Читать книгу The Istanbul Puzzle - Laurence O’Bryan - Страница 12

Chapter 7

The black S1100R BMW superbike came to a halt at the back entrance of the steel and glass apartment block, its tyres scattering gravel. Its rider, Malach, was, within seconds, heading up in the service elevator to the penthouse apartment with the breathtaking views over the Golden Horn. Its wrap-around balcony had once been used to host a party for a visiting Hollywood star. That evening the balcony was empty.

Arap Anach was in the main marble-floored bedroom. A cocoa-skinned girl was lying on a white rug in front of him, face down.

‘You are a devil,’ he whispered. She moved her hips invitingly, then groaned.

She’d been well trained, and understood English. He made a mental note to use the same contact in the red light district of Mumbai again. This girl was, without doubt, a 10,000 rupee girl, exactly as he’d been promised. He would send the man a bonus. From what he knew had happened to the man’s family, he’d appreciate it.

He fingered one of the gauze-thin veils the girl had discarded. Then he examined her body. A creak sounded from outside the door. He didn’t react. He’d seen what he was looking for.

‘You think threads on your wrist will ward away evil spirits?’ he said.

She moaned. She hadn’t understood the turn this encounter was taking.

He looked at the scar on the back of his hand. Then, reflexively, he glanced around, even though he knew the room was secure, that no camera could be watching them, no microphone listening. He’d done the bug sweep himself.

It was time.

He placed the palm of his hand a hair’s breadth from her back, and traced the contours of her body without touching her.

‘I will be your last,’ he whispered. Would she react? Anticipation and adrenaline coursed through him.

Somewhere inside her there was a shard of anxiety, there had to be, but it was well hidden. She assumed, most probably, that because she’d survived thus far in her career, and had met many men, that the future would be the same as the past.

A tentative knock sounded from the door.

‘Do not move,’ he said firmly. He padded across the room, cracked the door open.

‘There is an envelope. It was sent to the Greek at his hotel,’ a voice whispered. ‘What should we do?’

‘Get it, fool.’ He clicked the door shut, walked back to the rug. As he passed the small table he passed his hand slowly through the flame of the candle burning on it, until he felt its sting.

‘Are you ready?’ he whispered. He kneeled down beside her, put one hand on her back.

She wriggled in anticipation. He reached to his left, slid a steel syringe from under the mattress of the emperor-sized bed. He held the tip near her back, dragging out the moment. Soon she would feel something. Very soon.

Then it would begin.