Oath of Office

4

If Portugal was the westward-looking face on a map of the Iberian Peninsula, then the pinnacled rocks and secret grottoes of the Algarve coast made up the whiskers below a pointed and somewhat pensive chin. The coastal village of Benagil lay in a deep valley, equidistant from the coastal towns of Albufeira and Lagos to the east and west, respectively, one of countless whitewashed jewels on the limestone cliffs above a half-moon beach of honey-colored sand. The proximity to Africa made the Atlantic here seem almost — but not quite — like the Med.

While tourism had certainly come to this tiny village of fewer than three thousand, Benagil still had a robust fishing fleet and boasted a charm reminiscent of a quieter, more innocent Portugal. This naïveté made it an excellent location for Hugo Gaspard to conduct his business. There were enough tourists with money that the arms dealer did not have to go without the creature comforts to which he’d grown accustomed. The local gendarmerie, though intelligent enough, tended to attune themselves to car break-ins or burglaries at holiday villas. The mere idea of an international crime boss completely overwhelmed their radar.

Gaspard had been down to this same beach three days in a row, while he waited for the Russians to show up. He made the mistake of walking the hundred fifty meters down the hill from his Mercedes on the first day. There was parking along the narrow road on the cliffs overlooking the sea, but the corpulent Frenchman was much too fond of fine wine and rich pastries. Walking more than a few meters aggravated his gout — and his heart, and his lungs, and the bone spurs on his heels. Worse than that, walking made him feel poor.

Today, he’d ordered his driver to drop him off near the handicapped parking spot, as close to the trail to the beach as possible. The driver would stay with the car while the other three accompanied him to the beach. One could not be too careful these days.

Gaspard stripped off his loose shirt as soon as he got out of the Mercedes. He would have done it earlier, but his ponderous belly made much movement in the backseat problematic. He’d already changed into his swimsuit in the villa and stepped out of his trousers on the side of the road, throwing them into the car on top of his shirt. The suit, a small triangle of red spandex, would have been considered tiny even on a man of much smaller stature. Gaspard’s belly hung low enough that a casual observer could be excused for thinking he wore nothing at all. Gaspard didn’t care. He had little to prove — and enough money that he could even buy respect if anyone had a problem with the way he dressed.

His meeting with the Russians was two hours away. The turquoise-and-cobalt water was much too cool to swim, but the air was a pleasant — and a slightly unseasonable — twenty-five Celsius. The cloudless sky made it feel even warmer. He would use the time waiting to work on his tan.

Praia de Benagil was not an incredibly large beach. It could be packed with pale British tourists in the summer, but now, in May, he had the place almost to himself. A few climbers, probably Americans, scrambled up the rock cliffs to the east. A Nordic-looking couple with a small child braved the chilly water, splashing in the surf near three wooden fishing boats that lay on the sand on the western end of the beach, by the walkway up toward the village.

Gaspard spied a slender woman in a black two-piece as he tromped along the beach leaving splay-footed divots in the sand. She had staked her claim in the center of the beach. She lay provocatively on her back, her head propped up on a woven-grass beach bag, the brim of an almost comically huge hat shielding her face while she read a paperback. Gaspard thought she might be a blonde, maybe with a splash of freckles across her nose, but the hat made it difficult to be sure. That did not matter to him. She was a leggy thing, with all the right swells and curves and a minuscule suit that obviously meant she sought companionship. Anyone with a figure like that, who wore such tiny bits of cloth, was… well, looking for it.

He would sit near enough to strike up a casual conversation, and see where it progressed. The French were not animals. He was not an animal — not any longer, having attained a certain amount of refinement with his newfound wealth. He would be discreet, smooth, the perfect gentleman. If that did not work, he would let her know how rich he was. Whatever method he employed, Hugo Gaspard intended to take this nubile creature to his villa by midafternoon. She could drink wine and eat chocolates while he met with the Russians, and then they would spend the evening together.

It was a good plan. Gaspard was a man of vision — and he could envision it — every delectable moment.

Gaspard’s three bodyguards flanked him, gazing outward with the predatory looks he paid them for. Gaspard himself had carried a pistol most of his life — since his time as a thuggish youth running a string of hundred-franc whores in the Bois de Boulogne. His lunatic mother — a prostitute and a heroin addict — had passed to him one single piece of worthwhile wisdom during her short life: A man who carries many keys may look important — but a truly important man hires someone to carry the keys for him. Now, having made enough money to buy all the whores in the park, Hugo Gaspard paid others to carry the guns.

Sun glinted off the thick gold chain that nestled among the rolls of his fleshy neck. Lines of sweat dripped down his chest. He nodded at a spot two meters from the woman, standing by while two of his men laid out his towel. It was extra large, to provide coverage from the sand against his sizable breadth. The third bodyguard, a bulldog of a man with a nose flattened by many fights, eyed the young woman suspiciously. His name was Farrin, and his threatening glare was certainly overkill. The woman had not approached them. They were setting up near her. And anyway, she could not be dangerous. She was so young, so deliciously… breakable.

“Relax,” Gaspard said, loud enough for the young woman to hear. It would not hurt for her to know that Gaspard was a man in charge of other men. “This peach is nearly naked. What harm could she possibly bring to me?”

She glanced up from her book — a mindless romance written in English, judging from the bare-chested muscleman on the cover — and then she looked away, pretending to ignore him. Faint parallel scars on her upper thigh, like a tribal initiation or ritual, became visible as Gaspard got closer. There was a story there, to be sure, and he would have it before the night was over.

Gaspard situated himself on his belly, grunting a little as he wallowed a depression into the sand beneath his towel, enabling him to lie relatively level. Resting his jowls on stacked hands, he could ensure an even tan on his back while still gazing sideways at the young woman.

“Are you American?” he asked, eyes half closed, sleepy from the radiation beating down from the sun and the exertion of walking fifteen meters up the beach.

She raised the brim of her hat and gave him a long look, as if considering whether or not to reply.

“Dutch,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“Your book is written in English,” Gaspard said and chuckled. “What do the English know of romance? French romances are much better, both in the writing — and in the flesh.”

“You read a lot of romance novels, then?” the young woman asked.

Gaspard shrugged. “It is a logical argument. The French language is a romance of the tongue. Just speak a few words of it and you will see for yourself.”

“I am to assume you are French?”

“Oui,” he said. “Tu parles français?”

She held up the thumb and forefinger of her free hand. “Un peu.” A little. “I prefer English.”

“Pity,” Gaspard said. “‘Please rub my back with oil’ sounds much too forward in English.”

The young woman stifled a laugh — a good sign, to be sure. “You are certainly the bold one.”

“I have a very important meeting in two hours. That allows me only a finite amount of time in which to meet you, dance around the niceties of social discourse, and then invite you to my villa before dinner.”

The woman lowered the book to her chest, still open, and cocked her head to one side. Perfect brunette locks brushing tan shoulders. Not a blonde after all, but, oh, the glorious freckles splashed across her nose. “Before dinner?”

The young woman scooted into a sitting position, hugging exquisite knees. Gaspard could plainly see the lines of many scars along her thighs — an automotive accident, or possibly an athletic injury. He could picture her, splashed with freckles while she played football with the local boys. She may have been a garçon manqué—a tomboy — growing up, but she was certainly all woman now.

“I see no point in wasting time,” Gaspard said. “As I mentioned, I have a meeting in two hours.”

She finally closed the book, but kept it clutched in her hand. “An ‘important meeting,’ you said.”

“I said ‘very important meeting,’ to be precise.” Gaspard rolled half up on his side so he could look more directly at the object of his conquest. A line of sand pressed into the edge of his belly where it had escaped the confines of the beach towel. He brushed it off with sausage fingers. Two gold rings caught the sunlight. “No point in beating around the bush—”

“Or wasting time,” the young woman said.

“Quite,” Gaspard said. “I am already rich, but this meeting will make me richer, I dare say, than anyone you have ever met.” He leaned forward, looking back and forth from the sea to the cliffs before lowering his voice. “My meeting is with the Russians.”

“The Russians?” the young woman said, wide-eyed, mocking him just a little. “All of them.”

“You are quite the forward girl,” Gaspard said.

She smiled playfully. “No point in beating around the bush.”

She scooted across the sand on her knees, extending her free hand.

“I am Lucile,” she said.

Gaspard brightened. “A magnificent French name!” Still on his side, belly and chest sagging toward the beach, he took her hand and kissed it. “I am Hugo. Encantado.”

“I thought you were French?”

“When in Rome,” Gaspard said. “Or Lisbon…”

Gaspard’s bodyguards perked up. Farrin, especially, grew apoplectic about anything or anyone who got between him and his boss, but Gaspard waved them away. He’d warned them as soon as he’d seen the woman — targeted her, really — that he wanted space, ordering them to keep watch from a comfortable distance of at least twenty meters away. Having bodyguards showed everyone he was rich. Bodyguards who treated him as if he might shatter at any moment only made him look frightened, weak. It was a delicate balance.

Lucile was close enough to smell now, earthy, Gaspard thought, like warm rain.

“You are visiting Portugal?” Gaspard said.

“Small talk?” Lucile said. “I thought we were dispensing with such things.”

“Touché,” Gaspard said.

“Are you well and truly rich?”

The Frenchman smiled. “More money than you could possibly imagine.”

“Oh.” Lucile scrunched her freckled nose. “When it comes to money, I can imagine quite a lot. Do you really want oil on your back?”

“I do indeed,” Gaspard said.

“And you will buy me dinner?”

“Indeed.”

She leaned toward her bag. “I have some oil here—”

Gaspard grabbed her by the toes — tan things, painted pink — and thought that his reflexes were still very good. “You must use my oil,” he said. Farrin marched over an instant later, shoving a plastic bottle of suntan oil at the woman. It was greasy from recent use.

“Thank you,” Gaspard said to Farrin. “Now go away.” He released the woman’s foot and let his face fall forward, toward the towel. He turned slightly toward Lucile, words muffled. “I know it may be difficult for you to comprehend, but it is possible to kill someone with poisoned suntan oil.” He raised wildly overgrown eyebrows up and down. “The process will be easier if you straddle me.”

“Are you being serious?” Lucile knelt beside him. “Poisoned suntan oil?”

He wallowed deeper into the sand, head on his hands again, squinting into the sun. “There are people who do not like me very much.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” the young woman said. She threw her leg across his rump, climbing aboard to pour a line of oil onto the leathery folds below Hugo Gaspard’s hairy shoulder blades.

The book lay in the sand beside her right knee — within immediate reach.