The Watchers (5 page)

come home and give it urself. parental units still way po’d abt evrthng. kids crying, gotta go

She’d forgotten about the light in the bell tower, till tonight.

Nine o’clock bells and
cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo
.

She finished brushing her hair, looked at her face in the mirror. Twenty-six years old and not a wrinkle in sight. Little eye shadow, eye-liner, a hint of mascara. Nothing else needed. Her hazel-coloured eyes did the rest. It was the flaw in her left eye, a silver squiggle in the iris. Men looked at it, then they stared, then they were hooked.

Tonight’s lucky fish, some Brit with a double-barrelled name. Senior partner in London’s biggest law firm. He requested she wear her hair down on her shoulders, the way she looked in the pictures. All her clients liked her to look the way she looked in the pictures.
Playboy
, Girls of UCLA issue.

Barely legal Katherine Taylor was the star with the cover shot. ‘Jean Seberg’s cool in the body of an angel’, read the photo caption. Inside, she was stretched naked on her back atop a pile of cash in a bank vault, highlighting her major in International Economics, which it wasn’t but who the fuck cared? Another shot straddling a bentwood chair wearing nothing but a French beret, to highlight her minor in French, which it was but who cared again? It was a goof, something she did on a dare. But after a week of test shots she made the cut. Suddenly it was a goof paying fifty thousand bucks.
Playboy
called it a scholarship. What a hoot, she thought. A million guys beating their meat and dreaming it was her fucking them, not their own grubby paws … and they call it a scholarship. She laughed all the way to the bank, wondering how goofy it could get.

The answer came a year later in the Marquis Hotel off Sunset.

A girlfriend was late for a night on the town. Katherine waited at the bar. The bartender presented a drink from someone in the room, she pushed it aside. Few minutes later a well-dressed guy stood next to her, asking if she’d care to be presented to his boss. The guy’s accent was Arabic.

‘Presented … to your boss. Let me ask you something, bud, do I look like a birthday cake to you?’

‘Please, miss, I mean no offence. My boss is sitting over there.’

Katherine saw a neat gentleman in an expensive tailored suit, alone in the corner. Espresso and glass of water keeping him company.

‘So, who’s the boss?’

‘He is a prince of our royal family in Saudi Arabia. He wishes me to tell you he admired your photographs very much and would like you to join him, please.’

‘A prince. And you call him “boss”. Wouldn’t “master” be more like it?’

‘They are the same, miss.’

Katherine shrugged.

‘Yeah, well, tell him I already have plans.’

The guy appeared perplexed as he walked across the room to deliver the bad news. The gentleman with the espresso smiled in Katherine’s direction. A few hushed words later, the guy was back at the bar.

‘My boss understands your scheduling conflict, but is anxious to spend the evening with you. He asks if you might reconsider.’

The guy laid a thin red box on the bar. Katherine opened it; saw a gold necklace with a respectable-sized pearl hanging from it. She snapped it shut and shoved it aside.

‘Tell your boss he’s not my type.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Tell him I like girls.’

The guy left the red box on the bar, made the same trip across the room to deliver the even worse news. Another smile, more hushed words, he was back. This time looking fit to faint.

‘His Royal Highness asks me to enquire if twenty-five thousand would change your mind regarding his … type.’

‘Twenty-five thousand, as in thousands of dollars?’

‘Yes, miss.’

Katherine gave the gentleman in the corner a second glance. Neatly trimmed moustache, pampered complexion, scent of sandalwood.

‘Let me get this straight. We’re talking twenty-five thousand dollars, cash, for one evening?’

‘Yes.’

Katherine picked up the red box and opened it for another look.

‘This trinket, it’s a bonus, of course?’

‘Of course. It would be a token of appreciation. You will be interested to know my prince can be most generous in his appreciations.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Indeed, miss. May I present His Royal Highness with the happy news?’

She snapped shut the box, handed it back.

‘First, take this back to Prince Boss and ask him what else he’s got.’

That was the end of UCLA and the beginning of graduate studies in cultivated men of immeasurable means. Elegant men who came recommended to her by ‘a mutual friend’. Probably the last guy she’d balled for cash, she thought, but so what? They came bearing gifts. Four years later she had a beachfront condo in Santa Monica, a convertible Lexus in the garage, a room full of designer clothes and a closet full of to-die-for shoes. And a little over four hundred thousand in undeclared cash to hide from the Internal Revenue Service. Then came the letter from the IRS asking about all that undeclared cash in account number 2087956-2 of First Union Bank of California.

Lipstick. Understated red. Hint of gloss.

That very night, she met a Swiss gentleman for dinner at Ivy on the Shore. A private banker on business in Los Angeles, looking for discreet company. He was charming, he offered advice. Protecting one’s cash assets was difficult in the post 9/11 world, he said, especially for Americans. The American security apparatus now tracing every dollar in circulation around the world. And Americans, as everyone knew, somewhat prurient towards ladies of her particular profession, especially those ladies who did well for themselves. However, if mademoiselle might consider relocating to Lausanne things could be arranged. Say, liquidating your property in America, converting your dollars into Swiss francs to be laundered through an offshore account in Cyprus and deposited in the Lausanne branch of a reputable bank. Of course, with your financial assets, Swiss residency wouldn’t be a problem. And most importantly, meeting someone with the right connections to handle your business affairs. He happened to know just the person. A Frenchwoman of excellent reputation now living in Geneva, operating a discreet and exclusive agency. The Two Hundred Club, catering to the rich and powerful of Europe.

Pearls tonight. Matching earrings.

The Swiss banker even knew a wonderful place on the market in Lausanne. Top floor, corner flat with a wraparound garden terrace. Lovely views of the French Alps and Lac Léman. He could arrange a mortgage with no money down, of course. Why, the whole thing could be run through the Two Hundred Club. Madame Simone Badeaux was the woman’s name, by the way. The banker just happened to handle her financial affairs and had her number in his BlackBerry.

‘Why don’t you call her now and have a chat?’

By the time the dessert arrived, Katherine’s life was sorted. And by the time she moved to Lausanne, a German pharmaceutical company announced they were buying the entire building that housed her flat. A three-hundred-thousand profit on a cash investment of zip. And she didn’t have to move for another two years.

Katherine Taylor liked Lausanne.

It dripped with easy money.

She stood, let the towels drop from her body. She sprayed a small mist of Chanel over her head, let the scent fall on her hair and shoulders. She opened the armoire, found the black Versace, slipped it over the expected black Aubade lingerie. The Prada heels would make their début tonight. They added 3 inches to her 5-foot 9-inch frame. The client said he liked tallish women. Her winter coat was on the chair by the front door. Fendi mink, three-quarter length. Another token of someone’s appreciation. An Italian Formula One driver this time, as thanks for her silence when an Italian tabloid offered her a million euros for the skinny on a certain dirty weekend in Rome, while the world champion’s pregnant wife was home alone in Milan. Men of immeasurable means knew how to thank a girl who could keep her mouth shut when required. She tossed on the mink, gave one more turn in front of the hallway mirror.

‘Later, baby.’

She took the lift down to the taxi waiting at the corner of Rue Caroline and Langallerie.

‘
Bonsoir
, Mademoiselle Taylor.’

‘Hi, Pascal.
Ça va
?’

‘I’m very well, mademoiselle, thank you. You are very pretty tonight.’

‘Thanks, Pascal. You always say the right things.’

‘The Palace, mademoiselle?’

‘Please.’

Pascal remained quiet through the ten-minute drive. Katherine appreciated his silence. That’s why he was number two on speed dial, and why she always paid twice the meter. She watched Lausanne roll by in the rain. Wet asphalt reflecting blue neon signs and orange street lamps. Rounding Rue Saint-Pierre and stopping at a traffic lamp, she saw the lights of Évian across the lake. Pretty, she thought, in a San Francisco sort of way.

Trolley buses rolled through the intersection till the lights changed and Pascal crossed on to Rue du Grand-Chêne. Katherine’s eyes just about popped from her head. The Lausanne Palace was flooded in red light, tied up in red ribbons and bows, garlands and ivy hanging from six floors of balconies. The pavement was dressed with stunted Christmas trees and the limestone pillars of the portico draped with hundreds of tiny white lights. None of it was there yesterday.

‘Look at that! When did they do all that?’

‘Today, mademoiselle. It is the beginning of Christmas season in Switzerland when the Palace is decorated. People from all the cantons come to see it.’

‘All that, in a day?’

‘We Swiss are very efficient.’

‘Tell me about it.’

Pascal made a quick turn up the crescent drive. Katherine giggled.

‘Gosh, it’s like living a fairytale.’

Ten bells echoed down the dripping street.

He checked his watch: five minutes shy of the hour. He tapped the crystal and put the watch to his ear. Still ticking, just slow.

He lit a smoke, stood still a moment. He listened.

Bells, rain.

Rain, bells.

As if there should be something else.

But he had no bloody idea what it should be.

He ducked under the hotel portico and waited as the taxi rolled up to the entrance. A nice set of ankles in black heels issued forth from the passenger door. The rest of the package came wrapped in mink, topped with a veil of blond hair that caught the white lights strung about the stone columns. He watched her make a slow turn, taking in the small forest of Christmas trees along the pavement. Watched her smile and climb the red-carpeted stairs to the revolving doors that carried her into the hotel like a kid on a carousel.

‘Stars in her eyes, that one.’

He dropped his smoke on the pavement, ground it underfoot. He pulled the collar of his mackintosh tight against his neck and stepped back in the rain. He passed the oyster bar at the hotel brasserie. Saw mounds of molluscs on ice and two lads in white smocks prying open shells with blunt knives. A crowd of well-heeled types inside the restaurant living it up. White wine and assorted
belons
all round. He saw Blondie come through a door connecting to the hotel lobby, following the maître d’hôtel to the corner booth near the windows. Middle-aged gent stood to greet her. The gent wore a swell suit. The kind that said expense account. The waiter helped Blondie with her mink, revealing a nicely cut black dress. The kind that said nicer underneath.

He turned away and walked along Rue du Grand-Chêne, crossed over the wet road and took the stairs down to a dark alleyway you’d miss if you hadn’t been told where to look. Stone path was like a rat’s maze, turning left then right and hooking back once or twice after coming to dead ends, to where a single light bulb dangled above a black steel door. No sign, no markings. Just two doormen the size of bulldozers with faces to match, standing motionless under matching brollies. They watched him approach. He stopped in front of them.

‘Good evening, lads, I take it this is the place.’

They looked at him for a moment and then stepped aside without a word. The black metal door behind them slid open. He nodded in appreciation.

‘Cheers.’

He followed a come-hither beat down a flight of stairs. Blue neon squiggle on one wall spelled ‘GG’s’ and illuminated photographs of scantily clad women on the other. All the women smiling with promises of wonderful things. He hit the last step, pushed through red velvet curtains to a dim room scented thick with perfume and cigarette smoke. A beam of white light cut through the smoke to a woman on a small stage. Her body adorned with a sheer white scarf. Her alabaster-coloured skin, like the scarf, reflecting the purity of whiteness as she caressed the brass pole between her legs. She leaned back, swayed in time to the come-hither beat, let the scarf fall from her body.

‘Right. And it’s that kind of place.’

He checked his coat with the rather nice-looking thing who appeared from nowhere, numbered ticket in her hand and a smile on her face that could melt butter.

‘Enjoy your evening, monsieur.’

‘I’ll try.’

He took the ticket and walked to the bar where two beauties in negligees sat with their long legs on display. Drinking Colas on ice, waiting for the kindness of a stranger. Harper took a seat at the end of the bar. One of the women, the one with the almond-shaped eyes, said:

‘We will not bite, monsieur.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Are you afraid to be close to us?’

‘Maybe I’m the shy type.’

‘Perhaps monsieur would like to buy us a glass of champagne and we could help you overcome your shyness.’

He looked at the menu on the bar. Cheapest champers in the place listed at six hundred Swiss francs. Switzerland, land of medicinal bubbly and half-naked shrinks on call.

‘How about a rain check, ladies?’

‘As you wish, monsieur.’

He dug out his smokes, lit up, looked around the club. All the punters sitting in the shadows with their drinks and cigarettes. None of them matched the photo.