Chapter 2C: Section Two

I awoke in a glorious Paris morning. I was feeling energized although sore, especially in a new place. Mel was particularly cheerful after the fucking she had gotten, and I was feeling well taken care of myself. The ride back in the cab the night before was frazzled given that neither of us was wearing any form of underwear and both of us found our exit hilarious. It isn’t often that you can make two experienced Lotharios whine like little bitches.

Pierre had been a great fuck. But I had no interest in seeing him again. Mel was critiquing Marcel’s performance with the practiced eye of a seasoned vet. She was satisfied but not overwhelmed. I got the impression that Mel likes it rougher than what she got. I had a dinner date at 9:00 that night and I wanted to be fully prepared. We walked around the corner to Matteo and Paola on the Rue Cherche-Midi for a coffee and pastry.

Besides last night’s sex, one of the real pleasures of the City of Paris is the boulevard life. Sitting in a beautiful summer morning at a little table and sipping French roast while noshing on a super delicious little crumble cake almost matched the joy of our exploits the night before.

I had reviewed the intercepts up to the present and there was nothing special happening with my rat friend. He had some kind of assignation, which took up most of his night. I fast forwarded through the moans, grunts, strangled cries, and violently creaking bed springs. I DID have to give him SOME credit. He must have been banging his prize for the better part of the night and she seemed to be very appreciative.

In the meantime, there was no further contact from anybody outside although I was still monitoring all of his connections including his phone. The guy was essentially irrelevant anyhow, since I had gotten to the next step. I could tell by the new voice that I would be meeting with an older and much more substantial kind of fellow.

I had been running the packet information and I had the location down to a small ISP in Prague. I was able to refine my search to the Prague 1 municipal zone which told me that my new acquaintance was going to have a lot of money. My “Whois” background on the gateway indicated that it was a dedicated router for a single company.

I had a series of progressive aims for my dinner. My first was to determine whether I was talking to the boss or one of his henchmen. If I was talking to the head guy, then my second aim was to get some idea about where he was keeping his stash. If I was NOT talking to the head guy my aim was to get to the next step with whoever WAS in charge. THEN my third aim was to physically view the stash and decide what to do about it.

There were a number of logical options within each of those stages and so I would have to be careful to maneuver the situation to where I had to go. But I knew what I wanted to find out. Mel would be helpful in all of this because she could provide the surveillance, while I was working my way through the labyrinth of possibilities with our target.

From her position off to one side Mel could note any other players and their interactions as well as handle the real purpose of the meet, which was to put a name to the target. I was counting on Mel’s exceptional human instincts to get that done.

Our gambit was a form of “hide in plain sight.” Mel’s beauty draws too much attention. So. it would just be natural for anybody covering the situation for the bad guys to assume that a woman as striking as Mel WASN’T doing covert surveillance.

Mel was also the communication link with Sir Alex, who was there in real-time via the tablet Mel had in her purse. We had spent a profitable day with Sir Alex, talking through all of the possibilities and refining our plans via Skype. I am always impressed by my little friend’s genius when it comes to understanding the nuances of the human heart and that talent was never more evident than this day.

Sir Alex was in a chipper mood. I think that the opportunity to do a little field work in his former domain had the old boy energized. Mel kept coming up with observations and suggestions for refinement of the meet that nobody who was strictly rational would ever think of. But they always enhanced the situation. And her creativity aided in a plan that I could execute. I envied Mel’s command of people.

I was dressed to walk a fine line between alluring and business-like. That balancing act is hard for a woman to achieve in a new situation, because men’s attitudes are always the variable. I could have showed up in a harem-girl’s outfit with some men and they wouldn’t have noticed; whereas with others, judgments would rain down on me if one button wasn’t properly secured.

In the end I decided to just dress to please myself. So, I selected a relatively prim dark purple, almost black, silk number that had a choker neckline that ended at my knees. I knew that the fine silk would cling in interesting places without it appearing that I was going out of my way to emphasize my assets. I could embellish with jewelry that made a statement about my wealth.

I selected a little gold chain attached to a huge diamond that my father had specially made for my mother. She gave it to me when I moved off to Imperial. She said it was her way of marking my right-of-passage. It dangled nicely in my silk covered cleavage.

I put a few sapphire and emerald bracelets on my arms and of course my gold ladies date-adjust Rolex with the diamonds. My target would either recognize that was a $30,000 item, or he was not the person I wanted to talk to. I topped it off with a pair of patent leather four-inch pumps. Looking in the mirror I felt well put-together and confident.

Mel was dressing to be unobtrusive but elegant. She had to fit in at Le Bristol. But she did not want to draw attention to herself. She was in a classic little black dress tailored to her extreme figure and with a long rope of pearls that I had given her to celebrate the successful conclusion of our last venture.

It is impossible for men to NOT notice a beauty like Mel. But she had her lustrous black hair in a French twist, not down, and she was only minimally made up without much jewelry. So, she only looked spectacular, not totally remarkable like usual. We taxied over from the Lutetia in the 6th, to the Bristol in the 8th.

The Bristol is a true Paris Grande Dame with all of the luxury features that you would expect from an Inter-War landmark. Epicure, which was the restaurant I where was supposed to meet my contact, isn’t the classic mahogany and private booth restaurant that you might think. Instead it had a light and airy feel with huge floor to ceiling windows that opened onto one of those gardens that you can only get in a high-class Paris establishment.

Mel was already seated at an out-of-the-way table for two on the edge of the service floor. She had a “no trespassing” sign hung out with her body language, just in case any stray men decided to try their luck, and she was sipping a Pernod prior to ordering.

I didn’t need to ask who my contact was. There was a late 50s man in an $8,000 suit with Slavic tough guy written all over his broad face. He was sitting next to the wall at a four-top. He looked more bored than anything else. I also knew he was my guy because he was looking at me like he expected me.

As I walked toward him, I checked out the tan and the Rolex and the expensive coiffure and concluded that I needed to play this charming, not arrogant. Arrogant would not work on this fellow. All I would get would be push-back. I stopped in front of his table and extended my hand. I said, “Helen Larson, I believe we have an appointment.”

He looked up at me appraisingly. The last time I had seen eyes like that was on a Nile crocodile. He rose, took my hand and said, “My name is of no consequence to you.”

As he did that, Mel captured his face using the miniature digital camera that was embedded in her purse. No Russian bad guy could imagine that such a pretty little pussy-cat was running a live facial recognition scan on him as she sat there.

Since I wanted that information as soon as possible I had the smart-phone in MY purse set to loudly alert me that I had received a new text. The point of the entire gambit was to be so unsubtle that nobody could ever imagine we were up to something. I was counting on the guy’s bias about girly women.

The waiter seated me, and I ordered a JW Blue. My Slavic friend regarded me silently. I said, “I wanted to talk with you before I made any more investment in the goods that you have to sell.” I was very careful to not mention what kind of goods just in case this was being recorded. He continued to regard me silently.

I said, “I have been hired to serve as an agent for my party. I have up to two hundred million U.S. dollars that I am authorized to spend, however if what you have is genuine and it is from the source that we believe it is I can probably triple that amount. That is what I want to determine.” He continued to regard me with a stone face.

I said decisively but not aggressively, “I’m leaving if you won’t talk to me,” and started to get up. We had already gotten what I had come to get anyhow.

He said ominously, “Who do you represent?”

I said, “You know I can’t tell you that but let me assure you that it does not involve the authorities of any Country.” That statement was actually true.

He said, “Our goods are genuine, and I can prove it. I will send you irrefutable photographic evidence.”

I said, “This is my URL and handed him a card.” I knew that they would anonymize the message through a labyrinth of proxy-servers. But the cat was already out of the bag. That was because my phone made a loud text alert and I looked delighted.

I said in my best airheaded tone of voice, “Excuse me but I have to take this. This is my best-friend-forever and she is telling me which club to meet her at.”

The text read, “Vasily Kuznetzov, right hand man of Illia Kuriakinov, Bratva East Europe branch - Former KGB/FSB.” So, this guy was a player in the Russian Mob!!

Kuznetzov didn’t want to be there. But the fact that the person who had bought their initial offering knew that they were headquartered in Prague had to be investigated.

Everything that he had been told indicated that she was a first-class twit. But the fact that she had mentioned $200 million dollars and had figured out where they were located was raising warning flags. So Illia had sent him out to meet with her.

He had flown into Paris CDG that day from Prague Vaclav Havel on the Bratva’s Hawker 800XP and he expected to be back in Prague before midnight. At precisely 9:00 a woman appeared at the Maître’d’s station. She was such a striking beauty that he would have noticed her anyhow. But by her response he could tell that she was also his dinner guest.

She came toward him looking friendly. He had been told that she was an arrogant little rich kid but none of that was apparent. She marched up to him and extended her hand and said, “Helen Larson.” He told her in no uncertain terms that he was not pleased to be there.

She began to lay out the same things he already knew; except the amount had escalated to $600 million. He was interested in learning where a young woman like her could get that kind of money. So, he asked her who she represented.

She assured him that she was not CIA or MI6 and from his extensive experience with the KGB he was pretty sure she was telling the truth. Vasily knew what those people were like and this beauty had none of their layers. Plus, she was far too spectacular looking to be clandestine.

At that exact point in the conversation the phone in her purse emitted a loud alert tone. She looked delighted and told him that she had to take the message because it was one of her girlfriends. She said, “I know that we were supposed to have dinner. But I have to meet my friend right now at Le Batofar, we are going dancing. Could you please excuse me? You have satisfied my concerns.”

Then she handed a Black Card to the waiter and said, “Please give my friend anything he asks for.” Vasily decided that this silly little girl’s overriding interest in advancing her social life was proof that she was not a threat and the cavalier way that she produced a card with no credit limit indicated that she had no concern whatsoever about money.

Mel was sitting sedately at her single table sipping Pernod. She had arrived at 8:15 in order to be in position to watch everybody arrive. She had already had two offers of company and so she was now sitting looking pissed off enough that nobody else approached. The guy who she suspected was the target arrived thirty-five minutes after her.

There was something in the contrast between the expensive suit and tough Slavic features that reeked of criminal. Mel had plenty of experience back in Stepney with the jumped-up barrow boys who were wealthy drug-lords now; but were still Cockney scum. This guy looked like one of those.

Hilley appeared promptly at 9:00. It seemed like everybody in the place, male and female, was tracking her as she moved across the room with her usual pantherish grace. She extended her hand and the target stood to take it.

The camera was the size of a lipstick and it was projecting what it saw onto the tablet that she had open in front of her. That helped her aim it better. The tablet was in a nice leather holder and it looked like she was reading a Kindle while she ate. Mel locked a microburst of digital scan on the guy’s broad Russian face.

The image was instantaneously transmitted via satellite uplink to London. The sat-phone and its interface were in her purse. Sir Alex was preparing to run a real-time facial recognition scan off of what Mel captured. That scan was going to be powered by the best technology GCHQ could muster.

Except Sir Alex never ran it. The old man knew who Hilley’s dinner guest was the minute he saw the picture. That was because he had done considerable business with Vasily Kuznetzov, back in the final stages of the Cold War.

Sir Alex had known Kuznetzov in his former capacity as one of the more brutal KGB agents in Eastern Europe. Sir Alex had even taken a shot at him once, back in East Berlin. Unfortunately, he had missed.

Sir Alex also knew that, after the fall of the Soviets Kuznetzov had sold his particular talents to the FSB. That group had immediately distanced itself from him. The kinder and gentler version of the Russian secret service had no room for a thug like Kuznetzov.

So Vasily Kuznetzov was employed by the one group that would appreciate him. The Russian Mafia, known locally as the Bratva. Sir Alex had done a lot of business with the Bratva in his final years with MI6. That was in the golden age for the Russian Mafia, when they more-or-less had their run of the place, after the collapse of the old Soviet Union.

Sir Alex had met Kuznetsova’s boss Illia Kuriakinov, who lived at 101 Staromestske Namesti on the Old Town Square. He thought to himself, “So this is a mob exploit?” Within one minute of receiving the picture from Mel he texted the salient information back.

Mel sent the message to Hilley. That was the signal for the extraction to start. Hilley looked delighted when she received Mel’s message. Mel heard the phrase “friends” and “dancing” and Hilley did some sort of transaction with the waiter and rushed excitedly out of the restaurant, looking for all-the-world like she couldn’t wait to start having fun.

The tough guy looked disgustedly after her and then turned to the waiter. Mel heard the words, “Caviar” and “Moet” and smiled to herself. The little voice in her head said, “So Hilley bought him dinner?”

Mel knew she couldn’t rush out too, without looking suspicious. So, she continued to read what had now become an e-reader and sipped another glass of Pernod. When she felt sufficient time had passed, she handed the waiter her own Black Card and wandered out to get a taxi. It had been an amazingly successful exploit.

On the surface it seemed like an unbelievable stroke of good luck. We had not only worked our way up the web to the spider himself. But we had an address. Then upon thinking about it I realized that it was probably inevitable anyhow.

The Varus treasure, as we were beginning to call it, was far beyond the capabilities of any individual. So, of course they would need the help of organized crime. And since whatever was going on was clearly not legal the Bratva were the logical people to be involved.

It had been a fortunate coincidence that Sir Alex had recognized my dinner partner without any help from facial recognition. But that was also certainly reasonable, given Sir Alex’s own extensive history in the black arts in Eastern Europe. I had to hand it to the old man. He must have been one hell of an operative, for a very long time.

I was waiting in the lobby of the Lutetia when Mel sauntered in a half hour later. She looked very pleased with herself. She had every reason to be. Since it was her perfect execution of our plan that had ensured our success.

She had come a long way in the year-and-a-half we had worked together; from a spectacularly hot club girl to a poised and sophisticated young woman of the world. The sight of her loyal, steadfast, exotically beautiful face was totally reassuring.

I said, “It looks like we’ve got a trip to Prague in our future.” She said with girlish enthusiasm, “Oh how exiting!” Mel is brave, not stupid and I knew that she was indicating her sisterly commitment to me. It made me love her even more

I said, “I’ll make the arrangements.” I was planning something special for both of us. I knew we were not ACTUALLY on vacation. But vacation is always good cover for two single women. I was certain that we would be watched by the people we were dealing with. So, if we hopped a NetJets flight to Prague there would be a Bratva welcoming committee when we arrived.

I decided that we needed a serious head fake, to decoy our new acquaintances off the scent. So, I booked us on the Venice-Simplon Orient Express’s annual trip to Istanbul. To the disinterested observer we were just a couple of brainless rich girls off on another fantastic adventure.

The Venice Simplon-Orient-Express is something of a labor of love by a few dedicated train enthusiasts. You don’t have to be a follower of Hercule Poirot to know that the Orient Express played a significant role in the golden age of train travel. The modern version, which is more like a cruise ship than a train service, features real 1920s and 1930s carriages that have been painstakingly restored to their former glory.

The legend of the Orient Express started in 1883 but the one we were on was actually a private venture that had started in 1982. The cars are authentic Inter-War wagons-lits and the workmanship on the carriages alone is almost worth the price. The aim is premium luxury travel experience. I booked us a cabin suite. It cost me five figures. But it was actually cheaper than a NetJets charter and it bought us two days and a night of the most romantic setting imaginable.

Hence, the next day we were excitedly dragging our bags along the platform at the Gare d l’Est station. The train cars were the first thing we saw and the incredibly rich blue of the sleeping cars foreshadowed an incredibly lavish wood paneled and sumptuously carpeted hallway to a set of doors that were our cabin.

The accommodations were small as you would expect on a train. But the level and degree of luxury in everything was totally unexpected. The fittings were something that you would have to travel back 80 years in time to experience, from the tapestried upholstery of the couch to the heavy wood of the side table to the porcelain of the sink. I almost expected Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda to join us for tea.

Mel was just as thrilled as she always gets when she is experiencing something new. I said, “You’ve traveled by train before. Why are you so excited?” She said, “I have never SLEPT on a train and this is more luxury than I have ever seen in one confined space.”

The room had a banquette style sofa, with a heavy 1920s style footstool, a small side table and a cabinet with a washbasin and mirror. The sofa was along one wall. The carpet on the floor was a sumptuous Persian pattern and the wood paneling appeared to be real mahogany.

We had a cabin suite, which essentially comprised two adjoining rooms with a door in between. The rooms shared a sink. We had decided to have the steward, who was dedicated to us like a butler, make up beds in both rooms. I did not fancy sleeping in the optional double bunk arrangement and neither did Mel.

The train pulled out of the Gare d l’Est in the midafternoon. The one thing about a luxury experience is that everything happens on time. I had booked us through to Istanbul in case anybody was following our trip. But we planned on getting off the next afternoon when the train stopped in Budapest for the leg to Bucharest.

We were just settling in for the trip when the steward knocked and brought in high-tea. I was not hungry. But Mel tucked away the tea sandwiches and scones like she hadn’t eaten in a week. She had not had my life experience with formal teas, and she seemed to be trying to catch up.

Mel eats like a starving wolf and it is puzzling how she keeps that tight little hard body fat free. But her metabolism runs slightly hotter than a hummingbird’s and that is probably the reason.

We retired to our rooms to dress for dinner. Even though the dinner was being served in a swaying train car that was traveling at close to 100 miles an hour, the dining experience is like you would get in a high-class Parisian restaurant. So, I wanted to be dressed for the setting.

I put on a variation of the dress I had worn the night before, only in blue. It was expensive silk and it clung in all of the right places. But it covered my arms and came down to just above my knees. I didn’t over-accessorize like the previous night, because I did not need the ostentation that was my goal then.

Mel and I had a haute cuisine experience in the Etoile du Nord, which is one of three restaurant cars in the Orient Express service. It was built in 1926 and it had an air of extravagance about it that has probably not been seen on a train since the beginning of World War II.

Then we made our way down to the bar car. THAT car has to be experienced to be believed. We entered a place that was like something out of a Bogart movie, sans cigarette smoke. It had gotten dark and so the countryside was flashing past the windows as a kaleidoscope of lights and sounds. But the inside was like the finest cocktail lounge in any large sophisticated city.

There were elegant little tables on one side of the car and comfortable couches with little tables to hold your drinks on the other side. Waiters were moving back and forth bringing drinks to the occupants from the bar situated on the far end of the coach.

But that was not the best feature. There was a piano about two thirds of the way down and the man playing it was an African American guy who looked and sounded like Duke Ellington himself. The music he was playing was both seductive and elegant. Mel and I grabbed an open table near the piano let the experience wash over us.

As we sat, I noticed an older guy, perhaps mid 40s looking directly at me. I am used to being checked out, so I did not give it a second thought. But I had to admit that the man doing the eying was having a hypnotic effect on me.

He was incredibly attractive in a tall, slim and very fit looking fashion. But it was the hint of danger and strength that raised my interest. Kelley had the same knowledgeable, capable appearance but this one seemed tougher and bolder.

He had dark, exotic almost unique oriental looking features rather than being classically handsome, which made him even more mysterious. He had very thick dark hair cut short with a widow’s peak. He was wearing grey slacks, a black turtleneck and a grey Harris Tweed coat. His hair was slightly silvery and cut into a short, military style haircut.

But it was his eyes that captivated me. It was the total confidence and depth of intelligence that just radiated out of them. It was intriguing. They were deep dark pools of gentle cynicism. He had seen it all and probably done it all and was totally amused by the human condition.

He was sipping a dark drink that I assumed was scotch or brandy, since it had no ice in it. He seemed to be appraising me. But when I gave him a signal that I was interested and that he should approach me he turned back to the magazine he was reading with an amused look. The magazine was written in Cyrillic. So, I assumed that he was Russian. I was disappointed but I was not going to approach him.

Mel had ordered a magnum of champagne for us and it arrived at that point. It provided an ideal distraction. It was perfectly iced with two fine crystal fluted glasses. I then proceeded to drink far too much of that wonderful substance. It was because the new man disturbed me.

I can count on one hand the number of times I have gotten rip-roaring drunk. It is just not my style. But for some reason the suggestive ambiance of the piano music, the joy of being on this wonderful train with my dear friend and the promise of success for our venture made me consume far too much champagne.

So, when I stood up, I realized that I was drunk. I started to lurch my way back to my cabin when the intriguing man rose from his couch and said courteously, “Can I assist you back to your cabin Mademoiselle?”

I would blow off an offer like that from one of my peers. But this was a handsome and elegant older man whose approach radiated every aspect of trustworthy and gallant. So, I said, “Please, by all means.”

I allowed him to take my forearm and lead me toward the sleeping cars. He did it in a manner that communicated gracious accompaniment rather than, “Leading the poor drunk lady back to her room.”

Walking next to him I felt the difference in our height. I am relatively tall for a woman at five foot seven. He was perhaps six foot three. I fit perfectly next to his shoulder and he provided a stable arm to lean on.

He had on some expensive kind of cologne that was raising my erotic interest and he walked through the swaying train car with the balance of a big cat. I felt protected and secure. I could feel the strength in that body as I bumped against it and frankly, he was really turning me on.

We didn’t talk as we walked. He simply led me with perfect courtesy, as if he was taking care of me. I had the totally inappropriate thought that that was almost like my dad would have done in the same circumstance.

This man was perhaps 20 years older than I was, exactly the same difference as I have with my Daddy. He radiated the same kind of manly self-confidence as my father. Males need some seasoning in order to be truly grown up and self-reliant and this man had clearly reached that ideal state of experienced masculinity. He knew himself and he had no pretensions otherwise,

By the time we reached my suite I wanted him inside me in the worst way. I turned to face him when we got to the door.

He said, “Is this your suite Mademoiselle?”

I said, “It is indeed. Thank you for assisting me. Would you like to come in?”

He knew what I was asking. He looked amused, almost paternal, softly touched my cheek, which sent electric shock down to my lower stomach, and said, “Thank you, but I was more than happy to assist you; perhaps some other time?”

He didn’t outright say that he didn’t fuck drunk girls on trains. But that is what I got out of his words. I was terribly disappointed. I watched him proceed back down the corridor with the practiced grace of a superb athlete. I felt a serious pang of longing.

I turned ruefully and went into my room. The bed was made up and I hung up my things and crawled totally nude into bed. I expected a hangover in the morning.

Hilley had gotten drunk. Mel was fascinated watching her normally self-contained friend mislay some of her inhibitions. Over the course of the evening Hilley had begun to laugh too loud and flirt with the piano player. She also flirted with any man near them, including the married ones.

Since that was usually Mel’s job, she was totally amused by her beautiful friend’s sudden fall off her normally lofty perch. As Hilley rose to go to the ladies room she lurched and caught herself using the edge of the table. She looked a little surprised and then said with astonishment in her voice, “Why I believe I’m drunk.”

The hiccup that followed confirmed that diagnosis. Mel said, “Should I help you to our cabin?” Hilley said, “No, I’ll be fine” and swayed off down the aisle of the bar car.

An extremely attractive older man stood up and said something to her as she passed. She stopped and said something to him. He rose very gracefully and held out an arm. Hilley was steadying herself by holding onto it.

What he did was a masterpiece of covering up the fact that Hilley was clearly not functioning at peak physical and mental capacity. Mel did not miss the fact that Hilley was holding his arm in the deep valley of her cleavage. They turned together and he began to escort her as if they were on an evening stroll. It looked romantic although he was really just preventing her from stumbling over herself.