Palmer: Fashion Week Ch. 07

But she wasn't the main object of his interest. It was the man beside her. It was impossible to miss Nikky Volkov's blonde bodyguard, Boris. He was taking Michelle's arm and escorting across the front of the hotel towards a black Lincoln.

Moving on instinct, the assassin slipped away from the group of holidaymakers and headed towards the taxi stand. Fortune was shining on him. No-one else was in the queue. He slid into the backseat of the first cab as Michelle and Boris climbed inside the Lincoln.

"Follow that car," he said, pulling out a roll of bills.

He peeled off more than it would cost to drive the length of New City. What did it matter? He needed to make sure they kept the Lincoln in sight and all the money he was using was counterfeit.

"Be discreet," he snapped. "There's more of the same if you don't lose them."

"Yessir!" the happy driver smiled, taking the cash without a second glance.

That was typical of an Arab. He fucking hated them as well as Asians.

His attention remained on the black Lincoln in front as they pulled into the heavy traffic. It was darting around some cars as if it knew it was being followed. But with more money at stake, the assassin's taxi driver was following diligently.

There wasn't a problem. Or was there? Fuck! The Lincoln had turned abruptly and his driver had missed it. Stupid bastard!

"What the fuck..." he spat out, but his driver was sending him an over-the-shoulder grin.

He stayed parallel for a short time and then navigated into an alley that split through the shadow of a couple high rises. When they hit sunlight again, the Lincoln was two cars up. They were back on its tail. Maybe the bastard driver knew what he was doing after all?

He relaxed back in his seat as they settled behind the Lincoln on the main thoroughfare. There was little chance of losing it now.

*

Michelle Park fidgeted a little as she stared at Boris, opposite her. He had a curious smile on his face as he watched her. She wondered what it meant. Like all men, he couldn't stop his eyes from wandering up and down her tight body, taking in the huge expanse of thigh she'd deliberately left on display as she'd crossed her long legs.

She returned the smile and then glanced out of the tinted window, reflecting on her conversation with Nikky Volkov. She was pondering what his interest was in Jenn Finney. That puzzled her. And she was wondering exactly where the Lincoln was taking her. But more than anything, she was thinking about his cold, dominant tone.

Had he discovered the truth about her and Tony? Her boyfriend had offered her to Sheikh Amir bin Khalid as a reward for signing the contract with him. That worried the shit out of her. It was the one, single fact that tied her in to the deal...

She glanced at Boris again. He sat quietly in his white linen suit, one leg crossed over the other, the smile on his face not touching his eyes. It would have been impossible to know what he was thinking ... except for the way his gaze was all over her again, lingering on the short hem of her dress and the deep shadow of her cleavage.

He was fucking her with his eyes.

She gave him one of her sexiest smiles. The one that said she was the hottest woman in the world and she knew it. Play the game. Use him to find out what Volkov was up to.

"Where are we going, Boris?" she murmured, taking the initiative.

His gaze rose from her legs to her tits, and finally reached her face.

"Mr. Volkov has arranged for us to visit one of the Sheikh's clubs," he told her, in his thick German accent.

"Why?" she sweetly asked.

His smile returned. God, he was dumb, but she wasn't going to get much out of him. Not unless...

"You know, Boris, I think you and I could be really good friends" she said, suggestively raising an eyebrow.

His eyes narrowed and a puzzled frown crossing his face. They both knew she was a cut above the women he'd normally associate with.

Michelle smiled again, showing a row of straight, white teeth.

"You know," she persuasively said, leaning across towards him. "I love men like you, men who have power..."

Her right hand dropped into his lap. Beneath his pressed trousers, his manhood bulged.

"I bet you have lots of stories you can tell me," she half-whispered, reaching for his zipper. "About your boss and what he gets up to. That sort of power thing always turns me on."

She held his gaze as she carefully eased the zipper down. The German's body stiffened but he made no move to stop her. When she fished out his cock, she was happy to find it more than filled out her palm.

"I want to hear those stories, Boris," she smiled, keeping her expressive gaze fixed on his as she lowered her head.

His eyes narrowed further as she licked her lips and he gave a gasp when she curled her long tongue up and down his thick shaft.

"That's it, baby," she hissed as his body crunched into the leather as he reclined. "Relax..."

Tossing her dark hair, she swallowed half of his girth with consummate ease. By the time she'd finished with the moron, he'd tell her anything she wanted to know.

*

You're being paranoid, Jack Palmer told himself.

He'd stayed in the lobby after breakfast, making the call off his mobile phone in a private section of the atrium. It was unlikely that Nikolay Volkov had bugged his and Roxie's room, but he wasn't leaving anything to chance. The Russian would be aware of his background, and he'd know that it was Jack who had foiled his attempt to compromise Jenn Finney. That made Palmer as big a threat to him as the undercover cop. Instinct, cultivated by many years on the Vice squad, told him not to take any chances.

Roxie's initiative in getting Volkov's number left him with a choice to make. He could ignore the gift and simply support his girlfriend while she completed her Supermodel audition tomorrow and then return to England. That was the easiest choice, and the safest. It allowed him to babysit Jenn, too. Volkov would try again, he had no doubt about that.

But the cop in him wanted to go after Volkov. He could still protect Roxie and Jenn while following up the lead. He had enough time on his hands, so why not see where it took him?

He'd made the call to the only person who could help him and left a message on Taffy Boyd's phone. Inside a minute, he'd succinctly explained what he wanted. It took the Welshman half an hour to return the call.

"Jack, boyo," his deep accent boomed. "It's been a while."

Taffy was working in Narcotics when he'd surreptitiously helped with Palmer's investigation into Dominic DeVere. They had grown up together and Jack knew his overweight friend was the best wireman in the business, bar none. He still felt responsible for the way it had all ended, with Taffy being transferred to some stick-in-the-mud hamlet where it was impossible to use his own initiative.

"Too long, Taffy," he replied, smiling happily to himself. It was good to speak to his friend again. "How are things?"

"Life lurches from one piece of excitement to the next in the hotbed known as Llandudno," the Welshman grunted. "That's why I was so happy to hear from you, Jack. It sounds like you have an interesting problem on your hands."

"To put it mildly," Palmer wryly retorted. "Can you help?"

"Can I help?" Taffy chortled. "Is the Pope catholic? But listen, Jack, you know my part in this will come free of charge. But to do what you want, well, that could be expensive."

"I understand," Palmer said. He was going to try and persuade Sandra Wilson to meet the cost. "How much, Taffy?"

He whistled when the Welshman gave him an estimate. That was practically an entire year's worth of surveillance budget when he was in the Met.

"What exactly will that buy?"

"A ghosted mobile, Jack," Taffy explained. "It rings when the original rings. And it'll light up when there's an outgoing call. You'll be able to listen to and record every single conversation that takes place."

Palmer pursed his lips. Now that was impressive.

"Is there any chance of detection?" he asked, thoughtfully. "Will the person know someone's eavesdropping?"

"Not unless they have access to some more advanced spyware than I have. And I assure you, such a thing doesn't exist."

"That sounds great, Taffy," Palmer said.

A sense of relief ran through him, together with the surge of adrenalin he always felt when back in action. But he had to get Sandra Wilson's agreement before he could take this any further.

"I'll get back to you in the next few hours and let you know whether it's a runner," he continued "Once I've spoken to Sandra."

"That's fine with me, Jack. It'll be good to do business with you again, boyo. And give her my love. And tell her if she's still unattached, all she has to do is look me up."

*

The cab driver pulled up to a curb, across the street from where the black Lincoln had driven in.

"What is this place?" the assassin asked, leaning on the seat infront of him and glancing at the building opposite.

"Ah, that's ... what do you foreigners call it? A gentlemen's club?" the driver laughed.

He pulled a cigarette out of his glove compartment and lit up without even asking. His passenger felt like grabbing it from his fingers and stubbing it out in his eye.

"See how there's no sign on the building?" the man went on, allowing the smoke to escape from his nostrils. "There's not even an operating front door. That tells you the place is exclusive."

"Exclusive?"

"That's correct," the man said, shooting him a toothy smile. "They take the word 'private' seriously in there, my friend."

The assassin felt the irritation surge further in him. He had no choice other than to wait out here until Boris emerged, even though that only increased the danger of discovery. He reached inside his jacket for his Makarov gun. He'd have to kill the driver, of course. He had no choice.

"But if you really wanted to get in," the man suddenly said, sending another cloud of smoke into cab. "I may know a few people..."

The assassin snapped his head up and took his hand from his gun. The driver had a dark goatee, a shaggy head of hair, his teeth were yellow and his eyes were blood shot. But that smile suggested he knew something. Maybe he would let him live after all?

"How much?"

The guy shrugged. "My friends, they're not cheap."

The assassin slowly nodded as he pulled out his wallet. He counted off what he thought was more than a fair price but when the man laughed, he doubled it. It was counterfeit, after all. The taxi driver took the cash, counted it carefully, and then reached for his phone.

"Sayid, it's Raj. I've got a special request..." He laughed at whatever was said. "Yeah, you got it ... uh huh ... we're just outside..."

There was a lot of jabber that the assassin couldn't understand and that made him feel uncomfortable. Was he going to get in or not?

"Of course, of course," the driver continued. "Very well, yes..."

He flipped the phone shut and nodded.

"Okay, you're clear to go," he said, and then held up the wad of notes he'd just been given "I hope you have a lot more where this came from, because it's not cheap in there..."

The assassin nodded and then stepped out of the cab. Money was no object. The momentarily blast of fresh air was welcome, even if it came with a wave of heat.

"Tell them Sayid sent you," the driver shouted, before driving away.

He watched him go and breathed deeply to calm himself. Once his heartbeat returned to normal levels, he descended the short flight of stairs towards an unmarked door. He'd visited a few establishments like this in the Ukraine. Except that there were real women back in his country, not the bitches he'd seen in this country.

He knocked and a slim woman answered, wearing something more appropriate for an Awards Show than behind a back-alley door. He tried not to sneer.

"Hello," she smiled, bowing her head deferentially.

She wore a headscarf, although judging from the plunging neckline of her dress, it wasn't for modesty.

"May I help you?"

"I was told to mention Sayid's name," he snapped.

Her dark eyes broke into a smile.

"Of course. Please, follow..."

Turning away from him, her dress was entirely backless, and her dark skin was covered in tattoos of men and women engaged in very lewd acts. Her eyes smiled at him as she glanced over her bare shoulder.

"There are rules," she explained as they arrived before a cherry wood paneled elevator. "First and foremost, anything you see here does not leave here. This includes 'celebrity sightings.' We don't exist, Mr..."

"Smith," he answered, staring her down.

She smiled sweetly as she pressed a button in the lift.

"Of course, Mr. Smith..."

The motors switched on and slowly carried them upwards.

"You're free to watch anything on stage. Private dances can be arranged with the girls themselves, as well as any ... extras..."

"Extras?"

"Extras," she repeated without offering further explanation. Wasn't it obvious? "We provide private rooms, should you need one, but our clientele is discreet. Most forego that amount of privacy. They prefer to enjoy the ... shall we say... more liberal atmosphere."

The doors of the elevator slid open before he could respond.

"Welcome to paradise, Mr. Smith," she said, stepping to his right and swinging her arm forward.

The sumptuous room formed an oval around a large stage made of polished alabaster. Three dancers spun and twisted on silver-gold poles in various states of undress. Others performed in the laps of the stage-side watchers, who were sitting in black leather armchairs.

And there was more. The outer ring, raised up on its own landing and separated by a polished, wooden banister, seemed to be where the real action was. Lined with plush, purple and maroon couches, the upper landing offered a bit more privacy with a lower light level and gossamer curtains between each booth.

In one, a guy was receiving a very enthusiastic blowjob from a girl wearing nothing but a silver-sequined g-string. In another, he could see the naked buttocks of a black man who was thrusting enthusiastically between the legs of a naked blonde, sitting on the couch.

"Would you like to sit in a booth, or down along the floor?" the veiled hostess asked.

He glanced around and caught sight of Boris and Michelle Park settling into a booth at the other side of the room. To their left was an empty one.

"There," he told her, pointing to the vacant booth. "That one."

"Excellent taste, Mr. Smith," the woman smiled. "That particular booth is one thousand Euros and includes a private dance."

The assassin blanched at the price. It was extortionate and even though money didn't matter, he hated anyone taking advantage of him. But this wasn't a time for making a fuss. Gritting his teeth, he reached for his wallet and paid her what she asked.

She bent her head in thanks and silently took him to his booth

"Syrah will be along shortly," she told him, once he stepped inside. "She'll take care of all your needs..."

And with a soft smile, she left him.

He turned to the gossamer curtains on his left. The flimsy barrier was all that separated him from Boris and Michelle Park. He could do it now, kill the bodyguard and then the girl for good measure. That would only add to Volkov's confusion. The timing was perfect.

He removed his Makarov from his jacket pocket and held the gun upwards as he fixed the silencer onto the barrel. The exhilaration he always felt moments before the kill ran through him. All he had to do was push the curtain aside, step into the next booth and...

*

Michelle Park sized up the pock-faced Arab who had just entered her booth. He was in his thirties, had slicked-back brown hair, and was smartly dressed in a light, designer suit. He also had a cocky swagger that suggested he was someone important.

"So, how do you like my club?" he asked her, ignoring Boris and taking a seat between them.

She glanced at the bodyguard. As usual, he had a blank expression on his face, but the look in his dark eyes suggested he would like to throttle the newcomer. Men were so transparent. She'd given him one blowjob and he was becoming jealous. Still, that was a good sign. He'd soon be telling her everything he knew about Nikky Volkov.

"You own it?" she asked, turning her attention back to the dark haired man in the designer suit. "I'm impressed."

"Not exactly," he murmured, resting his hand on her thigh and lightly stroking his fingernails across her skin. "The Sheikh owns the club. I manage it for him. That's why you're here. For your audition..."

"Audition?"

That's what Volkov had said.

He threw his head back and laughed at her puzzled expression.

"A private joke," he explained, pushing back up to his feet and nodding at the stage in clear view through beyond the thin rail that guarded the front of the booth. "My name is Kamal. Welcome to my world."

Michelle smiled pleasantly as she stared past him. She'd been in a few decadent clubs in her time, but nothing quite like this one.

A blonde dancer had suspended herself by her legs from one of the poles, running her hands across her perfectly formed tits. Another was languidly sliding her tight oiled body down the pole across from her, legs spread high above her head.

Between them, a brunette was naked on the stage, lying on her back with her legs spread open. She had a silver pearl piercing that dangled from her clitoris. Running her fingers along her perky breasts, they found her cunt as she arched her body up off the stage. Only the heels of her feet and her shoulder blades touched.

"I'm sure this is a world you'd feel very comfortable in," Kamal said, arrogantly sauntering back towards his chair.

When he sat down again, he patted his knee. The meaning was clear and Michelle ignored the look Boris was shooting her as she slid from her own seat and settled into the Arab's lap. She still didn't quite understand what was going on, and wasn't going to rock any boats until she did.

"Tell me something..." Kamal continued, hooking one arm around her waist.

"What would you like to know?" she asked.

His free hand dropped to her leg, pushing her thighs apart. When his probing fingers stroked under the hem of her tiny dress, she spread her legs a little to accommodate them.

"Do you fuck as enthusiastically as you suck cock?" he condescendingly asked.

She didn't flinch as she continued to meet his conceited stare. There was no chance of him intimidating her, if that was his intention. She'd eaten men like this for breakfast.

"Do you really need to ask?" she quietly replied, opening her legs even wider so that his fingers could stroke along her already damp thong. "Or would you like a demonstration?"

*

The high-heeled footsteps approaching his booth saw the assassin quickly return the Makarov into his jacket pocket, temporarily at least.

"Hello," a sultry woman's voice said as she stepped inside the thin rail.

The scantily clad brunette was beautiful; there was no doubt about that. Her full lips, glossy black hair, dark almond-shaped eyes and rich mocha coloured skin made the perfect combination. She was carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

"Another five hundred," she casually told him, standing just inside the booth.

"For champagne?" he snapped.

"For champagne, a lap dance, and what follows afterwards," she grinned, stepping forward.

She placed the bottle and glasses on the small side table before slipping comfortably into his lap. Her hand slithered across his face, gently guiding him to look at her.

"My name is Syrah," she told him, her full breasts pressing comfortably against his chest. "And I promise you won't be disappointed."