Page 156 of Lethal Torture
I smile, an effort given how uncannily accurate his assessment is. “What’s with the psychoanalysis, Enzo?”
He pins me with knowing eyes. “Because, McTasty, much as I adore our queen, the bitch has been utterly impossible for the last two weeks, and if you leave, not even a ridiculously huge bonus and Andrew’s skills in the bedroom will be enough to make me stay.”
“That’s quite the plan.”Mak’s louche drawl comes down the line as I dress in the security office at the Quartier. The small space has, by unspoken agreement these past weeks, become my private space.For how much longer, though?I wonder as I twist a silver cuff link into place. I’ve been trying not to think about what happens after tonight between me and Zinaida. The truth is that I have no fucking intention of letting her go. Not now, not ever.
But I’m still not entirely certain how to broach the subject of the future with her. Which is part of the reason for this phone call.
“And you’ve discussed this with Zinaida?” Mak goes on, pulling me back to the present.
“Earlier today, yes. She did mention that if you want to run anything by her, to feel free to call.”
“Oh, no need, dear boy,” he says airily. “I think your idea is superb. Though I’m not sure that asking me to speak to the home secretary is wise. She’s made her contempt for my kind of organization extremely obvious, more than once.”
I grin. I can imagine Dame Agatha Chalmondeley, with her aristocratic background and love of law and order, finding Mak’s shadowy world of private mercenaries, armies for hire, and intelligence gathering extremely distasteful.
“This case might just be the exception,” I say. “If Lowbridge’s activities are exposed in the media, the government will fall, which means the end of Agatha’s career. My idea gives her a chance to sell all of this as a coup for the country. The government can say they’ve taken action against corruption in their own ranks by ending Lowbridge Inc.’s security contracts at British ports. The NCA gets to publicly expose Minos as a human trafficking operation. And Agatha gets to boast about putting our port security into the hands of an organization founded by British army veterans, which is a patriotic act loaded with enough sentimentality to have bipartisan support, not to mention make even theDaily Truthput a British flag on their front page.”
“Oh, no argument from me.” I can almost hear Mak rubbing his hands together in the background. “And forget about taking out a business loan to start your company, Luke. The Mercura board will back you for whatever it takes to set up, no questions asked.”
For a moment I find it hard to speak. “I’m not asking for a handout, Mak.”
“I wouldn’t offer you one.” There’s no trace of his trademark sardonic humor. “I can’t imagine anyone better suited to run security at England’s ports than a group of men who’ve already spent their lives defending their country. Will you be running it?”
“I’ll be the chief shareholder, yes, and CEO. But every member of our troop will own a significant interest, and we’ll run the board the same way we’ve always run our operations: as a group.”
“If anyone can make that work, Luke, it’s you.” Mak’s quiet endorsement means more than I care to admit. “What are you going to call it?” he asks.
I clear my throat. “We haven’t decided for sure. But the boys suggested... Macarthur Securities.” I grimace, still feeling uncomfortable about putting my name out there as the flagship. “Paddy said it sounded solid, whatever the fuck that means.”
“I’d say your Irish scrapper is on the money, as usual.” Mak sounds amused. “Well, I shall look forward to a long, mutually profitable association with Macarthur Securities, then, Luke.”
“Don’t think that means you can start using our ports as your own personal black-market route, Mak,” I say warningly. “We might hate the fucking government, but that doesn’t mean we won’t run those ports tighter than any army operation.”
“I would expect nothing less.” He lowers his tone. “But when it comes to what happens in international waters just outside of England’s borders...”
“Well,” I say promptly, “then we’d have no jurisdiction. Obviously. Nor any interest whatsoever.” I pause. “Not to mention that the sea is naval territory. And I’m sure you’ve been around defense long enough to know how army boys feel about getting one over the Navy.”
“Ha.” Mak sounds delighted. “Excellent, dear boy. Excellent.”
Guests begin arrivingat the Quartier at nine p.m.
I watch from my security office as they arrive in a series of limousines with darkened windows, entering with cloaks over their heads and masquerade masks concealing their faces. Still, nothing can hide the designer gowns, hand-cut tuxedos, andblinding fortune in bespoke diamonds worn by the guests. The roads around the Quartier have been shut down for the evening on the pretext of salting the roads for the Christmas holidays, allowing a protective mile-wide privacy barrier to guard the identities of the attendees.
Important, given that the guest list includes the biggest names in government and business, not to mention a senior royal who has so far managed to remain one of the very few scandal-free members of the family.
Zinaida, typically elusive, is backstage. Normally the ball is the one night she takes the stage to welcome guests. But tonight it’s Shelby who will act as MC, while Zinaida stokes the speculation and mystery by remaining entirely out of sight until she performs the unmasking dance at midnight.
Our goal is to lull Lowbridge, Stewart, and Kozlov into such a sense of false security that they believe they can actually get away with not only murdering Zinaida in front of half the country, but go on to proclaim it as a victory for justice.
Contempt curdles my gut as I see Lowbridge, a self-satisfied smile on his face and wearing leather shoes which definitely incorporate lifts, step out of a sedan bearing government plates and extend his arm to the home secretary.
Agatha steps out of the car looking typically regal, but also surprisingly gorgeous. Her silver satin gown is cut low enough to reveal a Cheddar Gorge of cleavage I never suspected she possessed, and a rather daring length of well-toned thigh. With her hair piled high on her head, a filigree silver demi mask, and quite dramatic makeup, she looks less like a politician and rather more like Hollywood royalty.
“Christ,” says Paddy, squinting at her. “It’s the love child of Madeleine Albright and Sophia Loren. And wait.” He cranes his neck to look at the next arrival stepping out of a limo. “Is that—”
“No names, cock,” I say, grinning. “And phones are checked at the door, as you know, so no happy snaps to sell to the media either.”
“Obviously.” He shakes his head. “But still. Bloody amazing.”
