MasterStroke (35 page)

He was swelling now, getting bigger and, as the salty pre-cum flowed, she was focused on only one thing.

“Ahhhhh,” was all he could utter before his cum jetted forcefully from him. She thrust her mouth down deeply for the final time and his cock jerked convulsively, wedged in her throat, draining him, pouring down inside her as she swallowed every drop.

“That was………..” his voice trailed off.

She finished, licking the head lavaciously, intent on the matter at hand.

What was he trying to say?

“That was what, darling? What do you mean?” Sandrine was playfully absorbed in watching his cock twitch and gradually deflate but, when she looked up again, Jack was staring over her head, his eyes wide with surprise.

“I think what he meant was, that was most satisfying,” the strangely accented voice behind her said. “Wasn’t it? Is that what you meant? It certainly looked entertaining from where we’re standing.”

Shocked, she glanced around. A tall slim man with a deep tan, dressed in a pale grey three-piece suit, stood flanked by four other men, presenting a bizarre contrast in tank tops, cargo shorts and flip-flops over muscled heavily-tattooed bodies. They all pointed large handguns at Sandrine and Jack. Behind them, a panel in the wall that held a large mirror in a gilt frame was open wide.

“Sorry to interrupt at this delicate time but, as you Americans say, stick ‘em up.”

Chapter Forty One

The room into which Jack and Sandrine were herded at gunpoint was an enormously long space, low-ceilinged with a stepped-down living area capable of accommodating a few dozen people. Decades before, when it had been built, it would have been called a conversation pit.

It took a while to take it all in and a little longer for Sandrine to realise there were no windows yet the room glowed with luminosity by way of diffused skylights. It was, it occurred to her, like a villain’s lair in an early James Bond movie. It wouldn’t be surprising to find Blofeld stroking a long-haired white cat at the head of the dining table, she thought.

Jack had an amused look on his face as he took a seat on one of the couches, a lean yet comfortable affair, vaguely mid-century Scandinavian in appearance.

“Nice place you have here,” he said. “No wonder we couldn’t find you.”

The man in the three-piece suit sat opposite. The others, who appeared ready for a beachside barbecue, arranged themselves around the room, guns pointed casually aside, seemingly relaxed and unconcerned but tense, their eyes alert.

“Interesting, yes? We had no idea it was here but Rodrigo…..,” he waved a hand across the room at one of his men who nodded tersely. “…..discovered this by accident. It’s been useful in many ways. The house upstairs was far too cold; we’re from Brazil, not accustomed to the harshness of your winter. And, providence being a wonderful thing, we avoided your raid.”

“You are Davi Paulo Roberto Ferreira da Cavalcanti?”

“You can call me Sylvester. And you turned down a very generous offer for the sketch.”

Jack shook his head wearily.

“No, considering what that offer was for, I refused a pittance. It was an offer so insulting I couldn’t even take it to my client.”

Sylvester stood, the mask falling from his face. Anger flashed, his eyes were wild and tinged with red, then he slumped, appearing crestfallen. Refusal was something he was not accustomed to at all. Sandrine was aware the atmosphere in the room had changed but she was unsure of the extent.
Jack, what are you doing? Is it wise to antagonise this man? He looks unstable.

Dark eyes bore through Jack who, for his part, played the game back at him.
A game, that’s what it is. It’s what Jack talked about before.
Then, slowly, a grin crept across his features, widening into a smile that showed gold amongst broken, yellowing teeth. The laugh, when it came, had an undertone of menace. It wasn’t one of humour.

“Yes, your client, I understand now. You are a businessman like me with a reputation to uphold. Sergei Agapov, he told me you are like this.”

Jack sat quietly, waiting, watching. It was a moment that could go either way. While Sylvester gave every indication of being moderate, it was more than obvious that he hadn’t survived as long as he had, as a gang leader in one of Brazil’s most dangerous slums and later as an arms dealer, without a mind that would be equal parts tactical and unpredictable, and just as deadly in both modes.

Sandrine held her breath. Jack appeared totally at ease, his gaze wandering the room, then easing his head in a loose circular motion that gave the indication of easing a sore neck. She was momentarily confused by his apparent indifference but it dawned on her that he was checking the positions of Sylvester’s men.

No, Jack. You can’t. There are too many of them and they all have guns. This is crazy
. Her mind raced and she sensed an anxiety attack approaching.

Sylvester’s laugh was high and girlish, edged with hysteria. His face was clammy and his eyes frightening in their intensity.
Is he on drugs? Cocaine, perhaps?

“Sergei was right, Jack Lucas. You are a hard man, a tough negotiator. You are trying to do well by your client.” Sylvester launched himself across the conversation pit, sliding the last few inches along the shag pile carpet on his knees, gripping Jack’s thighs tightly, laughing that strange high-pitched laugh. “You and me, we’re not so different. I respect what you are doing.”

He stood and screamed a stream of Portuguese so fast and inflected even his men appeared to have difficulty understanding. One in particular paid close attention, nodding frantically, head down, not looking at his boss, completely silent.

“A drink,” he said to both of them. Spittle was flying from lips that held a bluish tinge. “We’ll drink and cut a deal. We’ll haggle. You want the highest price. I want the lowest. We will not stop until we’re both happy with the price. Then you will deliver to me that most beautiful of ladies, the one I’ve wanted for so long. Will you do that, Jack Lucas?”

Sandrine’s eyes were wide with apprehension and her mouth was dry. Jack merely looked on as if this was a regular part of his day.

A bottle of liquor the colour of cognac was placed on the coffee table with three shot glasses. Sandrine glanced enquiringly at Jack.

“Cachaca. Brazilian cane spirit,” he said, shaking his head in warning.

It smelt like something that jet aircraft would use as fuel. The tiniest of sips confirmed that view.

“Brazilians sometimes call it tiger’s breath,” said Jack.

Sylvester laughed hugely at Sandrine’s sour expression and the coughing fit that followed.

“Holy water, as well, it is better known” Sylvester added, downing the shot and pouring another. He waved the bottle towards Sandrine, laughing. “This is the good stuff, pretty lady. Aged ten years. The cheap rubbish you’d never drink straight, that’s for the
caipirinha
cocktail, you need the lime and sugar to make it less like poison.”

Sandrine waved off the offer.
It’s foul, there’s no way I’m having any more.

Sylvester shouted another command and, a few minutes later, a bulbous wine glass and an opened bottle of vintage Bollinger were placed before her.

“Now, Jack Lucas, drink. Another one. Then we bargain.” Jack knocked back his glass and Sylvester lurched forward with the bottle. The dark liquor splashed across his hand, soaking the carpet but Sylvester either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He put the bottle down and picked up the champagne, pouring it in such a way it foamed out of the glass and onto the table. Sandrine left it where it was, paying far more attention to Sylvester than she knew was prudent. She didn’t want to be caught staring but his behaviour was so frenetic and bizarre, so dangerously unpredictable, that it was hypnotic, like watching a car accident in slow motion, unable to turn her head.

Is he really crazy?
Sandrine knew nothing about Sylvester other than what Jack had told her. He gave her the creeps, that was for sure; he was well-mannered and smooth but with these people you could never judge on appearance. Sylvester had the dark handsome appeal of a male model while his troop looked like they’d just competed in a jail volleyball tournament.

Or is the craziness just an act, a way of keeping us off-balance?
Her head was spinning. She had no experience of this. It was beyond anything she’d ever known. Not for the first time was she aware of being in way over her head. She just thanked her lucky stars that Jack was with her. He had a purposeful detachment, yet was watching everything that was going on, analysing and hopefully secure in the knowledge that he could extract them from any danger.

She really had no idea but hoped that was the case. They were unarmed and hopelessly out-numbered. Sylvester’s men were intimidating with their muscular physiques, hard stares and the strange tattoos that covered much of their brown skin. They appeared relaxed but there was nothing haphazard about where they stood; at four corners, tuned into any sudden moves by Jack, each covering the others. There was a touch of military precision in this.

It’s hopeless. How can we possibly get out of this?

There didn’t appear to be any way out of this situation. Sylvester was on the edge, although exactly on the edge of what Sandrine had no idea.
There’s something not right about this
, she thought.
Something we don’t know
. The dread was creeping higher and, as much as she tried, she couldn’t put her mind at rest.

Her conversation with the waitress in the diner came back to her.
Would this entire situation have been avoided if I’d remembered to tell Jack? Would this hideaway have been discovered and Sylvester and his men caught?
She felt responsible. If she and Jack were killed, it would be on her head. And that seemed a distinct possibility.

They were locked away in a place that nobody knew existed, surrounded by armed men, at the mercy of an unbalanced and murderous madman. Jack must have been in situations like this before but Sandrine was at a loss. Her nerves were screaming and she feared her conscious mind was about to shut down.

At that moment, Jack looked at her and saw the terror on her face. He squeezed her hand protectively and a half-smile traced his lips.

“Look what you’ve done, Sylvester. You’ve made the lady nervous.”

Sylvester looked stricken.

“I’m so sorry. It is not right that you have become entangled in our discussion. I promise you won’t be harmed. You’ll be set free once this is all over,” he said, pointedly in her direction. Jack’s fate wasn’t so readily mentioned. He turned his attention back to Jack.

“So, you see, Jack Lucas, it’s important we make our deal. Your lady is upset and I’m sure you want to return to your people. As soon as we agree on terms, I can arrange the money and you can hand across the sketch, and we can all go our separate ways.”

“I’m not sure my people will allow that,” Jack countered.
What are you doing? Don’t antagonise him. Go along with anything he says and get out of here
, Sandrine screamed inside her head.

Sylvester sat back heavily as a frown crossed his face. He swept his arms wide in protest.

“Of course, they will. I’m a businessman eager to complete a transaction. I have the money, you have the goods. What more is there?”

“You’re a drug dealer, arms smuggler and murderer who is wanted by the police forces of at least three countries. And there’s the matter of killing Sergei’s men.”

Sylvester appeared confused.

“What? What do you mean? I have done no such thing.” He presented the appearance of being outraged, indignant. “I could easily have killed them all, and you and your friends as well. But it is not my way. These days, I am a respectable businessman and I behave as such.”

He gave the impression of total sincerity. Sandrine looked across at Jack who returned an impassive look.

“All right, the bombing, yes. I may have over-reacted there. But I was tired of waiting. The Russians were acting like little girls. Too timid,” Sylvester said.

“Sergei said they were your instructions. You wanted to negotiate like a businessman.”

Sylvester frowned and nodded wearily, his gaze fixed on a point over their heads, considering something.

“Once again, you are correct. I do remember saying that. It has been difficult. I read a lot of your American corporate leadership books and I’ve become aware that it’s not enough to be a calculating, murderous thug if I wish to reinvent myself in the corporate world. I have, as they say, certain skill sets to draw on but many are not useful and may even be considered counter-productive.”

“Like attempting to kill people you want to negotiate with?” Jack suggested.

Sylvester’s smile was immediate, a wide toothy grin with acres of gold. He slapped his leg enthusiastically.

“Exactly. You understand, Jack Lucas. It was a poor choice on my part. I wasn’t mindful of cultural differences. What works in the
favela
may not be suitable for other parts of society. I should have been more patient.”

The high-pitched cackle that followed froze Sandrine’s blood.
Nope
, Sandrine thought.
He’s not acting. He really is insane.

“I’m sure my people will agree. It’s all been a terrible misunderstanding,” Jack agreed brightly, turning to look at Sandrine. Their eyes locked, their faces neutral, giving nothing away but so much was said with the intensity of their gazes. “Don’t you think, Sandrine?”

Jack was nodding. Sandrine sat stunned, not knowing what to do.
What is he asking? What does he want me to say?
Jack nodded more eagerly.

“Oh, yes, very much. Exactly.” The voice that came from Sandrine was nothing like her own. It was a tightly-constricted squeak, breathy and desperate and far too artificial to be believable. She watched Jack nodding and she started nodding as well. As she did, she looked at Sylvester who was also nodding. All three of them were nodding like crazy people.

It was a bizarre tableau to say the least but Sylvester’s men stood around, paying only minor interest. Maybe they were immune to the strangeness of their boss.