Don Winslow - Satori

The agent didn’t answer.

Which is answer enough, Nicholai thought. He knew he had to take the offensive. “You will give me the money and the papers when I deliver the weapons to you.”

“That is inconceivable.”

“Nonsense,” Nicholai responded, “as I just conceived of it. You might think it improbable, inconvenient, perhaps impossible, but inconceivable? No.”

“I will pass along your request,” the agent said stiffly.

“It is not a request,” Nicholai said. “It is a nonnegotiable demand.”

Nicholai knew that he was acting far too Western – confrontational and direct – but he didn’t have the time for elaborate Asian courtesy. And he needed them to believe that the papers were crucial to him.

“Do not contact me again,” Nicholai pressed. “I will contact you within two days to tell you where and when we can make the transfer. If you do not have the money, the deal is off. If you do not have the papers, the deal is off. Do we understand each other?”

“I understand you far too well.”

“Good,” Nicholai said. “Now I have an appointment.”

He took a cyclo-pousse back into the city and had it drop him off near the Ciné Catinat.

SHE WAS SILVER in the reflected light of the screen.

Solange sat two rows in front of him, arranged her long legs in the narrow aisle, lit a cigarette, and looked up at the screen.

Simone Signoret starring in Casque d’or.

The film was a Belle Epoque crime story that held little interest for Nicholai, and he was glad when, after twenty minutes, Solange got up and left the theater. He waited a few seconds and then followed her out onto Rue Catinat. She walked quickly, with long strides, and didn’t look behind her until she came to the Eden Roc Hotel, where she checked her image in the glass doorway and saw his reflection.

Nicholai waited until she went in, then followed her into the small lobby, where he saw the Vietnamese desk clerk smile in recognition and hand Solange her room key. So he knew that this was her official address, although he suspected that she spent most of her nights at the palace.

She went into the elevator and Nicholai stood off and watched the brass arrow above the doors indicate that she went to the second floor. He went over to the small shop, purchased a Journal, and perused the headlines before he allowed himself to walk over to the stairway door to make sure that neither the desk clerk nor the concierge were watching, then went in and took the stairs up to the second floor.

He walked the corridor and found that the door to room 231 was ajar. He stood outside for just a moment, allowing his senses to confirm that the perfume was hers.

He went in and shut the door behind him.

Solange stood in the small living room.

“That was foolish,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “Foolish and jejune.”

“What was?”

“Your behavior last night.”

She’s beautiful, Nicholai thought. Her golden hair, a casque d’or indeed, soft in the muted afternoon light, one hip cocked in anger, her muscled leg set off by the high heels. She turned away from him, pried the bamboo window shades open with her fingers, and looked out onto the street.

“What did you want me to do?” Solange asked. “Starve? Live on the street?”

“I make no judgments.”

“How worldly of you,” she mocked. “How tolerant you are.”

Nicholai knew that this verbal slap was deserved. He asked, “Did Haverford send you here?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “A different one. He called himself ‘Mr. Gold’… he arranged for me to meet Bao Dai. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if you were alive, or dead…”

Diamond, Nicholai thought, is as unimaginative as he is brutal. He has all the subtlety of a bull. And yet bulls can be very dangerous when they turn, hook, and gore.

“It’s all right,” he said.

“It isn’t,” she said. “They sent me here to lure you, didn’t they? Even if we get out, they can use me to track you. You should leave me, Nicholai. Walk away now and never come back.”

“No.”

She looked back again toward the window, and Nicholai realized that she was afraid she’d been followed from the cinema. “I need to get back before the film is over.”

“To learn how it ends?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I’ve seen it three times. The first two times, I cried.”

“And this time?”

“I will probably cry again.”

He pulled her to him and kissed her. Her lips were soft and warm.

Nicholai brushed the hair away from her neck, kissed her there, and was rewarded with a moan. Encouraged, he unzipped her dress and ran his hand down the warm skin of her back.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she murmured. “This is crazy.”

But she shrugged the dress off her shoulders and let it slide down her hips. Then she unsnapped her bra and pressed her breasts against him. “You feel so good.”

Nicholai picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.

Setting her on the bed, he peeled the dress down her legs, revealing her black garter and stockings.

Solange opened her legs, nudged her panties to the side, and said, “Quickly.”

He unzipped his trousers and fell on top of her. Entered her with one thrust and found her wet and ready. She grabbed his buttocks and pulled him in deeper.

“Come in me.”

“What about you?”

“Just come in me. Hard. Please.”

She took control of their lovemaking, pulling him into her until she felt him swell and then climax, crying out.

Nicholai lay on the bed, watching her get dressed, elegant even in her postcoital deshabille. She sat on the edge of the bed as she rolled the stockings back up her legs.

“Breakfast tomorrow?” he asked. “I found a place, La Pagode, that serves quite good croissants.”

“A date?” she asked wryly.

“We can sit at separate tables,” Nicholai said. “Or will the emperor miss you?”

“He’ll be busy with affairs of state,” she answered. “Trying to decide if he’s run by the French or the Americans.”

“And what will he decide?”

“He won’t,” she said, standing up and pulling the dress up over her hips. She frowned, as if she thought her hips were a bit too broad. “The Americans will decide for him. They will decide for everyone.”

“Not for us.”

“No?” She smiled as a mother might smile at a small boy’s heroic fantasy.

“No,” he answered.

She leaned down and kissed him. “And what will we decide?”

“To be together.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

He had money now, enough money for them to live happily in a safe place somewhere. He told her all about Voroshenin, the connection to his mother and his family’s fortune, about the safety deposit box, the bank accounts, the passports.

“We could go anywhere,” he said. “France perhaps.”

“I would like that, yes.”

“Maybe to the Basque country,” he said. “Did you know that I speak Basque?”

She laughed. “That is very odd, Nicholai.”

“I learned it in prison.”

“Of course you did,” she said. “Yes, the Basque country is very pretty. We could buy a château, we could live quietly…”

Her face turned more serious than he had ever seen it. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

She broke from his embrace, went into the living room, found her purse, and took out a lipstick. Coming back into the bedroom, she sat in front of the mirror and redid her lips. “You smeared them.”