The Charmers: A Novel(55)

“But you did not kill her.” The Boss sounded reasonable.

“She’s as good as dead. Trust me.”

Of course the Boss did not trust him. But he had something else in mind and right now it appeared the Russian was the only man who could carry out what he wanted. Anyone else would be too dangerous, but since the Russian was already attempting to blackmail him, why not give him the work?

“I’ll give you five now,” he said. “Five later. Plus another ten if you do what I ask.”

The Russian lit another Marlboro, crushing the empty packet under a foot the way he’d crushed out the cigarette stub earlier. The Boss frowned; he did not approve of litter.

He said, “You already f*cked up, almost killed the wrong woman. Now you can get the correct victim.”

“Matthews?”

“Who else did you suppose it was? You had your orders.”

“The girl got in the way.”

“And you should have gotten her out of the way, not left her half-alive, you fool.”

The Russian did not like being called a fool. Fists clenched, he took a step closer, then thought better of it. After all, he was looking at his meal ticket.

“You were supposed to kill Matthews and get the painting,” the Boss said. “When you’ve done that and brought the painting to me, I’ll pay you. And not until then.” He turned and walked back to the side of the bunker.

“And how the f*ck am I gonna do that?” the Russian yelled after him, disregarding that anybody passing might hear him.

The Boss paused. “That’s up to you,” he said, pressing the button. “That’s your job.”

The ivy-clad wall slid aside and in a second closed behind him.

It was, the Russian thought, amazed, as though he had never been there.





46

The Russian knew it was true, the task was uncompleted. He still had to get that painting from Mirabella’s room where it hung next to her bed. He had tried and failed twice. He was not a man accustomed to failure. He’d get it, one way or another.

He wasn’t afraid of her, though it would be better if she were not there. Too many killings was like spoiling the broth somehow. It made for bad soup, and bad vibes could make someone like the Colonel or the everlasting doctor latch onto him. He knew they’d already noticed him.

Yet the Boss wanted her gone, he wanted her land, he wanted her villa, he wanted that f*ckin’ painting. God knows why, it was a dreary thing. But lust took many forms, as he himself knew only too well. When a man lusted after something, be it a woman or a painting, he had to possess it. And a man would pay well to do so.

It was easier to get into Mirabella’s room than the Russian had thought. Hidden in the shadow of azalea bushes that grew six feet high, he walked along the path to her house, any sound masked by the music still wafting through the night: laughter, the occasional bark from the canine patrol still working the beach, the remaining guests too busy discussing the recent happenings, puzzled and more excited than scared. After all, they did not usually come to a party, especially a grand expensive one like this, and get the thrill of a police alert and a drowned girl thrown in as the entertainment.

“Trust the Boss,” he’d heard one woman say, laughing as though it was an amusing experience. Yeah, he thought, you do that, bitch, trust the Boss and see what happens to you.

Of course Mirabella had left the french windows open. He’d tried to get in earlier but she was too alert, too frightened, it had been dangerous for him to linger. She’d slid out of there, her back to the wall, shoes in hand, unaware that he was watching her. Now, though, the place was all his.

He had the pearls in his pocket. All he had to do was get that friggin’ painting, hand both over to the Boss, receive his payment plus bonus, and get the f*ck out of there. For a few moments he allowed himself the luxury of contemplating where he might go, with all his money safely banked in that Swiss account. No small town where he would be noticed as being different, that was for sure. Something like a cruise maybe, on one of those big ships they had nowadays, thousands of people all eating and drinking and dancing and busy meeting and greeting. Easy to get lost in a crowd like that, especially with a new identity, and no hint of the Russian in him. He could speak English with the best, nobody could ever tell.

It took him seconds to enter Mirabella’s room. A few more seconds and he’d wrenched the painting off the wall. The tack came out with it. Plaster fluttered in little white flakes onto his black sweater. He brushed them off, and shoved the painting underneath the sweater, careful to keep the paint side away from his sweat-damp skin. Which gave him thought that maybe he was getting too old for this game; he never used to sweat. Now, he could feel it trickling down his back. What the f*ck? Enough was enough. He wanted his money and to get out of here. Killing old women and cat-burglaring were not his game. He was a street fighter, a man who killed other street fighters, men like himself who were working for what he’d always called, “the other side.”

He left the villa, letting his eyes adjust. Of course he knew the terrain, knew the easiest and darkest route to the bunker where the Boss awaited him. His boots crunched on the gravel path and he hesitated again, wondering if he should take the longer way, across the grass. But no, there were dogs around and cops; the night’s affairs were not finished. They would still be there at dawn, with the stragglers from the party, maybe even one or two they might have arrested, or detained on suspicion. Suspicion of what? Was that girl, Verity, dead? He smiled, thinking of her. If she was not, then she soon would be. The Boss would take no chances on her regaining her senses and her memory. He was quite certain of that.