Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 03 - Cairo Caper (19 page)

Tyson grabbed Roger’s arms and wrenched them behind his back while Sputum kept his gun trained on me. The bouncer used plastic trash-tie handcuffs to subdue my man.

I caught Petri’s eye and mouthed the word
matches.

He shook his head probably thinking about his matches.

I made a point of looking down at my jacket pocket then back at Petri. Fixing him with my eyes, I mouthed the words
banana rocket.

His eyes grew to the size of plums as he stretched his lips in a grimace of terror.
No!
He mouthed the word followed by the unspoken word,
please!

He was right. I could end up blowing us all to a personal meeting with Cleopatra on the River Styx.

I shrugged letting him know I was backing off. No banana rockets.

Tatiana came at me with trash bag handcuffs.

“Someone has to care for Fiona,” I said backing away. “She’s bleeding and she’s unconscious. Something happens to her and you won’t get jack-shit for cooperation.”

Sputum nodded to Tatiana. “Leave the women untied. Lock up the ashtrays so Wendy is no threat. She may tend to the ninotchka until our dinner guest arrives.

Tyson carried Fiona to the front of the bus and placed her in one of the Lucite chairs where she collapsed in a heap. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was another of her wink-wink pass-outs.

“Please put some ice on Roger’s eye,” I begged. Blood trickled down his forehead. If he kept bleeding, every time he’d wake up, he’d pass out, caught in a
Groundhog Day
loop.

Tatiana stood behind the bar rattling ice. She knelt next to Roger, toweled off the blood, and held a pack to his face along with her pink-camied boobs. He cut me a look that said I am not looking at her tits. But he did seem to snuggle in a bit. At this point, anything that gave him comfort was okay. I needed him to recover fast.

I watched closely as Tyson started the bus. You never know when a little knowledge will come in handy.
Wanda
had fewer bells and whistles than mega-yachts and super helicopters. Computer controlled, she should be a piece of cake to operate.

Tyson pushed
forward
, and then
left.
Then under
feet
, he clicked on
eight
.

“We will greet Sir Sydney at Taporisis in two hours. Till then I shall be in my office.”

His office, my eye. I watched Tatiana dutifully trot after him as he headed up the staircase.

Roger and I exchanged furtive glances trying to eye-communicate.

Petri’s brow was furrowed in a deep V as he watched Fiona. I hoped we’d live long enough to celebrate the publication of
Erotica for Dummies
and perhaps have a happily-ever-after for them.

Tyson hit the window washer and the dead and dying locusts disappeared.

Wanda
rumbled the short distance over the rocky terrain with only a few minor bumps and no flat tires. We went up the slope. The bus leaned to the left, teetered then leveled off. Tyson parked within six feet of the temple entrance.

My heart hurt for Tickemoff. My brain hurt trying to figure out who’s doing what to whom. And my stomach hurt worrying about any of us getting out of here alive.

Chapter Thirty-four

My heart was hurting for Tickemoff. Now it was hurting for Fiona too. One hour and forty-five minutes later she was still out cold. She was seriously injured and we were held captive instead of getting her medical help.

Roger and Petri sat on the floor covertly wrestling with their twist-tie handcuffs and Tyson snoozed in a chair near the door, gun in his lap. Tatiana and Sputum hadn’t returned from his office. An oligarch’s work is never done.

I needed to visit the loo for two reasons, to plot and to pee again. One of the early signs of pregnancy was frequent peeing which made me break out in a cold sweat.

“Hey, big guy!” I called to Tyson from the safety of my seat.

“What? What?” He roused, dropping his Glock on the floor.

“Okay if I use the ladies room? Gotta go.”

He scanned the coach, eyed the loo door, and then me. “Leave your purse.”

Aside from the Camapoos there wasn’t much I could use in my bag. I tucked it under Fiona’s chair and eased her skirt around it hoping no one noticed it.

I closed the loo door behind me and stared at my tired face in the mirror. The nausea had passed but I had a pregnant glow about me. I peed first then sat on the lid to plot. I ran through my mental file of nifty bus-based escapes and came up blank.

The only weapons I had were the six wooden matches. With the possible father of my possible baby tied up and Fiona unconscious I had no right to play with fire. I re-pocketed the matches. When it came to plotting, I was good at peeing.

I left the loo, negotiating my way around Petri and Roger who sat hunched and miserable on the floor.

Roger shot me a raised eyebrow.

I shook my head. No ideas.

My purse appeared to be undisturbed under Fiona’s chair. I sat down and wrapped my arm around her. She didn’t react.

Sputum appeared at the top of the stairs with Tatiana beside him. He glowered as he held a gun aimed at no one in particular. “It’s almost time. You will come up here and follow Tatiana to the dining table. Wear your smiley faces for Sir Sydney. I would not want him to feel unwelcome or suspicious.”

Tyson untied Roger and Petri. They stood, massaged their wrists, and stamped their feet. Once again Roger gave me that
look
. I was sure he was relying on me for a gen-u-ine Wendy Darlin great-escape caper. Too bad he didn’t want me to pee.

Reluctantly I left Fiona slumped in her chair and retrieved my purse. I walked to the second level with Roger and Petri at my heels. Sputum urged us on with his weapon. I decided a gun being casually waved at my head was not a comfortable feeling. Tyson, the Glock-dropper, brought up the rear of the procession with his gun at our backs. These guys could shoot us without trying at any second.

The upper level of the bus was a knockout as far as James Bondian dining emporiums go. Panoramic windows covered ninety-percent of the walls and curved into the roofline. A thirty-foot glass dining table sat in the center of the room with smaller tables against the windows, perfect for couples or a set of thugs. The Lucite chairs tucked under the tables disappeared in a glass-on-glass effect.

A built-in food service sideboard was mounted on the rear wall next to a dumbwaiter, obviously connected to the dumbwaiter behind the bar downstairs.

Tatiana waved her scarlet nails in a Vanna White show and tell. “You will sit here,” she said. I sat in a Lucite chair facing the stairway and placed my Camapoo-laden purse on the floor. Petri took a seat directly across and Roger the seat next to me.

Sputum moved to the head of the table with an arrogance usually not seen other than in arrogant piss-heads. What a coincidence.

Nobody spoke. The bulletproof glass prevented the sound of locusts mashing themselves against the windows from coming through. An unearthly silence prevailed. I had a clear view of a portion of the first level. Fiona lay motionless in her chair and the locust horde beat against the bulletproof door, but possibly a less dense horde than earlier. I so wished we could do something for Fiona.

On cue, a wailing siren, reminiscent of a British ambulance, intruded on the oppressive silence. Had the cavalry arrived?

Chapter Thirty-five

Tyson stared at the tiny screen in his iPod controller. “It’s them.”

Sputum snapped to attention. “Them? There should only be one.”

He grabbed the iPod from Tyson. I didn’t need to speak Russian to know he was cursing like Joan Rivers with a run in her pantyhose.

Recognition crept into his eyes and he smiled… a snake about to swallow a rat. “Dorkvsky. I couldn’t have planned it better. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Tatiana, welcome our guests.”

Tatiana runway-strutted down the stairs. Tyson aimed the iPod like a couch potato switching between NFL games. The door hissed open and the bus performed an air-suspension kneel.

The new arrivals were heralded by a small cloud of locusts. Tyson produced a butterfly net and dexterously scooped them in one sweep. A loud snap, crackle, and pop and they were zapped to a perfect golden brown. Not your father’s butterfly net.

Sir Sydney entered, removed his Indiana Jones hat, and swept low as he kissed Tatiana’s hand. Dorkovsky followed, squeezing his heft past the exit pole, catching his belt on the handrail, and, from the blowfish expression on his face, painfully yanked the crotch of his pants to his navel.

“Sir Sydney,” Sputum called down to them. “And a most pleasant surprise, Alexander Dorkovsky.”

Dorkovsky gasped, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and blotted his brow. Sputum hadn’t been on his horizon.

Sydney braced against the handrail. “You, Sergei, are the surprise. I’m here to meet with Doctor Jolley to discuss museum business.” He did a slow circle and checked out the bus. “Doctor Jolley is most resourceful but I should have suspected when I saw this extravagant vehicle that you were here.”

“You will meet with Jolley. He is my guest also. Join us. We’re just about to dine.”

The stunned double-dealer shifted his focus from Sputum to Dorkovsky. Sir Sydney was caught between a dork and a hard case. He probably intended to screw both of them out of some of their oligarch billions, but Sputum had the upper hand now. I had to give Sydney credit for a fast recovery. With great poise he said, “How delightful.”

Tatiana performed her wiggle-walk up the stairs. In spite of their dire circumstances, Sydney and Dork followed her with their eyes bugged to within an eyelash of being out on their stalks. Boys will be boys. Tatiana waved them to the table with another Vanna White flourish.

Petri rose, hands clenched so tight the knuckles were white and the veins swollen to the size of garden hoses. I’d seen the deceptive power in that Niles Crane frame. He vibrated like a harp and was about to attack. If he did, Sir Sydney would be a pile of steak tartar large enough to satisfy a thousand cannibals or a hundred-thousand cannibal locusts. An idea with merit.

Sputum crashed the side of his fist onto the table. “Sit. This is my party and I’ll vie if I want to. You will be silent and create no disruptions.” He nodded toward Fiona’s vulnerable form, an effective threat.

Petri slammed his ass in his seat but his white-hot stare never left Sir Sydney. One of them was not going to leave this bus alive. If I could get my hands on an ashtray…

Sputum cleared his throat like he was the frigging keynote speaker at a banquet. I hoped we weren’t having rubber chicken and ball-bearing peas. “Everyone please be seated. Sir Sydney, take the place at the foot of the table. Dorkovsky, take the chair to Sydney’s right.”

I felt like we were caught in an English Victorian comedy. Sputum and Sydney were almost a long-distance phone call away from each other. And Roger, Petri, and I sitting in the middle had room for a basketball team on each side of us.

“You are wondering why I invited you here.”

Sputum had lost it. We were being held prisoner, which was not my idea of an invitation. He continued, “Not that you were actually invited, Dorkovsky, but a good host always has room for unexpected guests.”

His politeness was creeping me out.

“Let us begin with fine champagne” Sputum nodded to Tatiana.

She stepped to the dumbwaiter, flipped her hair behind her shoulders, adjusted her posture, and pressed the button. The door slid open to reveal a cavity about the size of an under-counter refrigerator. It was filled with three bottles of champagne, one empty bottle, and a man so crammed into the rectangular space he resembled a Picasso painting.

Sputum exploded. “Tatiana, what the hell is this? You were supposed to keep him in the kitchen.”

Fire shot from her eyes. “Do not humiliate me in front of your guests. I cannot be both a tour guide and a chef-keeper.”

I was pretty sure that, oligarch or no, it would be a while before he’d be able to convince her to help him in his office again.

She yanked the Picasso-like creation by his collar. He and the empty bottle tumbled to the floor. He staggered to his feet, losing his rectangular shape and his eyes returning to either side of his nose. He was a height-challenged man wearing a chef’s toque, white jacket, and checkered pants.

He slipped to his knees. Tatiana jerked him upright by the front of his jacket and said something in Italian that almost sobered him up.

She smoothed his jacket and smiled a flight attendant’s smile. “I am presenting to you Chef Luca Borgia. He is a one of the most creative gastronomic geniuses in the world. And he accomplishes his masterpieces in the tiniest of kitchens, located on the holodeck.”

An odd noise caused me to turn the other way. It was Sputum grinding his teeth. Borgia had him over a barrel. Where was he going to find another chef who could work on a holodeck?

The chef cleared his throat. “Let us begin with some champagne.”

In a lightning move, he grabbed a bottle out of the dumbwaiter and had the cork loose before Tatiana could react. The cork banged off the ceiling and bubbly spewed everywhere.

He held the bottle straight out. “So sorry. This one is ruined. Mia gulpa… I mean
culpa
. Mea culpa. I will drink what’s left so it doesn’t go to waste.” He tipped the bottle and started chugging.

Tatiana ripped the bottle from his hand. He pinched her butt. When she jumped, he got the bottle back and chugged away. She snatched it again and held it far enough away that he couldn’t reach it. But he tried and ended up grabbing her boob, which was about eye-level for him. She bopped him on his toque with the base of the bottle. His eyes crossed and he hung on to both of her boobs to stay vertical.

She narrowed her eyes, set the bottle on the sideboard, maneuvered behind him, and propped him up by sliding her hands under his armpits. She said as calmly as if nothing had happened, “And now Chef Borgia will tell you about tonight’s menu.”