One Way or Another: A Novel (15 page)

“I shall send you a case.” Ghulbian raised a hand to dismiss Marco’s polite protest. “Please, it will be my pleasure. And let’s not forget I am trying to bribe you to make the time to paint my portrait.”

“You’re making it very hard for me to say no.”

“Then, while you are considering it, why don’t you join me on my yacht, the
Lady Marina.
Take a few days, bring your lovely fiancée, let us all get to know each other better. I promise you the wine will be good, and I might even persuade Martha to take me on as a client.”

Softened by the good wine, the delicious pâté, the generous hospitality, and the man’s charm, Marco agreed and a date was tentatively set for a few weeks later. They would fly in Ahmet’s Cessna 520 to Antibes, and be helicoptered onto the yacht anchored off the coast since it was too large for any of the local harbors. From there they would take a few days’ “stroll” as Ahmet called it, along the coast, where he said the sea was the bluest Marco would ever see, dark and deep, cool and inviting even on the hottest of days.

“I promise we shall have a good time,” he said as he saw Marco off in the helicopter. And Marco believed his promise.

25

The house on the marsh had become Mehitabel’s home and was the place she liked most in the world. She had seen most of “the world” via her excursions with Ahmet either on the
Lady Marina
, with its many ports of call in Europe and the Far East, or via the Cessna 520, which, though it was a few years old, remained Ahmet’s favorite plane and which he refused to change for the latest model. Ahmet could get pretty stuck in his ways and Mehitabel considered it part of her job to keep him abreast of the latest and most expensive toys available to a man like him. The “toys,” of course, included women, of which she was chief procurer.

Mehitabel had not set out in life with that job in mind, though the seamy side had always attracted her by its very nature, with its secrecy, its insider status, its readiness for violence.

She had started out the usual way any attractive woman from her lowly station in life might, by posing nude for magazines, moving easily on to porn, though she preferred selling other women than selling herself. If the truth were known, which it most certainly was not, Mehitabel did not enjoy sex. In fact, she despised it. No matter how she looked at it, sex gave a man control, he was the one who entered, the woman merely received. Even in play-games of sadomasochism, dressing up in fishnet tights and heels and wielding a whip, it was all only playacting, until the one time it wasn’t and she had brought that whip down too hard, though he’d begged for mercy, a quality she found she did not possess. She had killed him. He was her first and she’d enjoyed it.

The act had taken place on a private island off the coast of Greece, a place where the rich and sometimes famous played games for high stakes, sometimes even life or death. Mehitabel had seen a lot but had kept her own counsel, not because she was afraid of what might happen, but because of what
would
happen—if she talked, went to the media or the police. Which was how she became a woman these men knew they could trust. And how she happened to become Ahmet Ghulbian’s right-hand woman. Keeper of his secrets. Executioner supreme.

She had no fear about getting caught, or of Ahmet betraying her. How could he? He was up to his eyes in the whole business. Ahmet was as much a deviate and a killer as she herself. They were both evil and they suited each other. If she had cared, Mehitabel could have tallied up the count on how many young women—some so young they were still “girls” in the real sense of the word—had passed through the Ghulbian portals, departing, as he’d say with a laugh, for “the other side.” Mehitabel wasn’t sure if there was another side but if so she hoped she would never meet them there, and if she did that they would not recognize her.

Looking in the mirror, she contemplated cutting off her signature Medusa hair, maybe trying a long, sleek black wig, or even a short blond bob, a chic fashionista approach that would match her style. But when she pulled back her hair, held it away from her sharp-boned face, her narrow green eyes stared back as though they hated her.

She was in top shape, of course, thanks to the gym and the jogging track that encircled the
Lady Marina
’s deck, and which she used several times a day. Eight miles total. Plus the weights that gave her the long, sleek muscles and the strength of a man twice her size. And of course she had perfect control over what she ate; every morsel, every sip, was logged in her memory every day and she never, ever, went beyond the calorie count stipulated by her London trainer. Champagne, though, was her downfall. She wasn’t quite sure why she was addicted to it and would not even admit she was, but she wanted it, craved it, and, thank God, with Ghulbian, could always have it. Sometimes that turned out to be convenient when you happened to have a bottle in hand with which to take out a red-haired woman who, God knows how, had managed to return from the dead. Not once, but twice.

But no more. Angie would soon take her final walk, and Mehitabel needed to celebrate with another bottle of that excellent French champagne; no particular brand, but it must always be French. She had visited Rheims several times, in the very heart of Champagne country, where she had sampled every vintage, down to the smallest vineyard that produced a mere couple hundred bottles, mostly kept for special customers. Of which, of course, by dropping the name Ghulbian, she had immediately become an honored member. This particular champagne was now exclusively served by the billionaire and the vintner felt fortunate to be so honored, and to get such a good and steady price for his wine.

Mehitabel didn’t really give a shit about the vineyard or the winemaker. To her he was just another of the men who served her, kowtowed to her, did their best to please her. In her view, men should always be in that position.

Of course she had learned this the hard way. Sometimes, after a bottle of the bubbly, alone in her room, Mehitabel wondered if all women didn’t learn about life the hard way. Even that poor little bitch Angie. God, if any woman needed to learn, it was surely Angie, too dumb to even know what was going on and try to take advantage instead of becoming the victim.

Mehitabel had never been the victim. She had never sold herself, only sold others. She sometimes wondered if “evil” began with those transactions, the first time she had led a girl from school into the woods, delivered her to the man waiting there, watched what happened, hands over her ears so she would not hear the screams, then run off with a few dollars in her pocket, money to buy drugs that she would not use herself, but sell at a profit, after which she would scrape up the poor idiot girl she had sold the dope to from the floor and deliver her to any man who wanted her.

This happened three times, each in a different town, a different county. Mehitabel was a foster child with no family of her own. When these events took place she would complain to the authorities of abuse and, tears streaming, would be moved on to a fresh family, a new area, a new start. When she was eighteen, she moved on, and out, for good, the possessor of a minimal and mediocre wardrobe and a couple hundred dollars.

Now, she glanced round her spacious room with its walls of gold French brocade, its canopy bed draped with the finest silk and the gilded finials depicting lions’ heads; at the rich antique carpets flung casually one across the other like her own personal magic carpet ride. Her closet was full of designer clothes made especially for her, fitted to her body so there was never even a crease. Her shoes were not handmade, because she loved shoe shopping and preferred to buy the best in Rome, in Florence, in Paris. A special closet held her handbags, predictably Hermès, the very symbol of the nouveau-riche woman. Only Hermès, in every color and type of skin, from python to alligator to calf. Her jewelry was minimal but expensive, her large diamond studs and her platinum Rolex Oyster her favorites.

All that remained now, Mehitabel thought, staring round her luxurious room, was for her to become the sole proprietor of the business she was involved in. She had become close to Ahmet and he was now so used to her he trusted her implicitly, something Mehitabel knew no one should ever do. Not only did she know all Ahmet’s personal secrets, now she knew all his business secrets, who he dealt with and when and where. And she intended to use them.

26

Martha had just finished an important and complicated job designing, of all things, an English country kitchen in the middle of London for a Russian woman who wanted every possible newfangled American invention, including three refrigerators with glass doors so that everything inside would be on display. Martha warned her she’d have to change the fruits and vegetables every day to keep the image perfect but her client was not fazed. “We eat out most nights anyhow” was her answer.

Like the flowers with which the house was also overstuffed, the refrigerators were meant only for display. It was disheartening to put so much work, so much thought and effort, into a place that ultimately would never really be lived in. Martha was simply not that kind of decorator, yet she could not afford to turn down the job, and she had to admit that when it was finished, with every vegetable polished, every floral arrangement glowing perfectly in exactly the right enormous crystal vase in exactly the right spot, it looked pretty darn good. And her client was thrilled, which made Martha feel good too.

Now there was a lull. She was free and thinking perhaps she could take a holiday with Marco, who needed a break from dealing with Ahmet Ghulbian. He’d told her Ahmet had invited them on his yacht, the
Lady Marina
. She had not been too keen, preferring to be alone, but then, out of the blue, though later she suspected Marco had something to do with it, she got a call.

“My name is Mehitabel,” the caller said. “I am Ahmet Ghulbian’s personal assistant. Mr. Ghulbian has heard good things about your work, from Mr. Mahoney.”

Mehitabel’s voice was low and she was so soft-spoken Martha had to strain to hear her.

“I’m always glad to know that,” she replied, cautious because you never knew when somebody was going to ask you to work for free or at a big discount simply because they were somebody’s cousin or had been at school with somebody who knew you.

“Mr. Ghulbian would appreciate it if you could take a look at his country place,” Mehitabel said.

Martha thought quickly about whether it would be correct for her to do over the mogul’s country house; what with Marco painting his portrait and all, things seemed to be getting a little too close for comfort, yet there was no doubt it would be a lucrative and prestigious commission. Presumably Marco wouldn’t mind her working for the mogul. Yet somehow it made
her
uncomfortable. She couldn’t get Marco on the phone or via text, so she decided to take a leap of faith, visit Marshmallows, meet Ghulbian, and see what it was all about.

Getting to Marshmallows was not easy; it was way out in the southeast in the English marshlands, but Martha had turned down Ghulbian’s offer to helicopter her there. She’d wanted to see the lay of the land, the neighboring homes, the gardens and landscaping, only to be stunned by the place’s complete remoteness and lack of any of what she termed “lovable” features.

There were no trees and, to Martha, a big house in a landscape without trees was like a well-dressed woman without jewels, or one who had forgotten her perfume. All she saw as she drove up was a flat gray house that looked rooted to the earth on which it stood. Its small-paned windows reflected back the gray clouds, its gray-tiled roof pressed on top of it. She got the impression the house was trying to hide itself away. “No one lives here,” is what it seemed to tell her. The only thing of life, of beauty, was the herons’ nest atop a chimney from which a slender white bird poked its beak, protecting its young. Anyway, it lifted Martha’s heart, as she sped up the graveled drive and stopped at the flight of four shallow stone steps leading to the front door, where Ahmet stood waiting for her, a smile on his face, both arms extended in welcome.

“My dear Martha, you cannot know how happy it makes me to see you here. Welcome to my home, or at least the house I’m hoping that you, with all your miraculous talent as a designer, will turn into a real home for me.”

Getting out of the car, Martha found herself in Ahmet’s embrace. It was quick but he held her a tiny bit too tight and a touch too long, so her breasts pressed against his chest. It was only a fleeting moment but enough to make her uncomfortable. She told herself she was being foolish and of course Ahmet had meant nothing by the hug, that he was a nice man, a well-known figure in the charity world, a man who only did good for humanity, for the world’s sufferers, and a man for whom she would now do her best to create the “home” he seemed so badly to want.

Throwing open the big front door, and not merely the smaller inner section, so Martha might get the full effect of the baronial hall and the wide staircase with the Art Nouveau stained-glass windows, Ahmet ushered her inside. Of course Martha had heard details of the house from Marco. “Strangely bleak” he had called it—and now she saw what he meant. Everything was there: the expensive brocade sofas; the immense limestone fireplace, obviously brought from a French mansion; the glittering Venetian chandelier; the enormous grandfather clock in an ugly yellowish oak, ticking away too loudly; the black-and-white-tiled floors that, in a different house, would have been elegant but in this solid old structure were out of place. Everything she saw was expensive, with heavy-looking antiques that had once belonged somewhere, and none of which, she decided immediately, belonged here.

“Well?” Ahmet was standing beside her, arms folded over his chest, watching her, an amused smile on his lips.

“Well, indeed!” Martha repeated, shaking her head.

“It’s worse than you thought, then?”

She had to laugh at his earnestness. “It’s terrible,” she said. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Mr. Ghulbian.”