One Way or Another(28)

“Sir. Mr. Mahoney…”

The young man stammered in his eagerness, making Marco wonder if he wanted an autograph. “Yes?” He looked expectantly at him.

“Sir. Mr. Ahmet Ghulbian presents his compliments and wonders whether you would do him the honor of joining him in the private lounge. Mr. Ghulbian understands the Paris flight is canceled and he wishes to discuss the situation with you.”

“Does he, now?” Marco knew the name, there would be few who would not. Ghulbian ranked up there with Getty and Onassis, wealth and reputation-wise. As he followed the young man to a private lounge he wondered whether Ahmet wanted his portrait painted. If so, he was not sure he wanted to do it. He’d learned from experience that commissions from men that wealthy and demanding could be a demoralizing experience, and their self-image invariably turned out to be different from that which Marco saw and painted.

Still, when he met him, he thought Ghulbian an arresting figure: compact, impeccably clad in a pale suit, though unlike his minion he wore no tie. What Marco did notice were his shoes, lovingly polished to a discreet low gleam. They reminded him of his grandfather’s.

Ghulbian followed his glance. “Berluti,” he said. “Paris.”

Marco nodded. “They are well cared for.”

“As all fine things should be.” Ghulbian waved an arm for Marco to take a seat. “I heard of the trouble with the flight and since I’m on my way to Paris myself,” he paused to glance at the thin gold Patek Philippe watch worn on his right wrist, “leaving in fact in ten minutes, I’m wondering if I might offer you a lift?”

Marco almost felt his jaw drop; it was as if he had been transported from the simplicity of his village life to outer space. Em poked her head out of his jacket and Ghulbian’s brows rose.

“I’m sorry, but I never travel without my dog,” Marco said. “But thank you for your offer anyway.”

“No. No. Please. The dog is welcome, I’m sure there will be food for it on board, I only hope it does not mind eating from Limoges plates.”

Remembering Costas’s café/bar and the dinosaur bones, Marco laughed. “You know what they say, a change is as good as a rest. And thank you for your offer. It would have been hell trying to find a room here for the night and I’m getting too old to sleep on airport floors.”

Ghulbian smiled, showing his perfect teeth. “As I am myself. Which is not to say it was not something I had to do in my youth, but then most of us have been through that in our time.”

Ten minutes later Marco was shepherded on board a Cessna 520 painted a pleasing silver-blue. The seats were cream leather, wide and comfortable. A pair of young stewards in blue uniforms and wearing ties made sure they were strapped in, and within minutes they were airborne.

Ghulbian took some papers from his briefcase and commenced to study them. Marco stared out the window at the vivid blueness of the sea disappearing under a downy quilt of white cloud. Ghulbian was the kind of man who managed even to have the weather match his color scheme. Feeling the man’s eyes on him, he turned to look.

Ghulbian had taken off his tinted glasses. It was the first time Marco had seen his eyes: dark, heavy-lidded, they seemed to hold a world of secrets. He guessed a man like that, with his money, his power, would certainly be the keeper of many secrets.

Ghulbian said, “Tell me something, Mr. Mahoney. Are you a happy man?”

Marco was astounded by such a personal question. He stalled and said, “Please, it’s only right that you call me Marco. After all, you just saved my life.”

“I did nothing as important as that. Only the situation.”

Marco thought Ghulbian was sharp. And sure of himself.

Ghulbian said, “I have a favor to ask you.”

“Of course, if it’s something I can help with.”

Ghulbian extracted a photograph from the papers on the table in front of him. He did not show it to Marco immediately but held it to his chest.

“I wonder,” he said, speaking quietly, “if you would paint a portrait for me. I know this is not the way you usually work, but this young woman was … is very dear to me. I would like … no, I need a memento, a living record of her in my home. I’m asking if you would do me the honor of attempting this for me. Naturally, I will pay whatever fee you ask.”

Still looking at Marco, he handed over the picture.

The first thing Marco saw was the cloud of red hair, that great, lovely wavy coppery mass. It was the girl he had seen fall off the yacht.

“She’s a friend of yours?”

“I knew her slightly. Sadly, she is no longer with us. She drowned, Mr. Mahoney.” Seemingly overcome, Ghulbian turned to look out the window, dabbing his eyes beneath the dark glasses with his silk pocket handkerchief.

He said to Marco, “Forgive me, but sometimes memories can be difficult to deal with. But yes, Angie was a friend and I should like to remember her. Immortalize her, you might say, through the beauty of your artistry.”

Marco handed back the photo. He was concerned about the way the red-haired girl had died; he wanted no part of Ghulbian’s emotions. “I’ll have to think about it, sir, I have a lot on at the moment.”

Ghulbian laid a heavy hand on Marco’s arm, as though exerting his authority. “Whenever the time is right, of course. Meanwhile, I would also like you to paint my own portrait, an image I can leave for future generations so they will never forget who Ahmet Ghulbian is.”