White Death: An Alex Hawke Novella (14 page)

Paris

April 2015

M
ost evenings, like tonight, Harding Torrance walked home from the office. His cardiac guy had told him walking was the best thing for his ticker. Harding liked walking. He even wore one of those FitBit thingamajigs on his wrist to keep track of his steps. Doctor’s orders after a couple of issues popped up in his last stress test. But the truth was, Harding liked walking in Paris, especially in the rain.

Ah, April in Paris.

And the women on the streets, too, you know? God in heaven. Paris has the world’s most beautiful women, full stop, hands down. The clothes, the jewelry, the hair, the way they walked, the posture, the way . . . the way they dangled their dainty little
parapluies,
the way they goddamn
smelled
. And, it wasn’t perfume, it was natural.

Plus, his eight-room Beaux-Arts apartment was an easy stroll home from his office. His ultradeluxe building was located on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, right next to Sotheby’s
.
Saint-Honoré was the shopping street in one of the fancier arrondissements on the Right Bank. Where there are beautiful shops, there are beautiful women,
n’est-ce pas
? Especially in this extremely ritzy neighborhood. Or arrondissement, as the froggies like to say.

Tell the truth, he’d lived here in Paris for ten years or more and he still didn’t have any idea which arrondissement was which. Somebody would ask him,
Which is which?
He’d shrug his shoulders with a smile. He had learned a handy little expression in French early on which had always served him well in his expatriate life: “
Je ne sais pas.
”

I don’t know!

At any rate, his homeward route from the office took him past the newly renovated Ritz Hotel, Hermès (or “Hermeez” as the bumpkins called his ties whenever he wore one when he visited Langley), plus, YSL, Cartier, et cetera, et cetera. You get the picture. Ritzy real estate, like he said. And, just so you know, Hermès is pronounced “Air-mez.”

Very
ritzy.

Oddly enough, the ritziest hotel on the whole rue was not the one
called
the Ritz. It was the less obvious one called Hôtel Le Bristol. Now, what he liked about the Bristol, mainly, was the bar. At the end of the day, good or bad, he liked a quiet cocktail or three in a quiet bar before he went home to his wife. That’s all there was to it, been doing it all his life. His personal happy hour.

The Bristol’s lobby bar was dimly lit, church quiet, and hidden away off the beaten path. It was basically a dark paneled room lit by a roaring fire situated off the lobby where only the cognoscenti, as they say, held sway. Harding held sway there because he was a big, good-looking guy, always impeccably dressed in Savile Row threads and Charvet shirts of pale pink or blue. He was a big tipper, a friendly guy, great smile. Knew the bar staff’s names by heart and discreetly handed out envelopes every Christmas.

Sartorial appearances to the contrary, Harding Torrance was one hundred percent red-blooded American. He even worked for the government, had done, mostly all his life. And he’d done very, very well, thank you. He’d come up the hard way, but he’d come up, all right. His job, though he’d damn well have to kill you if he told you, was station chief, CIA, Paris. In other words, Harding was a very big damn deal in anybody’s language.

El Queso Grande,
as they used to say at Langley.

He’d been in Paris since right after 9/11. His buddy from Houston, the new president, had posted him here because the huge Muslim population in Paris presented a lot of high-value intel opportunities. His mandate was to identify the al-Qaeda leadership in France, then whisk them away to somewhere nice and quiet for a little enhanced interrogation.

He was good at it, he stuck with it, got results, and got promoted, boom, boom, boom. The president had even singled him out for recognition in an Oval Office reception, had specifically said that he and his team had been responsible for saving countless lives on the European continent and in the United Kingdom. What goes around, right? Let’s just say he was well compensated.

Harding had gone into the family oil business after West Point and a stint with the Rangers out of Fort Bragg. Spec-ops duty, two combat tours in Iraq. Next, working for Torrance Oil, he was all over Saudi and Yemen and Oman, running his daddy’s fields in the Middle East. He was no silver spooner, though; no, he had started on the rigs right at the bottom, working as a ginzel (lower than the lowest worm), working his way up to a floorhand on the kelly driver, and then a bona fide rig driller in one year.

That period of his life was his introduction to the real world of Islam.

Long story short?

Harding knew the Muslims’ mind-set, their language, their body language, their brains, even, knew the whole culture, the mullahs, the warlords, where all the bodies were buried, the whole enchilada. And so, when his pal W needed someone uniquely qualified to transform the CIA’s Paris station into a first-rate intelligence clearinghouse for all Europe? Well. Who was he to say? Let history tell the tale.

His competition? Most guys inside the Agency, working in Europe at that time, right after the Twin Towers? Didn’t know a burqa from a kumquat and that’s no lie—

“Monsieur Torrance? Monsieur Torrance?”

“Oui?”

“Votre whiskey, monsieur.”

“Oh, hey, Maurice. Sorry, what’d you say? Scotch rocks?” he said to the head bartender, distracted, not even remembering ordering this fresh one. “Sure. One more. Why not?”

“Mais oui, m’sieur.
There it is.
C’est ça!”

Apparently his drink had arrived and he hadn’t even noticed. That was
not
a first, by the way.

“Oh, yeah. Merci.”

“
Mais certainement, Monsieur Torrance. Et voilà
.”

His drink had come like magic. Had he already ordered that? He knocked it back, ordered another, and relaxed, making small talk,
le
bavardage,
with Maurice about the rain, the train bombing in Marseilles. Which horse might win four million euros in the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe at Longchamp tomorrow. The favorite was an American thoroughbred named Buckpasser. He was a big pony, heralded in the tabloids as the next Secretariat, Maurice told him.

“Really? Listen. There will never,
ever,
be another ‘Big Red,’ Maurice. Trust me on that one.”

“But of course, sir. Who could argue?”

Harding swiveled on his barstool, sipping his third or fourth scotch, depending, checking the scenery, admiring his fellow man . . .

And woman . . .

And this one rolled in like thunder.

H
e’d always said he’d been born lucky. And just look at him. Sitting in a cozy bar on a cold and rainy Friday night. He’d told his wife, Julia, not to expect him for dinner. Just in case, you know, that
something came up
. He’d explained to her that, well, honey, something troubling
had
come up. That whole thing with the state visit of the new Chinese president to the Élysée Palace on Sunday? About to go
au toilette
!

“Sorry, is this seat taken?” the scented woman said.

What the hell? He’d seen her take an empty stool at the far end of the bar. Must have changed her mind after catching a glimpse of the chick magnet at the other end . . .

“Not at all, not at all,” he told her. “Here, let me remove my raincoat from the barstool. How rude of me.”

“Thank you.”

Tres chic,
he registered.
Very elegant.
Blond. Big American girl. Swimmer, maybe, judging by the shoulders. California. Stanford. Maybe UCLA. One of the two. Pink Chanel, head to toe. Big green Hermès Kelly bag, all scruffed up, so loaded. Big rock on her finger, so married. A small wet puffball of a dog and a dripping umbrella, so ducked in out of the rain. Ordered a martini, so a veteran. Beautiful eyes and fabulous cleavage, so a possibility . . .

He bought her another drink. Champagne, this time. Domaines Ott Rosé. So she had taste.

“What brings you to Paris, Mrs. . . .”

“I’m Crystal. Crystal Methune. And you are?”

“Harding,” he said, in his deepest voice.

“Harding. Now that’s a good strong name, isn’t it? So. Why
are
we here in Paris? Let me see. Oh, yes. Horses. My husband has horses. We’re here for the races at Longchamp.”

“And that four million euros’ purse at Longchamp, I’ll bet. Maurice here and I were just talking about that. Some payday, huh? Your horse have a shot? Which horse is it?”

“Buckpasser.”

“Buckpasser? That’s your horse? That’s some horse, honey.”

“I suppose. I don’t like horses. I like to shop.”

“Attagirl. Sound like my ex. So where are you from, Crystal?”

“We’re from Kentucky. Louisville. You know it?”

“Not really. So where are you staying?”

“Right upstairs, honey. My hubby took the penthouse for the duration.”

“Ah, got it. He’s meeting you here, is he?”

“Hardly. Having dinner with Felix, his horse trainer, somewhere in the Bois de Boulogne, out near the track is more like it. The two of them are all juned up about Buckpasser running on a muddy track tomorrow. You ask a lot of questions, don’t you, Harding?”

“It’s my business.”

“Really? What do you do?”

“I’m a writer for a quiz show.”

She smiled. “That’s funny.”

“Old joke.”

“You’re smart, aren’t you, Harding? I like smart men. Are you married?”

“No. Well, yes.”

“See? You are funny. May I have another pink champagne?”

Harding twirled his right index finger, signaling the barman for another round. He briefly tried to remember how many scotches he’d had and gave up.

“Cute dog,” he said, bending down to pet the pooch, hating how utterly pathetic he sounded. But, hell, he was hooked. Hooked, gaffed, and in the boat. He’d already crawl through a mile of broken glass just to drink her bathwater.

“Thanks,” she said, lighting a gold-tipped cigarette with a gold Dupont lighter. She took a deep drag and let it out, coughing a bit.

“So you enjoy smoking?” Harding said.

“No, I just like coughing.”

“Good one. What’s the little guy’s name?”

“It’s a her. Rikki Nelson.”

“Oh. You mean like . . .”

“Right. In the Ozzie and Harriet reruns. Only this little bitch on wheels likes her name spelled with two ‘k’s. Like Rikki Martinez. You know? Don’t you, precious? Yes, you do!”

“Who?”

“The singer?”

“Oh, sure. Who?”

“Never mind, honey. Ain’t no thing.”

“Right. So, shopping. What else do you like, Crystal?”

“Golf. I’m a scratch golfer. Oh, and jewelry. I really like jewelry.”

“Golfer, huh? You heard the joke about Arnold Palmer’s ex-wife?”

“No, but I’m going to, I guess.”

“So this guy marries Arnold Palmer’s ex. After they make love for the
third
time on their wedding night, the new groom picks up the phone. ‘Who are you calling?’ Arnie’s ex asks. Room service, he says, I’m starved. That’s not what Arnold would’ve done, she says. So the guy says, okay, what would Arnold have done? Arnold would have done it again, that’s what. So they did it again. Then the guy picks up the phone again and she says, ‘You calling room service again?’ And he says, ‘No, baby, I’m calling Arnold. Find out what par is on this damn hole.’ ”

He waited.

“I don’t get it.”

“Well, see, he’s calling Arnold because he—”

“Shhh,” she said, putting her index finger to her lips.

She covered his large hand with her small one and stroked the inside of his palm with her index finger.

She put her face close to his and whispered, “Frankly? Let’s just cut the shit. I like sex, Harding.”

“That’s funny, I do, too,” he said.

“I bet you do, baby. I warn you, though. I’m a big girl, Harding. I am a big girl with big appetites. I wonder. Did you read
Fifty Shades of Grey
?”

“Must have missed that one, sorry. You ever read Mark Twain?”

“No. Who wrote it?”

“What?”

“I said, who wrote it? The Mark Twain thing.”

“Doesn’t matter, tell me about
Fifty Shades of Grey
.”

“Doesn’t matter. I found it terribly vanilla,” she said.

“Hmm.”

“Yeah, right. That’s what men always say when they don’t know what the hell a girl is talking about.”

“Vanilla. Not kinky enough.”

“Not bad, Harding. Know what they used to say about me at my sorority house at UCLA? The Kappa Delts?”

“I do not.”

“That Crystal. She’s got big hair and big knockers and she likes big sex.”

He turned to face her and took both her perfect hands in his.

“I’m sorry. Would you ever in your wildest dreams consider leaving your rich husband and marrying a poor, homeless boy like me?”

“No.”

“Had to ask.”

“I do like to screw. You do get that part, right?”

“Duly noted.”

“Long as we’re square on this, Harding.”

“We’re square.”

“I’m gonna tie you to the bed and make you squeal like Porky Pig, son. Or, vice versa. You with me on this?”

He just looked at her and smiled.

Jackpot.

T
he elevator to the penthouse suite opened inside the apartment foyer. It was exquisite, just as Harding would have imagined the best rooms in the best hotel in Paris might be, full of soft evening light, with huge arrangements of fresh flowers everywhere, and through the opened doors, a large terrace overlooking the lights of Paris and the misty gardens directly below.

Crystal smiled demurely and led him into the darkened living room. She showed him the bar and told him to help himself. She’d be right back. Slipping into something a little more comfortable, he imagined, smiling to himself as he poured two fingers of Johnnie Walker Blue and strolled over to a large and very inviting sofa by the fireplace.

He kicked his shoes off, stretched out, and took a sip of whisky. He was just getting relaxed when he heard an odd streaming sound. Looking down at the floor, he saw that the little fuckhead Rikki Nelson had just peed all over his Guccis.

“Shit!” he said, under his breath.

“Hey!” he heard Crystal yell.

“What?”

“Turn on some music, Harding; Momma wants to dance, baby!” she called out from somewhere down a long dark hall.

He got to his feet and staggered a few feet in the gloom, cracking his shin on an invisible coffee table.

“What? Music? Where is it?”

“Right below the bar glasses. Just push ‘on.’ It’s all loaded up and ready to rip.”

He limped over to the bar and hit the button.

Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore” filled the room.

“Is that it?” he shouted over Dino.

“Hell, yeah, son. Crank it!”

He somehow found the volume control, cranked it, and went out to the terrace, away from the bar’s booming overhead speakers. The rain was pattering on the drooping awning overhead and the night smelled like . . . like what . . . jasmine? No, that wasn’t it. Something, anyway. It definitely smelled like something out here. But—

“Hey, you!” she shouted from the living room’s open doorway. “There he is! There’s my big stud. Come on in here, son. Let’s dance! Waltz your ass on in here, baby boy, right now!”

He downed his drink and went inside. Crystal stood in the center of the room wearing a skintight S&M outfit. A black leather bodysuit that would have put Catwoman to shame. She had little Rikki Nelson cuddled atop her bulging tits, nuzzling her with kisses.

“Where’s the whip, kitten?” he said.

“Oh, I’ll dig one up somewhere, don’t worry.”

Harding collapsed into the nearest armchair and stared.

“Why are you staring like that at me and Rikki?” she pouted.

“Just trying to figure out whether or not that diamond-studded leash of yours is on the wrong bitch.”

Give her credit, she laughed.

“I sure hope to hell you know how to dance, mister,” she said. “Now get up and get with it, I mean it.”

He hauled himself manfully up out of the leather chair.

You do what you have to do,
he reminded himself.

And he danced.

And danced some more.