Haven Pt. 02 - The Seven Levels

CHAPTER 1

There were many things Yvette Baudelaire loved about the bathroom in her L'île de la Paix mansion. Indeed, she had spent more time with the interior designer focussing on designs for this one room than any other. It was the perfect combination of classic and modern, with a dark, heated marble floor and a bespoke glass wall that curved seamlessly into a ceiling, which provided an uninterrupted view of the ocean and the South Pacific skies. The most difficult choice had been to decide whether to have it situated on the east or west side of the mansion, but in the end she plumbed for the side from which she could watch the sun set after a long day at work or play. On the east side she instead placed her en-suite luxury shower room.

As she lay in her deep, double-ended copper bath, covered in warm bubbles, with Liszt's 6 Consolations playing delicately on the sound system and the third shooting star of the evening streaked through the cloudless sky, there was no doubt in her mind that every choice she had made that got her to this moment was the right one.

In her contentment, she hadn't registered the discord in the music caused by the house doorbell a minute or so earlier.

There was a gentle knock at the bathroom door.

'Oui, Celeste?'

'A delivery for you, Madame,' replied Celeste, her butler.

'Merci.'

'And, also, your guest has arrived.'

'Oh... What time is it?'

'8:04, Madame.'

'Okay. No problem. Please let 'er know I will be with her as soon as I can.'

She saw little point in contemplating the early arrival of her guest and pulled the bath plug. As the perfumed water lowered around her she lifted one smooth and toned leg above the surface of bubbles and admired how her smooth skin twinkled in the low lighting.

"I still have 'it'", she thought.

-- -- --

Yvette entered the living room in a flowing silk gown and pyjamas. The impressive figure of Kisi Baidoo, dressed in her usual loose-fitting cream cotton top and bottoms, with a flowing drape shrug and bamboo flip-flops, was standing by the hearth. She sipped a glass of water as she took her opportunity to enjoy the view of the ocean through the patio doors.

'I was bathing,' said Yvette.

'You shouldn't have let me disturb you, Madame.'

Yvette smiled. To her, Kisi's smooth tone of voice and Ghanaian accent were a luxurious treat for the ears.

'Please, call me Yvette.'

'As you wish, Yvette.'

'And it's probably a good job you interrupted me -- I am quite 'appy to stay in ze bath until I am all "pruned up".'

She was pleased to see Kisi appreciate this admission.

'This is a lovely room,' said Kisi. 'Fireplace, grand piano, mini bar, a view of the sea...'

'It's not for sale,' said Yvette. Her eye was then caught by a large flat parcel that rested against the wall. 'Did you bring zis?' she asked.

'No. It was delivered by courier at the same time I arrived.'

'Of course,' said Yvette, snapping her fingers. As she stepped out from behind the sofa, Kisi noticed her extravagantly fluffy and heelless designer slippers and, as she picked up a silver letter opener and knelt to slice open the outer packaging, the slippers dropped to reveal much of her soles. Kisi did all she could to not take her work home with her, but there was no switching off her innate radar and a mental note of where the French woman looked to be most sensitive was made.

Yvette pulled open the packaging to reveal a frame, masked by layers of bubble wrap.

'Ah, yes. I knew zis was due today.'

'What is it?' asked Kisi.

'Myself and ze ozzer Founding Mozzers were honoured last week at a function organised by ze L'île de la Paix heads of industry. Actually, I sent you an invitation...?'

'Yes, you did. I'm sorry, I could not attend.'

'Zhey presented us with zis...' she carefully pulled back the wrapping to reveal a vibrant and dynamic oil painting--an interpretation of the TIME Magazine cover photo of herself, Ngaire Brown, Lydia Goodman and Miss Zafirah Khalil--by Giuseppina Valentina Annunziata, one of Italy's greatest contemporary painters, as well as being one of the first famous women to emigrate to the island. Yvette stood back in admiration.

'It's sensational,' said Kisi.

'Isn't it? I love it. It will go over ze fireplace tomorrow. Let's sit,' said Yvette.

Kisi sat at the one end of the sofa as she moved to the other, flowing out her silken gown to cover it, like an exuberant parachute coming to rest. 'Celeste...?'

Celeste arrived. 'Yes, Madame?'

'Aperitifs, please. I will 'ave a champagne. And, for Director Baidoo...?'

'I will have the same, thank you.'

Celeste nodded and went to get the drinks.

'And, please, Yvette, call me Kisi.'

Yvette smiled. 'May I ask you somefing personal?'

'You may.'

'Are you gay?'

Kisi didn't have to consider her answer but took a moment to consider why she may be asked such a question. 'I do not label my sexuality.'

'Zis would indicate zat you are not... just "straight"?'

'For people to whom such labels matter, I would probably not be considered as such. No.'

Celeste returned with the drinks. 'Chef has finished your meal, Madame. Should I ask her to serve?'

'No. I can do it myself. Please just leave it covered in ze dining room. And you may go home for ze evening. Fank you, Celeste.'

Celeste politely nodded her goodbyes and closed the living room door behind her.

Kisi sipped her Armand de Brignac. 'Does my sexuality somehow cause an issue? Or do you ask out of curiosity?'

'Oh, no!' said Yvette, 'I fink you know me and ze principles of our island well enough to know zat you can be any sexuality you like here.'

'And so...?'

'And so, oui; you could say I am just... curious.'

'I see,' said Kisi. 'May I be permitted to ask you something personal?'

'Of course!' said Yvette.

'What is it like to be newly married and for your husband to not be allowed to live here?'

Yvette smirked. 'It is fine. I didn't imagine I would marry again, but I 'ave, and we both see ze benefits of times apart in between times togezzer. And we 'ave personal and legal agreements in place to make sure I do not face ze same problems I faced in my last marriage.' She leant forward and lowered her tone, 'Zis husband will 'ave no opportunity to rob from me!'

'I don't suppose that is on his mind. To him you are an attractive and beautiful older woman. He must worship the ground at your feet.'

'I allow him to do zat sometimes,' Yvette shrugged with a twinkle.

'And what of sex?' asked Kisi. 'You have an open relationship?'

'We do not,' replied Yvette.

Kisi awaited an explanation. Yvette put down her glass.

'I do not want to fuck you, Kisi.'

Kisi nodded, appreciative that there was no longer any subtext to the conversation.

'From ze very first time I saw you work your magic on Lydia Goodman's head of security, a curiosity was awoken in me.'

'Curious to...?'

'Experience what you do.'

'You want me to teach you--?'

Yvette shook her head. 'No, no. Maybe one day, but no. I want you to teekle me.'

Kisi's lack of a discernible reaction was accompanied by the sounds of the ocean swishing against the cliffs below. The front door closed as Celeste left for the night.

'Your husband...?' asked Kisi.

'He's an expert at some fings. But not zis.'

'Would you tell him?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'It's not sex, but it is physical. 'e would not understand.'

Again there was a long pause as both women locked eyes with equal levels of inscrutability. 'I take my work seriously, Madame Yvette--'

'I like zat about you.'

'And so you want the Director of your national justice system to tickle you--one of the Founding Mothers--for your sexual gratification?'

'I don't know if it will gratify me. As I said: I am just curious.'

'Would you ask Mozart to compose a concerto, or da Vinci to paint a portrait because you are curious?'

'I might.'

As a globally respected business professional, Yvette was well-used to playing the "who speaks first loses" game but she had never before gone head-to-head with a former head of a National Intelligence Bureau and seasoned terrorist interrogator. Just as she thought she may need to say something, Kisi spoke:

'I've never done it for pleasure.'

Yvette casually lifted her legs and crossed them onto the central cushions of the sofa in a way that would have tantalised any of the men--especially the foot fetishists--that she had come across in her life.

'I only want it the way you know 'ow to do it,' said Yvette.

Kisi regarded her shapely ankles and several of her exquisitely pedicured toes, which protruded from the spray of white slipper fur that swayed gently with the slightest movement of air.

'Turn over,' said Kisi.

Yvette's eyes glowed and she put down her glass. Her silky night attire allowed her to twist with ease and she was quickly on her front -- resting her palms and chin on the soft sofa arm. A slipper was removed from one foot. A frisson of excitement ran through her torso.

'I should let you know, I'm not easily tickled -- you might 'ave to get me into ze right frame of mind-- YEEK!'

Yvette's body left the sofa in a way that almost defied physics. 'What ze 'ell was zat!?' she asked, suddenly nervous.

'It was this...' said Kisi displaying a circular claw with one hand. She encompassed Yvette's exposed heel.

'No! Wait! I'm not ready-yyyyyy!!!'

But Kisi didn't wait -- with a motion similar to that of a wire head massager, she twirled rapidly up and down Yvette's smooth heel, while pinning her leg in place.

Yvette gripped the sofa arm and rocked from side-to-side as the shockingly effective technique caused laughter to erupt from deep within.

With an insistent pulsating motion, Kisi's long fingers proceeded to engulf more of Yvette's slender foot, producing spasms of movement throughout her body.

As Kisi had said, she had never tickled--or considered tickling--anyone for pleasure and, before now, she didn't know if it would be possible for her to do so. She was an interrogator. A punisher. A torturer. She had discovered early on in life the power of being able to steal the strength from someone in this way and--while making it appear like play in front of every witness--getting them to give her what she wanted. It was a natural progression to experiment with how she could take that further behind closed doors. The rest was history. But, with this first ever venture into tickling someone who actually requested it, she recognised a sense of something that she had taken for granted for a very long time: intrigue.

Kisi then realised that she had been on automatic pilot, which was not an alien experience for her -- several past partners could attest to the reality of what most would consider to be just a figure of speech: she could tickle someone in her sleep. Her fingernails had explored all of Yvette's foot, infiltrated her mental and physical defences, and were now focussed with a simple two-fingered focus on a wrinkle just millimetres in length under the ball of her foot. This had taken her to what Kisi referred in her tutorials to as Level Three.

Even without the intent of a particular end goal, there was something very stimulating about seeing the ever-confident and composed world-famous businesswoman Yvette Baudelaire lose control by her hand. And, even though she requested it, Kisi could tell that there was a part of Yvette that believed this would be a challenge she could withstand. She was happy to prove her wrong so quickly and, for the first time in her life, Kisi Baidoo felt a tingle of arousal at what she was doing.

Yvette buried her face and sank her teeth into the sofa arm's cushion, but nothing could stop the endless waves of laughter that swelled from within. It made no logical sense! She had been tickled in the past, obviously. But even when men had grabbed her waist with their huge hands and tickled her from behind, or buried their fingers into her armpits it had never had anywhere near the current effect of just two fingernails on a minute square of her foot skin.

Suddenly it was like her body was placed into the hands of an internal defence team and she began to struggle hard. She hammered her fists down onto the arm of the sofa, drew back her free leg and kicked back at Kisi, hitting her square in the thigh. Although she felt bad about it, she didn't have the capacity to immediately apologise.

'Oh, I see! We are doing it like that, are we?' said Kisi and she reached for Yvette's waist.

'NO!' Yvette screeched in panic and twisted herself right off the sofa. She landed on her backside and hit the coffee table, knocking her champagne onto the carpet.

'Oh, my gosh!' exclaimed Yvette, brushing strands of sweaty hair from her face. 'I am so sorry I kicked you!'

Kisi rubbed her thigh. 'That's okay. But I charge extra for wrestling matches.'

'No way!' said Yvette emphatically. 'You probably 'ave several cheat manoeuvres vat would put me at a disadvantage.'

Yvette shook herself and went to the minibar to pour a glass of ice water. She was palpably disconcerted. She offered a drink to Kisi.

Kisi shook her head, accompanied by the elegant poise she had maintained throughout the experience. 'Have we satisfied your curiosity, Yvette?'

Yvette finished her water and placed down the glass. Despite Kisi's perpetually enigmatic state, there was an intentionally provocative gibe baked into her question.

'We 'ave not. There is a limit to what we can do on a couch, no?'

Kisi agreed.

CHAPTER 2

Zafirah Khalil watched as two custodians mounted her Giuseppina Valentina Annunziata painting on the wall of her office. She opened a package to find a leather-clad presentation booklet and a letter from the Chairwoman of the L'île de la Paix Heads of Industry Association. It thanked her for attending the recent ceremony in honour of the Founding Mothers and offered her the booklet with compliments.

The booklet contained a range of photos from the ceremony. She was delighted to see superbly-taken candid shots of Ngaire, Lydia, Yvette and herself interacting with the politicians, businesswomen and invited guests. One particular photo made her pause. She remembered the moment -- over dinner she was telling an anecdote of how she had gone about raising her quarter of the finances necessary to buy the island and how her friends and associates did not believe that such a utopia would be possible. She shone in the photo. Those listening hung on her every word without any sense of sycophancy.

Tears appeared in her eyes as she saw the confidence in herself; the person she had become since the Founding of L'île de la Paix -- unashamed, unrepressed, and finally without the shadow cast by her husband, which had stayed with her even after his death.

She couldn't help but compare herself to her peers and knew she should feel proud. Lydia was 43, Ngaire was 38, Yvette was 35 and she was the youngest, at just 30. She had been forced into marriage at 15, widowed at 22, co-founded a country at 24, and since then had studied and practiced to become a successful--and ethical--trader on the global markets. All of this without the use of what was bequeathed to her by her husband, which she had donated to charity, including the proceeds raised by auctioning off his possessions, properties and businesses.

Among the perfection of the photo, she noticed a blemish and brushed at it with the edge of her little finger, but it stayed in place. Looking closer, she realised that it wasn't a blemish on the photo; it was a scar on her jawline left by her husband's ring.

A bark of frustration unexpectedly escaped her lips, causing the custodians to jump and look at her. She moved quickly to the window to conceal her emotion and pretended that something on her cell phone had caught her unawares, even though she was actually unlocking it as she went.

She looked out of the spectacular view of Ville d'Or, L'île de la Paix's capital city, and took a deep breath to calm herself when she noticed a black speck in the sky, growing as it headed her way from the direction of Paix International Airport.

There was a knock at the door from her assistant, Refa. 'A visitor to see you Miss Khalil.'

From the shadows of the corridor, in stepped Ngaire Brown. ''allo, Darlin!'

Zafirah was delighted to see her friend and they hugged a hello.

Ngaire noticed the glassiness in her eyes. 'Everything okay?'

'Yes. Just shadows.'

Ngaire shrugged to herself. 'Yep. Bloody things are everywhere.'

'All done, Miss Khalil,' said one of the custodians.

'Thank you very much,' said Zafirah.

They bowed and left.

'Aah, you have our little portrait up in here?' said Ngaire. 'I've got mine in me office too.'

'Wonderful, isn't it? I like how each of our paintings aren't identical. It captures moments in time. Can Refa to bring you anything?'

'No, it's alright, love. I just stopped by to say 'allo. I'm early for a meetin' with the PM.... Who's that?' Ngaire went over to the window. The black speck had grown into a sleek black helicopter that was headed for the helipad on the roof of their building.

'I think it's my first appointment of the day,' said Zafirah. 'An English security expert: Allegra Volkov. You've heard of her?'

'Nope.'

'Neither have I. It may be a ruse but she was very adamant that I needed to see what she had to offer.'

'Her company has potential?'

'She's secretive about it. But, as a wise woman once said, "You have to take a bloody punt sometimes, don'tcha?"'

Ngaire laughed. 'Bloody oath, Zafirah.'

Zafirah's brow furrowed at this expression. Her desk intercom sounded. 'Yes, Refa?'

'Your 9am appointment, Miss Khalil.'

'Bring her through, please.'

One thing Ngaire knew of herself was that she was unapologetically down-to-earth; often to the dismay of those around her. She refused to plaster over the accent that advertised her outback upbringing and, although negotiation was an almost daily part of her lifestyle, she didn't tiptoe around anyone. From the poorest and least educated in society to heads of state -- she spoke on a level and expected the same from others.

In recent years she had become world-renowned by those with whom she had business dealings. The days when she was underestimated, treated with contempt, or outright ignored by people (generally men) were far behind her, but no less indelible despite the passing years. She had her own catalogue of anecdotes with which she could regale dinner party attendees that featured how she bested those who took her on -- in and out of business.

The trickier opponents were those who had those feelings of dismissal towards her but tried their best to mask it. They believed that they only had to pay cursory deference and that she would accept it before giving them everything they wanted, but it never worked out that way for them. Still, those people existed and the higher up the ladder she climbed, the more they had to work to conceal their true feelings. And now, at the top of the ladder, there wasn't anyone who could hold even the smallest glimmer of contempt without her detecting it.

She therefore instantly recognised the look in the eye of Allegra Volkov as she entered Zafirah's office and decided not to immediately withdraw as she had planned.

Allegra stood around 6'2" in her high heels. Her pinstripe trouser suit and cobalt blue blouse were the definition of a power outfit. Her presentation and dyed-black feathered pixie haircut were flawless, despite having probably been in the air for around twenty-four hours. Ngaire suspected that her style was an evolution from teenage years spent dressed as a rebellious goth and, now in her early-30s, Ngaire had to admit she wore it well.

'Zafirah Khalil? I'm Allegra Volkov,' she said and held out her hand. Her English accent was so crisp, Ngaire thought she sounded like an overly-assertive Mary Poppins.