Christopher Brookmyre (46 page)

and descriptions of the ones Bett wished her to gravitate towards. Conversations were struck up, small talk, petty enquiries, all the while Bett informing her whether the speaker was worth persisting with or to be let down at the politest convenience. She spoke in a neutrally English accent, as clipped as she dared without it beginning to sound put-on. Then, after less than an hour, he gave the order she didn't realise she'd been dreading so much until it came.

Though she'd practised the moves until they felt second nature, it was the most nerve-racking moment of the day the first time she pinned a bug to someone. The lucky recipient was one Dieter Raulf, sixty-three-year-old vice chairman of German munitions firm Gieselcorp. He had taken a seat at an adjacent table in one of the hotel lounges as she waited for the waitress to return with her coffee. The lounge was busy, but not so busy that there weren't free tables further away. Raulf and his younger subordinate made their way past several of these, the older man affecting a distracted air as if to make out he had randomly chosen his table without even noticing who or what was nearby. And the reason she could be so certain he was affecting it was that Bett was giving her a running count of how many times the old letch's eyes had zeroed in on her cleavage throughout his approach. He struck up a conversation. Mostly the usual - who was she with, what market was she in - but with a few unsolicited contributions from himself intended to convey how rich and important he was. She smiled but played it coy and reticent, as instructed. Then when she rose to go, he stood up also, extending a hand and a card. She took it with her right hand, the adhesive plastic wafer of a bug palmed in her left.

'I have to know, where did you buy your suit?' she asked, pretending to be suddenly taken by it. 'I love the material. Do you mind?'

He proudly told her the name of a tailor in Dortmund as she stroked the lapel, placing the bug high up, near the collar. Part of her was astonished that he didn't immediately rip it away and demand that she be apprehended, but as Bett assured her, 'you're doing fine'.

She placed six more throughout the day, mostly instances following dejavu-inducing reprises of the same routine. Ageing execs, drawn as though hypnotically by her enchanted jewel, or rather the tits either side, so intent upon impressing their credentials upon her that she very soon knew more about them and who they worked for than Bett's homework could have revealed. She gave away little about herself, dropping only ambiguous replies intended to provoke further curiosity, and she asked very few questions. She only had to use the 'nice suit' gambit once more. The place had heated up as the day wore on, jackets being hung on the backs of chairs in the lounges, bars and restaurants, so she was able to slip a few fingers under collars on the pretence of resting against them as she stood up to leave. It felt easier each time, as all crimes and deceptions do.

The last two she executed over dinner, having been 'rescued' from dining with her bodyguard by an invitation to join a table shared by delegates from British Defence Engineering and their counterparts at an Italian firm, CMK. Wine was flowing, and she let a glass be poured for her, but didn't touch it beyond one sip to smear the glass authentically with lipstick. Thus it looked in use but wasn't topped up. She stuck to mineral water and ate lightly, her appetite largely diminished by her adrenaline level, excusing herself before it was time for coffee. Her own instinct would have been to enquire after her share of the bill (at which point, she was sure, she really would have wanted a drink) but she didn't need Bett's prompting to know not to bother. Free to those who can afford it, as they say.

Bett congratulated her on a prodigious first day on the job, and advised that it was time for Nuno to escort her to the main entrance while a valet very carefully returned her car. She felt relief tinged with a slight disappointment as she walked back through the expansive and thoroughly over-opulent lobby. She'd got through the first test, but she would regret coming out of the role. Just as long as the Lamborghini didn't turn into a pumpkin. However, before Nuno could approach the concierge's desk, Bett announced that there was a sudden change of plan.

'I've got a positive ID on Pascal Parrier,' his voice informed her. 'He just walked past our light-switch cam in the casino. There's a credit line of seven thousand euros in your name - your op name - at the desk. Lift two grand in hundred-euro chips and go play.'

Jane walked in through the archway that formed the entrance to the casino from inside the hotel. There was another way in directly from the seafront avenue outside, the approach covered by a canopy. She noted the position of that door and two other exits, details she'd never have considered a week ago, but that were now a matter of routine, almost of reflex. She paused at the top of the short stair leading down four steps to the casino floor. It was a good spot for taking it all in, for Bett's benefit as well as her own. Her first impression was that it was small, far smaller than she had ever imagined lying out of shot in those old Bond movies. There were maybe only ten or a dozen green baize tables, themselves surprisingly tiny and neat. Even the roulette wheel and the dice table seemed like they were three-fifths scale, but as the hotel's decor was otherwise striving to make an aesthetic of excess, it was unlikely these weren't the real deal. Nonetheless, she felt like she was looking at a mockup, a stage set, which was fine, because she was here to act. She looked around, but not directly at anybody. Bett was doing that part for her, and didn't want even cursory eye contact between Jane and her mark until they were seated at the same table. Even then, she was to let him make the first move, let him notice her. If he didn't, she was to finish her game and walk. No chances were to be taken. He was the guy they most wanted a bug on, but he was also the last person they could afford to alert to their agenda. Jane scanned the gathering. She recognised some of the women as the models from the exhibition area, perhaps still on duty as hired adornments for the execs they were with. There were no bored millionairesses in cocktail dresses at the tables, pissing away tens of thousands to while away a dull evening, mainly just men in suits, perhaps playing out as much of a fantasy as Jane was. But somewhere in the place there was a scheming millionaire with evil on his mind.

'Blackjack table,' Bett directed, to Jane's relief. Pontoon. She knew that one. 'Bet big. Play risky but not stupid. You don't care about the money but you like to beat the odds.'

She walked slowly among the tables, relaxed, like it was as familiar as the supermarket. Nuno hung back on the raised area in front of the arch, hands clasped in front, back straight. She was surprised to find the table empty, no Parrier, but took a seat anyway. The dealer, a skinny and awkwardly tall female, asked her something in French. Jane didn't reply, blanked her as though she was talking to someone else. She hated doing it, but it was the role, and her blank, ignorant indifference was definitely a near-Brechtian comment on the type of woman she was playing. Receiving no reply, the dealer tried again in English. Jane smiled patronisingly and the game began. She played a few hands, soon forgetting what each of the blue plastic chips represented. She was ahead for a while, then got knocked back to half her starting pile by twisting on seventeen. Her only response was to take another sip of the G&T she'd ordered. As she did, she was aware of a figure crossing the short distance from the roulette table nearby and pulling up a chair alongside her.

'Payout,' whispered Bett. Parrier.

'Seventeen,' Parrier said. 'This must be the only place we're not wishing to see it again.' The voice was low and confident, lightly accented French. Jane took a breath, preparing herself to look him in the eye, this man who wanted her son dead, who had unleashed hired killers upon her grandchildren. Ca' canny, she advised herself. She forced a thin smile, one that was politely indulgent of the interjection but let him know he was still a long way off making a good impression. He was younger than the others, around mid-fifties, though maybe it was just that his better looks and air of cockiness made him appear so. He had the arrogance of a man who had not been told to fuck off anything like enough in his life, and yet something about his expression suggested he wasn't quite so sure of himself as he'd been a few seconds ago. She'd noticed it almost as soon as their eyes met, this tiny change in his features like he'd composed his best chat-up face, then hadn't quite seen what he was expecting when she turned around.

Conflicted as she was, she found it hard to believe he was truly ruffled by any suppressed contempt he'd detected in her coolness. This was something else.

She went back to her game, the croupier dealing him in this time. He threw down some chips and picked up his cards, but she could tell he was looking at her more closely than he was his hand.

'We've met before, haven't we?' he asked.

'Is that your best line?' she replied, not meeting his eyes, but her tone sufficiently playful as to suggest he was being invited to improve.

'It's not a line. We've met, but I can't place you. You have the advantage of me, Miss . . . ?'

Jane turned again slowly, sipping at her drink, buying time as her mind raced. It wasn't a line. He'd seen her photograph: he'd have seen photographs of her whole family, proof of how deep he was in, how much he knew of what was being done on his behalf. That was what had derailed his casual chat-up: when he got to see her properly, he realised he knew her face, though she'd wager he'd never place it in a million years. She wanted to crush him, wanted to spit in his face, but knew she had to mask her anger,
use
her hatred, channel it into the game, the better to leave him defeated in the end. She smiled again.

'Bell,' she said. 'Jane Bell.'

'And I am . . . none the wiser.'

'That is because we
haven't
met before,' she informed him, her tone demure but enigmatic. 'We have seen each other, but not met. I've thus far been too careful to allow it . . .
Monsieur Parrier
.'

She returned her attention to the table, letting him chew on that one for a moment.

'Allow it?'

'Bad for my reputation to be consorting with someone of yours.'

Parrier took a beat to recompose himself, looked like he was sorting through faces for a safe one to wear. He opted for a knowingly bashful visage, brazenly aware he was fooling nobody.

'And what reputation do I have?'

Jane played her hand, found herself looking at seventeen again, the house holding nineteen, Parrier eighteen.

'You're a rogue, Monsieur Parrier,' she said, smiling but not looking at him. She didn't have to to tell he loved it.

He stuck, too intent on her to be bothered with the game. She transferred his attention to the table by putting down all her chips, by this point back to around two grand, and indicating she wanted another card. The croupier turned over the top card. It came up four of diamonds. Jane's expression betrayed nothing.

'You like to live dangerously,' Parrier said approvingly.

'I like risk,' she replied. 'But not games of chance. I'd rather be betting on myself than on sheer fortune. Besides, the stakes here are too low to be genuinely exciting. Good evening, Monsieur,' she concluded, getting to her feet and walking away.

Parrier called after her. 'What about your winnings?'

Jane turned around and picked a single chip from the pile, lifting it with her right hand, the plastic wafer of a bug between two fingers. She placed the token in Parrier's outside breast pocket, pressing the bug into the interior lining.

'Buy yourself a drink,' she said. 'The croupier can have the rest as a tip.'

And with that, she did leave, the faint sound of Bett's applause pitterpattering in her ears. They had been on the autoroute only a few minutes when Nuno checked the right-side wing mirror for the umpteenth time and announced: 'We have a tail.'

'A tail? How exciting.'

'Call it a vote of confidence in your performance. Somebody's intrigued. Dispatched a drone to check you out, wants to know where you go after the lights go down.'

Jane looked in her rear-view.

'Where are they?'

'Three cars back. Toyota SUV.'

'Poor choice,' she said with a grin. Nuno laughed and checked his seat belt, knowing what was coming next.

'The car in front is a Lamborghini,' she said.

Further G-forces ensued.

The house looked all but deserted as Jane guided the Diablo carefully up the drive. Travelling slowly along the gravel felt like the final stretch of a rollercoaster ride, after the swoops and turns; still in the carriage, still moving, but you know the fun's over. It had been quite a ride, and she didn't just mean the motor. She let Nuno put it back in the garage, concerned she might clip a wing mirror on the doorframe, or super-calamity, prang it off of some other equally exquisite vehicle inside.

She walked on alone through the front door, all but the vestibule in darkness, no sounds echoing around the hallways. The place appeared sleepy and tranquil, but she knew it to be anything but. She made her way downstairs to the basement level, where the corridor lights were on. She turned right, opposite the entrance to the shooting range. Still there were no voices, but she could hear the clack-clack of a keyboard from the open door of Bett's operations centre.

Inside was like the control room of a TV studio. There were two banks of monitors, each arrayed in two rows of eight, hanging from the ceiling on black aluminium frames. The banks were angled slightly downwards and set at about a hundred and twenty degrees from each other, presenting two aspects to the long central desk at which Bett, Armand and Rebekah sat, each wearing headphones. The desk itself was flanked by multi-tiered electronic fascias, signal lights and LEDs blinking and flickering, and between these towers sat a control deck that wouldn't have looked out of place at Cape Canaveral. In front of each seat was a keyboard, mouse and flat-screen monitor, presenting a user interface considerably less intimidating than the prospect of messing about with the NASA knock-off in the middle.