The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

THE CONSPIRATORS by Christopher Fowler

AT THE NEXT table of the hotel restaurant, three waiters took their places beside the diners, and, with a synchronized flourish, raised the silver covers on their salvers. A fourth appeared, bearing a tray containing a quartet of tiny copper pots. Each waiter took a handle and proceeded to pour the sauces from the pots on to the salvers from a height of not less than eighteen inches. They might have been tipping jewels into coffers.

Court and Lassiter barely bothered to break off their conversation and look up at the display. They knew that these ostentatious rituals were the hotel’s way of justifying the risible menu prices to tourists.

The waiters finished serving and tiptoed away, leaving the diners to warble and coo over their miniscule meals, some kind of cubed chicken in cream. The restaurant was designed with plenty of steel, glass and black crystal, with the occasional tortured twist of green bamboo providing natural colour. It was as hushed as a funeral parlour. Everyone seemed to be whispering.

Sean Lassiter had ordered a steak, medium rare, the only item on the menu that looked like meat. He had eaten it as if he was in an American diner, using only a fork. The steaks were so tender you could do that here.

“When was the last time you knew exactly what you wanted?” he asked Court, raising his whisky tumbler and studying his former business partner through the diamond-cut lattice.

Oliver Court’s palms were dry, but he still pressed them against his thighs. Lassiter had once been his mentor, and was the only man in the world who could make him uncomfortable with a simple question.

“Come on, Oliver, I saw the look in your eyes the first day I met you. Nowadays I can’t read them because you’re wearing coloured contacts. I remember, you were so hungry and envious I thought you might actually start taking notes during our meal. I see that look a lot, but it’s not usually so obvious. When members of my staff get that anxious, it usually means they’re frightened of failure and they’re scared of being found out. Well, I can’t blame anyone for wanting to make the best of themself. But you were prepared to leave behind an awful lot in order to be a success.”

It was a gentle rebuke, but a rebuke nonetheless. Lassiter was old school; his compliments were backhanded and his criticisms were constructive. He knew the difference between perspicacity and merely being rude. For a businessman who had been on the road for the past forty years, he was immaculately groomed. His hair was sleek and white, his tan subtle, his suit quietly extravagant.

He’s heard something about me, thought Court, shifting carefully on his chromium chair, which was too low. The central column of the table prevented him from stretching out his long legs.

“Have you got where you wanted to be?”

Court did not trust himself to tell the truth. From here he could see out through the curvilinear glass of the restaurant. In front of the hotel, trucks drove back and forth along the spotlit spit of land that projected into the blackness of the Persian Gulf. The Indian workers toiled around the clock in shifts, building ever further out into the sea.

They had kept the conversation light while they ate. Families, schools, colleagues, holidays, topics suitable for food. The serious part required a clear table and strong drinks.

There was only one other drinker at the bar, a nylon-haired brunette with long legs, a tiny waist and perfectly circular breasts, like a character from a video game. The décolletage of her tight black dress was cut to the aureoles of her nipples. Lassiter assumed she kept herself more carefully covered beyond the confines of the hotel. They were in the Middle East, after all. Seamed stockings, high heels, a brassiere that must have presented an engineering challenge, she was about twenty-three years old and blatantly selling herself. He wondered what the young Arabic barman thought of her.

Court caught him thoughtfully studying the call-girl’s legs. “How long have you known me, Sean?” he asked, buying time.

“Long enough to see where you’re going.” Lassiter smiled. He’d had his teeth bleached. They shone peppermint white in the black light from the bar, and made him look like a game-show host. He noticed Court following his eyes to the girl. “It’s just an honest question.”

In truth, Lassiter had been disappointed by his apprentice. Court needed the approval of others, and as a consequence, his ambitions were displayed for all to see. He never took advice, so why was he here? Somewhere deep inside Lassiter an alarm bell rang.

Court knew he could not be completely honest, because there was too much at stake. “I think I’ve been pretty successful,” he answered carefully. “There’s still a way to go. That’s why I value your advice.”

Lassiter looked almost relieved. Perhaps he didn’t want to have an argument with his former pupil. “Your division is doing very nicely, Oliver. You’re about to expand it, you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t feel a little nervous. From what I hear, my directors will back you, but in these uncertain times you’ll need to detail your long-term plans. Just don’t be too eager. The English don’t trust people who are anxious to please. It puts them off. They want negotiations to be tricky enough for their colleagues to see how hard they work.”

“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t look up to you,” said Court, catching the waitress’s eye and sewing the air with his right hand, the universal sign for check, please. “You’ve always been my- ”

“Don’t say mentor, Oliver, it makes me feel positively ancient.”

“I was going to say friend. I feel I can tell you anything and I’ll always get a straight answer.”

“So long as it works both ways.”

“You don’t have to ask that. I was still just a property agent when you gave me a job. Now I run the whole of the US division. I’d appreciate it if you could cast an eye over my proposals, just to get your feedback.” Despite the difference in their ages, they were now almost evenly matched in terms of their careers within the company. Lassiter still gave the hotel chain class and respectability. Many considered Court to be an upstart, but he had made North America profitable again by building flashy boutique hotels aimed at kids with money.

Lassiter smiled at his glass, twisting it. “It would be my pleasure, you know that.” Court was offering to show him his plans ahead of the directors’ meeting? He’d want something in return, but what, and how badly?

Lassiter looked around at the empty bar, the midnight-blue carpet, the silver walls, the glittering star-points of light in the ceiling. He wondered if this was what Heaven looked like, without a bill at the end of the evening.

“Excuse me for a moment.” Court rose from his chair and went to say something to the girl. After the exchange, she followed him back to join the table. “This is my friend Sean Lassiter,” he said, introducing her.

“Hi, I’m Vienna.” She tossed her hair back in a movement designed to help her avoid bothering with eye contact. She was American, he supposed, or had been taught English by one. “Look at this place. The Jews and Arabs agree so completely on soft furnishings, you’d think they could work everything else out from that.” She had as much confidence as either of them, but Court knew that if they ignored her, she would drop out of the conversation. She was a professional. She had brought her own drink with her.

“Mr Lassiter here owns the hotel.”

That wiped the smile from her face. “Is that true?” she asked, lowering her glass. Court could tell she was racking her brains to recall the name.

“Well, I’m the managing director of the consortium that owns it,” said Lassiter, managing to make the role sound unimportant.

“He’s being modest,” said Court, “he owns the entire chain.”

If Vienna was impressed, she was too smart to show it. Her deal was with the maître d’. She only cared about her direct contacts. “Is it owned by the Americans?”

“No, it’s mainly Indian and Russian money.”

“They charge non-guests an entrance fee just to look around the lobby of this hotel,” she said, “but I guess you know that.”

“I don’t suppose that affects you.” It seemed that, having made the effort to talk to the girl, Lassiter was happier talking to Court. “You’re not staying at the Burj Al Arab, Oliver?”

“Even I can’t justify that kind of expense. Besides, loyalty dictates that I stay here. I suppose you’ve got a suite.”

“Penthouse sea-facing corner, but not the royal suite,” said Lassiter. “That’s reserved for heads of state.”

“I heard quite a few of the rooms are empty.” The Middle East was part of Lassiter’s domain.

“It’s not just here. There’s been a lot of over-construction. Look out of the window along the coastline. Everyone’s been affected by the bad publicity lately, those stories of raw sewage being pumped into the sea, but it doesn’t stop them from building.”

“You’re not worried enough to reduce the cost of a room yet,” Court added. “So, do we get to see your view?”

He wants to bring the girl, Lassiter thought in some surprise, how will this work out? “Sure, if you want.”

Court paid without checking the total and stood up, placing his hand in the valley of Vienna’s back. This small gesture was enough to seal the deal. She showed no reaction as she rose and left with them, the light from the neon bar-sign casting a crimson stripe across her neck that appeared to sever it.

“At these prices I thought you’d have your own elevator,” Court needled gently.

“Only the royal apartment has that. For security purposes.” Lassiter stabbed at the illuminated gold lift-button. “We need to invent something better than first class. The whole concept of privilege has become debased.”

“I read somewhere that you need to earn six million per annum to live like a millionaire these days,” said Vienna.

Court watched his boss against the dark golden glass of the elevator. Lassiter had started to put on the kind of weight he would never be able to shift. His new suit was already becoming too tight. He was in his mid-sixties but showed no desire to stop working or even slow down. Sharks drown if they stop swimming, Court thought. The only way he’ll stop is if he dies. I’m surprised Elizabeth still puts up with it.

He wondered if Lassiter went around telling people how he’d given Court a start in the hotel business. Mentors had a habit of doing that.

“Welcome to my world,” said Lassiter without any obvious hint of irony as he held open the door for Vienna. The suite displayed all the accoutrements of wealth without any of the concomitant taste. A curved bar was lined with gold-leaf piping that rose to enclose a range of vintage whisky bottles presented on sheets of underlit crimson glass, like items of baroque jewellery.

“Want to try the whisky?”

“I’m staying with vodka.”

Vienna watched until her own drink had been poured, then went to the bathroom.

“She’s very beautiful,” Lassiter conceded.

“She doesn’t have to be here if she doesn’t want to,” said Court. “She’s with your hotel, which presumably means she has quality control.”

Lassiter walked to the glass wall and looked down to the beach. Spotlights picked out the tall wavering palms that had been transported fully grown and impatiently planted into the unfinished esplanade. The crystal blackness reflected every glittering pinpoint in the apartment, creating a second starscape above the sea. There was no natural sound audible in the suite, only the faint but steady hiss of cold ionized air pumped up through the ventilation system, and the settling chink of perfectly cubed ice on glass.

“Allow me,” said Court, pouring a heavy measure of Scotch. “It’s a nice view. Although I don’t like to look at the sea. I’d prefer to be surrounded by buildings. City boy at heart.”

Lassiter accepted the proffered drink and downed it in one. He had been drinking hard all evening. The New Business Model Seminar was so stultifying that everyone had been pushing their upper alcohol limits for the past three days, and there was still another day to go.

“Did you learn anything at all today?” Lassiter asked. “Spare me all those speakers from the Far East with their strangled English and aching politeness. Did you actually get anything out of it?”

“No, but I didn’t expect to.”

They studied the view. Lassiter pressed his chilled tumbler against his forehead. “Look at it. There’s no one out there and nothing to see. You could be in Monte Carlo, Geneva or Madrid. That’s the beauty of our European hotels, Oliver. Whichever one you use, there you are, home and safe again. Sometimes I wake up and have no idea where I am. And it doesn’t matter.”

“How’s the seminar working out for you?”

“I’ll go home four days nearer to my death with a sun-reddened face and a portfolio full of brochures my PA will eventually tip into the bin.”

“It’s not like you to be a cynic,” Court observed. “I remember when you first saw potential in me, the things you taught me, all that practical advice and optimism for the future.”

“I’m afraid my hopes atrophied somewhat when our so-called first-world society decided to hand over the reins of financial responsibility to a bunch of cowboy bankers.” He drained his glass, the ice clinking against his white teeth. “I’m old enough to remember when selling was a challenge. These days I feel like a nurse spoon-feeding paralysed patients. Christ, I want to start smoking again, but these rooms are alarmed. Pour me another, will you?”

Court headed back to the bar. He picked up a matchbook, crested and labelled “Royal Persian Hotel, Dubai” and slipped it into his pocket. “How come there are no cameras in the corridors?” he wondered aloud.

“The Arabs are like the Swiss when it comes to issues of privacy. The rich need to treat each other in an adult manner because there are so many dirty secrets to keep tucked away.”

Court was not familiar with this reflective side of Lassiter. The man who had elevated as many careers as he had destroyed was going soft. Men became vulnerable to strange fancies when they felt their sexual powers waning.

“The most powerful religious leaders emerge from desert states, have you noticed?” Lassiter mused. “Whereas political leaders nurture their theories in cities. One thinks of Pol Pot’s agrarian revolution being discussed in smoky Parisian cafés. In my darkest nightmares I imagined a new business model, one where morals and decent behaviour are considered detrimental, where only grabbing the next million in the next hour commands any respect at all. And at some point – I’m not sure when – my nightmare became real. This is what we do, Oliver, and we all collude in the process. The definition of a conspiracy is the combination of any number of people in surreptitious agreement to commit a secret, unlawful, evil and wrongful act. Think about what we do and ask yourself if you really want to join the next level.”

He’s lost it, thought Oliver. The great Sean Lassiter is stepping out of the ring to watch sunsets and talk hippy-dippy shit. This is too good to be true.

“You’ve made your money, Sean. If you feel like this, why don’t you just sell up?”

Lassiter regarded him from beneath hooded eyelids. “There’s no one I trust enough. You want to know if that includes you. I groomed you, I knew what would happen. Give someone the benefit of your experience for long enough, and it stands to reason they’ll eventually try to buy the company out from under you. I never held your success against you, Oliver.”

“That’s because your own success always remained greater. It’s easy to be magnanimous when you’re at the top. What if I really wanted to buy the company now?”

There it is, thought Lassiter, the real purpose of dinner. “I wondered when you would finally ask.”

“You don’t think I’d look after the staff.”

“My people? I replace them like batteries.” Lassiter looked towards the bathroom door. The girl seemed to be taking a long time.

“Then why not sell to me?” Court walked over to the balcony and unlocked the doors, rolling them silently back. The cool night air was a relief after the chemically conditioned atmosphere. “Hey, we can smoke out here. Doors and windows you can open forty floors up, they’d never allow this at home.” He laughed, patting his pockets.

With one last glance back at the bathroom, Lassiter joined him on the balcony. He leaned over the edge and looked down. “You’re right, there’s hardly a light on in the entire building. We should be renegotiating the prices of the suites. Europe holds too many festivals and seminars at this time of the year. Half the salesmen in America leave home in March and don’t get back until their house-plants are dead.”

“Your profits are down, and I’ve heard the next quarter will be even worse.”

“Maybe we did expand Europe too quickly. When a wolf is sick, the others decide what to do; whether you live or die depends on how important you are to the pack. You think we’re going lame, one of the pack lagging behind?” He sighed wearily. “Are you going to bite me on the leg and drag me into the bushes? Why not… it’s what I would have done.”

The only sign of life came from the headlights of the gravel trucks swerving past each other in the distance, like tin toys on a track. Their thin bright beams shone into total blackness. Back along the coastline, a line of steel towers glowed through the sea-mist like a phantom stockade.

Court realized that to get an answer he would have to give one. “You asked me what do I want?” he repeated. “I want to reach the top of my profession.”

“That’s not a desire, it’s an instinct, like releasing air from a diving tank.” Given the amount he had drunk, Lassiter surprised himself with the analogy. It was true; his career was as lonely and claustrophobic as being under the sea.

“All right. Then I desire respect.”

Lassiter turned to study him. “Surely you have that already. Don’t you?” From the way he said it, Lassiter made it clear that Court had yet to earn it from his teacher.

“I suppose so. In that case, I don’t know. That’s the answer to your question; I really don’t know.”

“Fair enough. I suppose that’s more honest than saying you want our hotels to be the finest in the world. You’re still only in your thirties-”

“Thirty-four.”

“You have time on your side. Now I suppose you want an answer to your question.” Lassiter lit the proffered cigar and drew hard on it. “I can’t sell you the company, Oliver.”

“Why not?”

“It would be too obvious.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s what you want. I can always tell what you’re going to do next. You’re positively metronomic in your habits. I can see inside your head, which means that from a business point of view I can always out-think you. And if I can, others will. That’s not good.”

“It’s because I learned everything from you. You’ll always be the one person who knows exactly what I think. You’ll always outguess me.”

The ocean air should have started sobering him up, but it was having the opposite effect. Lassiter struggled to understand what Court was saying to him. The air was completely still, and there was no sound. Even the distant trucks moved past each other in silence. If his wife were here he knew she would appreciate the beauty of the night, but she was asleep in London. It was late and he was still wearing his business suit, and polished black shoes that pinched.

“You know the story of the Caliph of Jaipur?” asked Court, draining his glass and setting it down on the balcony table. “He hired the finest painter in the land to create a fresco of heavenly angels for the walls of his harem. When it was finished, he asked the artisan if it really was the best fresco in all the kingdom. The painter told him that there was no finer artwork to be found beneath the horizons, nor would there ever be again until someone else could afford his services. So the Sultan had him beheaded.”

Lassiter looked at him blearily. Only the whites of Court’s eyes showed in the jet night, and then they were gone. A streak of silver sparkled in the ocean like a flash of static electricity, the signature of the moon. He felt tired and looked for a place to sit, but Court was crouching beside him. When he rose, he was holding Lassiter’s right ankle. Court stood taller and taller, rising higher and higher, until Lassiter realized he could no longer remain upright. “You’re not drunk,” he said absurdly.

“I don’t drink whisky.” Court raised his old friend’s ankle higher, until pain shot through Lassiter’s thigh muscles.

“Vodka-”

“Because it looks like water. Sure you don’t want to sell?”

“Over my dead body.”

Court shrugged his shoulders. “That was the general idea.” With both his hands clasped beneath Lassiter’s foot Court leaned back suddenly, like a Scotsman tossing a caber, raising his arms smartly so that Lassiter lost his battle with gravity and found himself lifted cleanly into the air, over the barrier of the balcony. His mouth opened in shock, but only the smallest sound emerged. His fingers grasped at the air beyond the low rail, too late, and he tumbled silently down, past the empty dark floors. The first part of the fall seemed to last for ever, as if he were wheeling through the night in slow motion, like a firework that had failed to ignite, or a spaceman with a cut cord.

But then he hit his head on the concrete lip of the thirtieth balcony, and this sent him spinning madly out of orbit. His head turned from white to black, leaving a matching stain on the building wall. His leg hit another ledge, his arm another, his head again, his arm, his leg, until there was hardly a bone in his body left unbroken – and that was long before he hit the ground.

Court stepped back into the room. “You might want to come out now,” he called. “We’re alone.” He heard running water stop.

The bathroom door was padded crimson with gold studs. It opened cautiously. Vienna emerged with her make-up refreshed, like a meticulously restored painting. She took in the suite, three glasses, one occupant less, an open balcony door, and decided to say nothing. Had she an inkling of what had just happened? Her face was a mask. Court’s decision to act had been spontaneous. He knew she could not have seen anything, and Lassiter had made no noise. He doubted that she cared anyway. It was not her job to care. She worked in a service industry.

“My colleague had to leave. Thanks for coming up,” said Court, feeling inside his jacket. He unclipped her handbag and dropped in a roll of banknotes. “Maybe we’ll see each other again.”

“I’d like that.” Vienna’s smile was unreadable. She turned and walked to the door, seemingly aware of exactly how many steps it would take. “You know where to find me.”

And she was gone.

Court closed the window and rinsed the glasses, placing them back on the bar shelf. He had left no other mark in the suite. Letting himself out, he padded along the corridor and caught the elevator to his own room. He had paid the girl too much, but would not have been able to get Lassiter back to his suite without her. Everyone knew that even though the old man loved his wife, he still needed to prove himself with the ladies.

He would heed his mentor’s advice and not suggest the buyout immediately; that would be crass. There were plenty of other preparations he could be making while the company came to terms with Lassiter’s death. It would be interesting to see how long they could keep it out of the news.

Before the last day of the conference began, he took a stroll outside. The sky was a painful deep blue, sharper than knives. The pavements had been hosed down, and were already nearly dry. He circled the hotel but found no sign of any disturbance. Shielding his eyes, he squinted up at the balconies, trying to spot where Lassiter had hit the building, but realized that he was standing beneath the ledges, and would not be able to see anything.

The day dragged past in parades of PowerPoint bar charts, each more candy-coloured than the last, as if their radiance could make up for their dullness. At lunchtime he saw two men who looked like plainclothes police. They were standing motionless in the reception area, in mirror shades and shiny blue suits. By the time afternoon tea was served, even Lassiter’s reservation had disappeared from the records. Clearly, the hotel’s reputation was more important than its founder’s demise. The things we create outgrow us, thought Court, shutting down his laptop. One day you own the company, the next even your PA can’t remember you. I thought there would be repercussions. I guess Sean was right. It’s all part of the new business model.

Two weeks later, Court found himself at Domodedovo Airport in Moscow. He always seemed to be holding meetings in departure lounges. In the business-class bar he had bumped into an old English friend, a nervy, sticklike redhead called Amanda, and had invited her to join him. Watching snow fall on airfields from behind picture windows always had a calming effect on him. Amanda was a seasoned executive with half a dozen personal communication devices in her briefcase and no hint of a private life. She told him she was going to try internet dating when she finally settled in one city long enough to do so.

“I was wondering what you thought about Sean Lassiter,” she said, slowly emptying another miniature bottle of Tanqueray into her glass. “There’s a rumour going around that Elizabeth was about to leave him.”

Court had no idea. Suddenly the lack of publicity surrounding the death made sense. “I heard something to that effect,” he said.

“They hadn’t been sleeping together for years,” she told him knowledgeably. “I was reading an article in the Economist about the similarities between successful businessmen and serial killers. They share the same lack of compassion, the same selfishness and determination to succeed. They exploit the flaws of their opponents, and lose their ability to judge on moral grounds.”

For a crazy moment he wondered if she had heard another, darker rumour, but decided it was impossible. The buyout had only been discussed with a handful of board members. It would not be made public until after it was successful.

“I guess you’re going on to St Petersburg,” she said. “Where are you staying?”

“The Grand Sovetskaya. How about you?”

“Oh, nothing so fancy. That was one of Sean’s personal favourites, wasn’t it?”

“‘Well, it’s part of the chain.”

“I slept with him, you know. Our flights were cancelled and we were stuck at the Espacio Rojo Hotel in Barcelona. I was really sorry to hear he died. Or was it the Severine in Paris? They have this fabulous spa treatment where they wrap you in oil-soaked gauze and place hot stones down your spine…”

He listened without hearing. The image of the old man pumping away on top of poor bony Amanda while whispering sales figures in her ears was best left behind in the departure lounge.

The Grand Sovetskaya was an unashamedly old-world hotel in the French style, with green copper gables and crouching gargoyles. In the domed reception area hung a crystal chandelier the size of a skip. The rooms were filled with dark wooden dressers, sideboards and wardrobes, and were locked with huge brass keys. There were twenty-one floors of corridors that smelled of furniture polish and boiled cabbage, all identical and gently curved, like those of an ocean liner. Thick floral carpets and heavily lined drapes deadened all sound.

Best of all was the bar, a paradise for the serious drinker. The shelves were stacked with dozens of flavoured vodkas and an immense range of mysterious liquors, vaguely medicinal in appearance. Court suspected that the elderly hatchet-faced bar staff had arrived with the first guests. Heavy marble ashtrays lined the counter. This was clearly no place for lightweights.

Court was there to conclude the discreet negotiations with Lassiter’s board, but if anyone asked, he was attending a forum staged by the Opportunities In New Business Development Commission. Discretion was second nature to him. He spent most of his life in hotels as quiet as libraries where the patrons were defined by the depth of their expense accounts. Lighting a cigar, he thought about Lassiter turning over and over in the warm night air, a tiny flailing puppet whose existence had been erased almost before he hit the concrete. How many Indian workers had been employed to scrub the blood from the stones before another harsh dawn flooded the hotel with sunlight? Had the manager posted Lassiter’s luggage back to his grieving wife? Had Elizabeth pored over the spreadsheets, graphs and overlays, hopelessly looking for answers?

He felt no guilt. Lassiter’s downward spiral had begun before Dubai. Court had saved him the incremental degradation a man feels when he realizes the company he has founded no longer needs or desires his advice. He waved aside the blue haze of cigar smoke and studied Vienna. She was seated in a red-leather horseshoe banquette between two short bald oligarchs. When she saw him looking, she momentarily forgot what she was saying. Her eyes lingered a moment too long.

Clearly, she was good at her job if she was travelling to international clients. For a second it crossed his mind that they might make an interesting team, but he knew that the best call-girls stayed at the peak of their trade by giving nothing of themselves to others. Even so…

It would have been unprofessional to send her any kind of message while she was working, so he smoked and waited, and treated himself to a golden Comte de Lauvia 1982 Armagnac. The Russians here were loud and unsophisticated, but Vienna never appeared bored. After an hour they were clearly drunk. Court had no idea what she said to them, but they suddenly fell into a sombre mood and rose together, bidding her goodnight.

She came over to him with her shoes in one hand, and he realized how much they added to her height. “However long your evening has been,” she told him, taking a sip of his brandy, “I promise you, mine was longer.” She licked her lips appreciatively and allowed her head to fall back against the red leather seat. “Mmm. Can I get one of those?”

The waiter appeared without being summoned, delivered and departed. She seemed content to drink and drift without making small talk. She wore another low-cut black dress, and a single strand of pearls. Her perfume had faded enough to allow a natural womanly odour, faint but arousing, to rise from her peach-coloured skin.

He relit his cigar and watched her, wondering how much she remembered of their last meeting. The bar was almost empty. It was 2.15 in the morning. “How long are you staying here?” he asked.

“Two nights. I’m entertaining those guys.”

“They must be important.”

“To someone. Not to me. It’s a job.”

“They left without you.”

“I sent them away.” She took the cigar from his fingers and smoked it for a minute.

“I’m here for- ”

“I don’t want to know why you’re here.” She studied the glowing tip of the cigar. “I’m sure you get tired of talking shop. I do.”

“So, Vienna, what would you rather do?”

She turned her eyes to his. Her pupils were violet, the lashes long and black. “Shall I tell you what I would really like to do?”

He gave no response, but waited with a small catch in his breath.

“I would like to fall asleep in a great big soft bed with my head on your chest.”

“We can do that.” Then he remembered. “Wait, they screwed up my reservation. I have two singles. We can push them together.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Well, where are you staying?”

She held up the key. It was the first time he had seen a genuine smile on her lips. “I have the royal suite.”

Now he was impressed. “How did you get that?”

“How do you think?”

They made their way to the twenty-first floor. As they followed the curve of the passage, Vienna entwined her fingers in his. I don’t have to tell this woman anything, he thought, she and I are the same kind.

When she unlocked the door at the end of the corridor and turned on the lights, he was disappointed to see that except for an extra pair of curtains covering the end wall, the room was almost identical to his. It was unbearably hot. He removed his suit jacket, threw it on the couch and loosened his tie.

“Make me a drink,’” she told him, “I’ll be back.” She headed for the bathroom. Something made him uncomfortable. He heard the bathroom door shut, then silence. He poured two whiskies at the wet bar and thought for a moment. It was exactly what she had done in Dubai.

No, it wasn’t.

Then she had waited until she had seen her own drink poured. Call-girls always did that, just to be careful.

She wasn’t going to drink anything. Then why had she asked him to make her a drink?

“Vienna?” He knocked on the bathroom door, but there was silence beyond. He placed his ear against the wood and listened. Nothing.

The room was spectacularly hot. Vienna was obviously missing Dubai. There didn’t seem to be a thermostat anywhere. Then he remembered; his was in the bathroom. “Vienna,” he called, “turn the heat down, will you?”

The floor tipped, just a little, but enough for him to realize what had happened. He headed back to the bar and examined his drained whisky tumbler. There was some kind of white residue in the bottom of it. Sweat was starting to pour between his shoulder blades. The front of his shirt was darkening around his armpits and in the middle of his chest.

The carpet seemed to be pulling away beneath his feet. He needed cold air, fast. He reached the end window and pulled back the curtains, but there was just more wall behind them.

The big French windows were in the same place as the ones in his room. He lurched across to them and tried the right handle. It turned easily. He pulled the glass door towards him and a blast of sub-zero air filled the room. It was snowing hard. Almost instantly he began to sober up. He tried to think.

Stepping on to the balcony, he breathed in the stinging winter air, filling his lungs with ice. Fat white flakes settled on his eyelids, in his ears. His head was clearing fast but his reactions were still slow.

Too slow to stop the door from being shut behind him. Vienna was standing beyond the glass. She studied him blankly, as if watching an animal at the zoo. Her right arm was raised, her hand against the wall. She was pressing something. She wiggled the fingers of her left hand slightly, waving goodbye.

The steel shutter that fitted tightly over the windows was swiftly closing. He tried to seize its edge with his fingers, to push it back up, but it was so cold that the flesh of his fingertips, still wet from his whisky glass, stuck to the metal, pulling him down.

And then it was shut. He tore his fingers free, leaving behind four small scarlet patches of skin. The sweat on his back was already turning to ice. He hammered on the steel shutter, but was shocked by its thickness. It barely rattled. Old French-style hotels always sported European shutters. He moved around the edges of the metre-wide balcony. A sheer drop down, no lights on anywhere. The rooms on either side had bricked-up windows.

The bitter wind had risen to a howl. He was in his shirtsleeves, and knew he had but a short time to live. He had been drinking all evening; his blood was thin. He fell to the floor of the balcony and pushed himself into the wall, but the ice and snow still blew through the balustrade, settling over him.

His first instinct was to assume he had been subjected to a woman’s revenge. Then he remembered she was merely an employee.

He tried to laugh when he understood what had happened, but the saliva was freezing in his mouth. Even his eyes were becoming hard to move. He fancied he could hear the ice forming beneath his skin. Tiny crackles like rustling cellophane filled his ears.

Staring out into the night beyond the balcony, the darkness was sprinkled with swirling white flakes that looked like stars. He could have been anywhere in the world.

They’ll leave the shutters down for twenty-four hours, he thought, just to be absolutely sure. Vienna will be back on a Dubai beach by then.

His mind was growing numb. He remembered something from a history book he had once read. When the Persian matriarchs wanted to rid themselves of the most treacherous family members, they locked them away in sumptuous apartments and left them to die. From a business point of view, it made perfect sense to do so. He should have put forward the idea as part of his new business model, but, just as Lassiter had warned, someone else had thought of it first.

He found himself laughing as the freezing snow-laden winds whirled about him, and then he could no longer close his mouth.