One Way or Another: A Novel (13 page)

She smiled at the thought and Ahmet smiled back. He had very good teeth. She just wished he would take off the tinted glasses.

Always one to speak whatever was on her mind, she said, “Why do you always wear those glasses?”

Ahmet automatically put up a hand to adjust them, contemplating what to say. Certainly not the truth, which was that he rarely allowed anyone to look directly into his eyes because he was afraid they might see who he really was. This charming young woman had no idea, sitting in this civilized restaurant amid civilized people enjoying a civilized dinner, that he would kill her as easily as pouring her another glass of wine. Not yet, of course, but in due time. He contemplated how much he would enjoy that act, how he would enjoy seeing the fear in her eyes as she realized her fate, how much pleasure he would derive from seeing her naked dead body, when she would finally, completely belong to him, and only him, forever more. He had not yet answered her question.

“Why?” Lucy asked again, taking a sip of the wine he had just poured.

“My eyesight has been bad since childhood. My family was poor, and by that I mean deprived.” Ahmet waved a hand over the table, indicating the lavish food, the chicken parmigiana, the spaghetti, the delicately dressed green salad with anchovies and capers, the warm bread and the saucer of rich olive oil; the second bottle of expensive wine. “We were fortunate to eat at all. And what we ate,” he shrugged, “it’s better not to remember.”

Lucy’s shocked blue eyes stared into his. She reached out to touch his hand, full of sympathy. “How awful for you, I feel so badly now, with all my complaints. I mean, I was hungry but that’s my own fault. My sister says I should get a job, but eventually, she always comes through, helps me out. Financially, you know.”

“Tell me about your sister.” Ahmet crumbled a piece of bread in his fingers and dipped it in the olive oil. He was not hungry, he never was nowadays, that longing had dispersed over the years of being rich. When you could have anything you wanted you suddenly found you wanted nothing. It was the way of the very rich, and in another way, he almost envied Lucy, who could still feel that longing, that urge, the pleasure of a good meal. When she came to his country house he would make sure to feed her well before he sent her out alone into the marshes.

“More wine?” he asked pleasantly.

“My sister is beautiful,” Lucy said, copying him and mopping up the olive oil with a piece of the very good bread. “Her name is Martha. Such an old-fashioned name, don’t you think? Actually, she was named for my great-grandmother Patron. The thing is, though, Martha doesn’t even realize she’s beautiful, she’s so modest, so un-vain, if you see what I mean.” She looked earnestly at Ahmet across the table. “She’s tall, willowy, has these lovely blue eyes and blond hair. And she’s talented. And, damn it, successful.”

“Is she an actress, then?” Ahmet found himself intrigued with the idea of a second beauty in the family. Well, actually, truth be told, Lucy was no beauty. She was attractive and sexy and very young, a winning combination in his eyes, and just what he’d been looking for. In fact, it was what he always looked for in a woman, though usually not as classy or “upmarket” as little Lucy.

In fact he already knew all there was to know about the Patron family; he’d investigated every bit of Lucy’s life, knew about Martha and her work as a designer, and the other sister, the pediatrician, and the way the parents had died. It might be useful to suggest using Martha to redecorate some rooms at his country place.

Lucy was, he thought, a long way from Little Miss Angie, that cheap troll who’d first managed to disappear into the Aegean, leaving him to wonder whether she might turn up, alive, what she might say about him, what she might try to do to him. Then, of course, he had gotten her back, safe and sound in the safest most secret place he knew, his country house on the marshes, where the wonderful, the one and only, Mehitabel had taken care of her for him. Angie was the past, Lucy was the future.

He contemplated Lucy, innocently stuffing herself with chicken parmigiana, making little sighing noises of pleasure. She was such a child, really, a fact that made him sigh with pleasure too, so that she looked up, smiling, and asked, “What?”

“
What
what?” he answered with a smile. “I really have to take you to my country place,” he said. “We grow our own vegetables, have our own sheep. Our lamb is delicious.”

“Oh, God.” Lucy stared, horrified, at him. “I couldn’t possibly eat anything I’d seen grazing in a field.”

“May I point out you are eating chicken that surely grazed somewhere.”

Lucy took another sip of wine, suddenly uncertain about him, he was so self-assured, so smooth, so kind-of
old
. “And may I point out,” she said, getting her wits back, after all, she was no dummy even if she was an actress who all men thought were dumb. “May I point out that chickens do not graze. They are not animals. They are birds.”

Ahmet laughed. He liked her. “I have to admit I never thought of it that way,” he said. “And I will make sure no lamb is served when you come to visit me.”

“Who said I was coming to visit you?” Lucy sat back. She did not like to be taken for granted, and anyhow no young woman should go alone to a man’s country house unless she was his lover or fiancée. Or wanted to be.

Ahmet was still laughing. “Certainly not you, Miss Lucy Patron. And nor, if you think about it, have I asked you. But should I ask, then I would also include your beautiful sister in the invitation.”

“Then you would have to ask Marco too.”

Ahmet raised a brow, took a sip of the wine. It was good but not top level; he should have ordered differently. “Marco Polo Mahoney?”

Of course he already knew Marco. “I know his work,” he said. “A brilliant portrait artist.”

“Painter,” Lucy said, glugging the rest of her wine and sighing deeply. “That’s what Marco calls himself.” Her stomach was full, the wine was good, and she was unexpectedly enjoying herself. A drop spilled onto her dress as she put the glass back on the table. “Oh, bugger,” she said crossly. “I love this dress and now it’s ruined.”

Ahmet called the waiter to bring a wet cloth. “It will probably come out,” he said. “I’m sorry, Lucy, it was my fault, I distracted you.”

Lucy sighed again. “No, you didn’t,” she said. “I’m just clumsy, that’s all, everybody says so. Tell me,” she said, gazing earnestly at him, “how can anyone this clumsy ever hope to be an actress?”

Ahmet thought it really didn’t matter, but what he said was, “I think I have a way to make that hope of yours come true. I was considering investing in a movie, just a small affair, no star names, but an interesting script and a wonderful location, a house on the marshes. In fact,” he added, thoughtfully, “part of the reason I was attracted was that I have a house on the Romney marshes.” He leaned across the table, reached for her hand. It was smooth, warm. Her fingers curled against his palm. “And now, I might have an actress to star in it.”

It was, Lucy thought, beaming, all too good to be true.

Ahmet smiled back at her. He knew what she was thinking, and she was right.

“We might also get your sister to come along and take a look at my country place. The drawing room could surely use some refurbishing, fabrics and such.”

“Well,” Lucy said, pleased, “of course Martha’s really good at all that. I’ll ask her for you.”

Ahmet gave a satisfied smile. Two birds with one stone.

23

In Paris, the next day, Marco was surprised, more, he was
astounded,
to receive a call from Ghulbian’s assistant, the thin young man he’d encountered sweating in the suit and tie at Istanbul’s Ataturk Airport, now presumably cooler and enjoying the benefits of air-conditioning, which was reflected in his cool, calm voice as he relayed his employer’s invitation, though Marco thought it more a command than an invitation.

“Mr. Ghulbian would be pleased to see Mr. Mahoney at three
P.M.
in his suite at the Four Seasons George Cinq.” A car would be sent to pick him up.

No question as to whether Marco might be available, simply the astonishing arrogance of a wealthy man that, of course, he would. Why would he not, when it could mean an important commission?

Smiling at the irony, Marco thought Ghulbian probably believed all artists were starving. At some point in their careers, most had, as he remembered only too well from his own solitary beginning. Now, though, he had options and he wasn’t too sure he wanted to take up this one, though Martha had urged him to meet Ghulbian, saying how important the financier was, and how as far as she knew he had never had his portrait painted.

“Yours would be the first,” Martha had said. “Maybe it will be the only one.”

It was certainly something to think about. Marco picked up the phone, called back, and got a woman who said her name was Mehitabel, and that she was Ghulbian’s “personal” assistant. She told him to be waiting outside at the appointed time.

The car was an expensive silver Mercedes, chauffeur-driven, which came as no surprise, but when they arrived at the hotel, Marco was surprised by Mehitabel’s appearance: wafer-thin, around forty, with coils of Medusa-like dark hair that gave the impression she’d had an electric shock. She wore a gray linen shift dress, black heels, and an armful of silver bracelets, which he thought looked antique and expensive.

She caught his look. “Galleries Lafayette,” she said, unsmiling. “They do good copies.”

Embarrassed, Marco felt he should have blushed. She told him her name, and showed him in.

Ghulbian was standing by the French windows, holding back the silk draperies with one hand and staring out at the street below, though Marco sensed he was not really seeing it. He was lost in his thoughts and Marco wondered what the high-powered man was contemplating. A takeover bid, perhaps? Or the purchase of a new aircraft? Or simply a date for dinner with a woman he was pursuing. It turned out to be none of them.

When he heard him come in Ghulbian turned immediately from the window and offered his hand. “Good to see you again. I was just thinking about where I would like my portrait to be painted. Not here, I think. Paris is not my ‘home’ in that sense of the word.”

Marco understood, though he was a little surprised. “We could still do it on your yacht, sir,” he suggested, though Ghulbian had dismissed the idea previously.

“Please, please, you must never call me ‘sir.’ I’d like to think we are—or at least shall become—friends. After all, having one’s portrait painted is an intimate business, almost equivalent to baring one’s soul.”

“None of my sitters have yet bared their souls to me.” Marco took the seat on the sofa Ghulbian indicated. The man sat opposite, hunched forward, hands between his thighs, listening intently to what the artist had to say.

“Painting a portrait is more
about me,
” Marco said. “About what
I
see in the subject’s inner being that I transmit to the canvas. Which, I suppose,” he gave a deprecating little shrug, “does not always please the sitter who commissioned my work.”

Ghulbian nodded, interested. He said, “I recall a story about Winston Churchill. His wife, Clementine, commissioned the world-renowned artist Graham Sutherland to paint Winston’s portrait. She was so incensed with the result she simply tore it up, right there and then, in front of him.”

They both laughed and Marco said so far nobody had ripped up any of his paintings. “Though there’s always a first time,” he added, taking a deeper look at the man opposite.

Ghulbian looked steadfastly back. He kept his face implacable, without any emotion, yet in reality he was unexpectedly nervous, wondering if it was true that some people could see into your soul, into your inner being, know your thoughts, what made you tick, what your darker urges were, and how you carried them out. Could this artist, with his all-seeing painterly eyes, possibly know who he really was? About his urge to kill. Could Marco know, looking at him now, that he would go to the ends of the earth to satisfy that urge, that he would let nothing stand in his way? Ghulbian had never loved a woman and never would. They were prey, that’s all. A sudden image of Angie flickered through his mind. Instinctively he half closed his eyes, shutting her out.

Wondering what he was thinking, Marco studied Ghulbian’s impassive face, noting the wide planes of the cheekbones, the narrowed very dark eyes, the low brow, and the thick hair with no sign of gray though he’d guess Ghulbian to be in his early fifties. He was not a big man, yet there was a hint of latent physical power about him that was intimidating. It was in the force of his gaze, the tension that seemed to hold him together, kept him fixed in his seat when Marco sensed he wanted to be up and pacing the room. It was almost as though Ghulbian’s thoughts were elsewhere yet he was still talking about the portrait.

“I had considered my yacht,” Ghulbian said, quite suddenly smiling and relaxed. “But a movable location for something as permanent as a portrait somehow does not seem appropriate. I’d prefer, after all, if you could paint me at my country house.”

Marco agreed that wherever was most comfortable for the sitter was always best.

“It’s a place of atmosphere,” Ghulbian said. “It stands quite alone amid the marshes. There are just the cries of the waterfowl and the rush of the tidal river, the ‘bore,’ as it’s called when it turns and begins to flow inland again. I love to watch the deep brown water surging toward the house, the powerful undercurrents that swirl beneath the surface.”

He finally got up and began to pace the room, as Marco had suspected he’d wanted to do.

“No grass ever looks greener than marsh grass.” Ghulbian stopped and looked out the window again as though he could see the marsh before his eyes right that minute. “It’s more inviting than any well-tended country house lawn with its simpering young women and afternoon tea beneath the trees. There are no trees in marshland, no young women pouring tea, only that inviting green grass that will swallow you up faster than you can even think about taking that final step forward.”