduced, I was putty in his hands.

Yet there was a moment when I could have stopped it.

“I want you so much, Maya… but are you sure?” he murmured while trailing kisses across my breasts. His fingers tracing lazy circles ever higher on the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. Then, I felt his fingers teasingly brush back and forth against me. There.

I stared, hypnotized, into his dark, hooded eyes, the half-smile that played about his lips and his white teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Shivers of delight rippled along my nerve-endings. I moaned from sheer pleasure, as his caresses became more and more insistent. Something shifted in his gaze. The half-smile was gone and in his eyes there was a hunger—darker, possessive—sexy as hell. Heated flooded my belly. My toes curled up in surrender.

I think if at that moment, he’d tried to stop, I would have put the Glock up side his head. Murmuring, “Yes,” I let him wrap me in a web of caresses, until the taste of him, and the feel of his hands and lips roaming over my body, made me forget everything else. My body was drowning in pure sensation. My heartache over Julian was momentarily forgotten. My misgivings over having an affair with a married man were swept aside.

We spent hours in the tent, laughing and talking. And making love—again and again.

The sky was just turning pink and gold when he dropped me off at home, both of us tousled. I was floating on a cloud—and at the same time—very tender in all the right places. I was ready to sleep round the clock. Abdul wouldn’t be seeing the backs of his eyelids for a while; his plane was leaving at 10 a.m.

It had been a night of seduction and surprises, so maybe I should have been ready when he said, “I hate leaving you for a whole month. Giovanni’s right. You should move into Monaco. It isn’t safe here alone.”

I started to protest, but he silenced me with a kiss instead. “I know, I know. You want to stay in your home as long as you can. I understand. But it’s only going to get worse here, and Monaco isn’t going to be safe all that much longer, either.”

He looked me straight in the eye. “I want you to think about it when I’m gone. Don’t answer now. I want you to come back to Abu Dhabi with me, away from this danger. I can take care of you. I can protect you there.”

I didn’t know what to say. Tonight had been an interlude of romance and seduction, stolen from the real world and time. He had a wife. He had children. I thought I could handle it, but suddenly the dream was sitting heavy in my belly like an undigested meal. Maybe I had been fooled by the Cali accent and his worldly ways, but my instinctive reaction was fierce. I wasn’t even remotely interested in being locked up in a harem in some mangy desert on the other side of the world.

Then, he kissed me, and as his lips lingering on mine, I felt myself wavering. Damn! Abdul was good.

“Just promise me you’ll think about it while I’m gone. We’ll work everything out when I’m back.”