Eighty Days Amber (29 page)

‘Right,’ Dominik replied.

‘Luba has created the perfect opportunity for a diversion,’ Viggo continued. ‘One last dance. In Dublin. There isn’t a lie that can’t be told on the stage, if you do it right. Particularly if a naked woman is involved. Or two.’ He cast a questioning glance over at Summer, who shrugged as if to say that on-stage nudity was too trivial a matter to even be remarked upon. ‘We’re leaving at the end of the week,’ Viggo continued. ‘Are you in?’

‘This sounds nuts, but for you, Viggo, how could we refuse?’ said Summer.

‘Wonderful. Because I’ll be needing your violin again.’

I noticed her arm imperceptibly tighten around the case of her precious Bailly, but she did not protest.

The conversation then turned to the matter of breakfast, and nothing else was said on the matter. If Viggo gave the others more details separately about the parts that we would each play, he didn’t share that fact with Chey and me.

‘We don’t have any other choice, sweetheart. We have to trust him,’ Chey said to me as I vented my frustration and anxieties once we were out of earshot.

He was right, but that didn’t make me any happier about the situation. Our lives, as well as our deaths, were now in Viggo’s hands and there was absolutely nothing that we could do about it.

A few days later, we were on our way to Dublin.

The Network had booked us into a sprawling, palatial room in the Gresham Hotel, at the top end of O’Connell Street. Summer had arranged to be in the same hotel but had organised it separately, while Dominik was staying in a smaller bed and breakfast near Trinity College on the other side of the river. Chey and I had brought little luggage, as we knew we wouldn’t be checking out. All we would have would be the clothes on our backs and the single suitcase we had hidden away in a left-luggage locker at the Heuston train station shortly after we had arrived in the Irish capital.

Dominik had gone ahead of us. He had deliberately made his own way to Dublin and, apart from a brief telephone conversation with Summer to touch base and verify everything was on schedule, had neither been in contact nor been seen with us since we had arrived. Vouched for by Viggo who had once been an appreciated customer of the Network, he was going to be a legitimate member of the
audience, hopefully beyond all suspicion. Back in London before our departure, Summer had jokingly remarked that they’d had to go out and purchase a dinner jacket for him, especially for the occasion.

We had no idea where Viggo and Lauralynn were lurking, but assumed they were already in town and in position. Viggo had still not explained all the details of his plan to us as he wished to retain an element of surprise. My only reservation was that with his enthusiasm for matters theatrical and his warped sense of humour, whatever he had planned might prove somewhat over the top and unconvincing. We were in his hands now, however, and it was too late to turn back.

I wanted us to take a cab to the designated venue, but both Chey and Summer were nervous and suggested we walk the short distance from the Gresham to Temple Bar on the other side of the Liffey, if only to clear our heads.

The New Year’s Eve celebrations were in full flight, with inebriated groups of youngsters cruising up and down O’Connell Street, swaying in all directions. Temple Bar and its myriad restaurants and bars were draining the crowds and we followed in their wake as midnight approached. I glanced over at Chey and Summer as they walked by my side. Both looked preoccupied and I realised, with a minor shock of recognition, that of all the people making their way towards the heart of the festivities, we were probably the only ones with glum faces. Not only were we not here to celebrate the turn of the year, but we had all been careful not to drink before our planned performance for fear of messing up Viggo’s utterly crazy plan.

The closer we got to the hall, the more I convinced myself that this would be a total fiasco. And not only would
we be left totally humiliated and with egg on our face, but Chey could end up dead, for neither of us had any doubt that the oligarch who had booked us for tonight must have some sort of underground connections and that Chey’s name and face would have been circulated in their midst.

The building was halfway down Temple Bar, with a buzzing restaurant on the ground floor which people were queuing up for, in the hope of cancellations for the final service of the year. To the left of the restaurant’s main entrance was another closed door, with a sign indicating a set of functions rooms. The whole top floor had been booked for a private function. That meant us.

I rang the bell and the door promptly opened.

The security man who greeted us and checked us off against his list was built like a ton of bricks and fitted uneasily inside his badly cut tuxedo. His shaven head reflected the light from a single bulb that illuminated the narrow entrance and a deep corridor that led to a set of wooden stairs. Although he remained silent and nodded us on, I knew the man must be Russian. Our guest had his own full-time protection and didn’t rely on local talent from the looks of it.

As we passed him and walked to the stairs I could feel his stare in my back. Or maybe he was fascinated by Summer’s fiery mane of curling red hair. We Russian blondes were a common sort but redheads were more of a rarity.

I’d noticed our names were on a separate page of his checklist. Just us three. The entertainment.

As we took our first steps up the stairs, we heard another buzz at the door and I turned my head to see the security giant ushering in a middle-aged couple in ostentatious evening attire and tick them off the list. Guests.

On the third and final floor we were greeted by a young Irish woman with jet black hair, dressed in Confederate-style crinolines. The outfit was incongruous, but suited her pale complexion and green eyes.

‘I’m your hostess for tonight. Welcome,’ she said.

‘We’re the artists,’ Summer pointed out.

‘Oh, I know that, Miss Zahova. It’s an honour to have you performing for us tonight. I’m a great fan of yours, by the way. I was so terribly excited when I heard from Oleg that you would be . . . involved.’ The young woman looked over at Chey and me. ‘It’s an incredible bonus to have you playing for your friends. So unexpected.’

Summer forced herself to smile.

‘Where can we change and . . . prepare?’ she asked the Irish hostess. I wondered briefly if this girl was on the oligarch’s permanent staff or had just been recruited as a greeter for the evening. Did she know the exact nature of the performance we had agreed to undertake?

‘This way.’ She led us to a large empty room in which piles of dining tables and chairs had been pushed into one corner. At the centre of the room a large mirror and a trestle table had been set up for us.

‘It’s not ideal,’ the woman pointed out. ‘But it was awkward to find a venue of the right size at such short notice.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ I said.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you prepare. I’ll be back in a while with your envelopes, as arranged. You come on at fifteen minutes past the hour, yes?’

I breathed a sigh of relief as she departed, her impossibly high heels clicking against the parquet floor of the function room that was now to serve as our changing room.

We all looked at each other.

The costumes that Chey and I would initially be wearing were simple and functional. For me, a white silk semi-opaque camisole that reached all the way down to my ankles. I would dance barefoot. For Chey we had come up with a pair of black, sharply creased, toreador trousers and a loose white shirt with billowing sleeves which he had at first objected to, but we didn’t come up with any better alternative and he had conceded defeat.

Summer slipped out of her jeans. She had been wearing them commando and the fire of her pubic bush was now on full display. I glanced at Chey as he noticed. Despite the tense nature of the situation, I could sense his calm appreciation of her wild beauty. I had encountered her in New Orleans, had tasted her exuberant nudity there, and I knew how she revelled in this form of exhibitionism, but this would be the first time I would actually see her perform in the nude, as she had agreed to do to accompany our curious dance. It was something Viggo had suggested. The perfect diversion, he had called it. Somehow I wasn’t surprised that Dominik had consented to this. I couldn’t help but be fascinated by the undercurrents and erotic quirks of their relationship.

Now fully naked, Summer stood proudly, a triumphant look on her face. She leaned over and took her violin from its battered case.

I held my breath in awe.

Right then the young Irish woman returned, not even batting an eyelid at the spectacle of Summer naked with her instrument in one hand.

She handed us a series of thick jiffy bags and envelopes, which we had to bureaucratically sign for.

‘Your fees as agreed,’ she said, giving both me and Summer different envelopes. Summer had negotiated to be paid separately.

Then she passed over the larger brown jiffy bag to me. It was securely sealed. ‘From your employers,’ she added.

Chey’s new documents – a passport and an identity card, even though we still didn’t know what name he would now have to pass himself off as. And would we ever have the opportunity to use these documents?

Chey nervously glanced at his watch as I passed our envelopes over to Summer, who locked them inside her violin case with her own, as we had agreed beforehand.

The sounds of fireworks and drunken cries reached us from outside as the New Year arrived in full swing.

We had just a few minutes to kill before our dance of death. Chey ordered us each a shot of tequila from the bar to steady our nerves before we went on stage. I gulped mine down, coughing as the bitter liquid burned my throat. He had forgotten to bring lemon and salt, and there was no time to go back for it. Thus fortified, the three of us waited, dressed and undressed for the next episode in Viggo’s preposterous scenario to unfold.

My heart stilled as the music began.

Life as I knew it might be about to change irrevocably, but for the next ten minutes my heart and my feet would be engaged in the one activity that I enjoyed most. Dancing. With Chey.

At least, if I were to die tonight, I would die in the arms of the man that I loved.

Teaching Chey to dance in less than a week had been no minor feat, but we had managed it. We’d pushed all the
equipment in Viggo’s gym against the walls and had the run of the place, complete with wall-to-wall mirrors and beautifully smooth wooden flooring. It was a much nicer studio than any I had ever danced in as a youngster, a fact that I reminded Chey of regularly.

Fortunately, he proved a quick learner, perhaps in part because of his years of martial arts training. The routine that I had devised included no fighting manoeuvres, but Chey’s easy athletic grace, balance and sense of discipline meant that he was far better than most beginners.

The moment we made our appearance at the centre of the strong spotlight on the temporary wooden stage that had been erected for the evening, I caught a tremor of whispers travelling across the audience, many of them strongly Russian-accented. I knew this initial reaction was not just due to me; I was still clothed, although revealingly so. No, Chey’s face was the trigger. Photographs of him must have been circulating for some time across the far-flung reaches of the Russian mafia, and a handful of guys in the audience either had recognised him instantly or were presently busy surfing the web on their phones to verify whether he was indeed the wanted man.

We had no choice but to ignore them and begin our performance. The die was now cast. It helped too that we were dancing together. We were so familiar with each other’s bodies that when we danced we virtually melded into one. I responded to Chey without thought or hesitation, as naturally as I breathed in after I breathed out. When he applied the lightest pressure to my spine to direct my movement I floated along with him as though we had been practising together for years rather than days.

The notes emanating from Summer’s instrument were
long and mournful. She had elected to play a violin version of ‘Gloomy Sunday’, the sombre Hungarian song that had supposedly been a soundtrack to countless suicides. I’d always found it a little dreary, but Viggo had been enthusiastic about the idea on the grounds that our audience might find our ‘deaths’ occurring at the end of it a predictably amusing and not terribly smart piece of stagecraft and therefore hesitate in their seats before rushing forward to help or to call the police, presuming the whole thing a subterfuge and wanting to appear clever by acknowledging the trick rather than appearing the one fool in the crowd who fell for it.

We stepped in time to the music. It was a slow dance, a sad dance, a lovers’ dance. We were entwined with one another, coiled together like two strands of a single rope. I played the part of the pitiable little woman, deep in the throes of lament. He was the strong man who carried my gracefully limp form, twisting and turning across the stage so that all could view my depression. Such an act was not difficult to fake, with the dismal tune reverberating through the auditorium like a funeral dirge and the fear that lurked deep within that some flaw in Viggo’s plan would reveal itself at any moment and Chey would be wrenched away from me and imprisoned or, worse, killed.

Beyond the sound of the music an eerie silence had fallen over the audience. Perhaps the adrenalin had made my hearing more acute, or maybe it was the added theatrical effect of Summer’s soulful melody playing live rather than the digital recordings I normally used, but the usual whisper of shock or creak of a chair as an onlooker leaned forward to achieve a better view were mysteriously absent from
tonight’s proceedings. I could not even hear the sound of a breath being drawn.

Every one of my senses was in overdrive.

Viggo had practically thumped me with the urgency of appearing normal, of behaving exactly as I would in any other performance. He knew that the oligarch who had booked us had seen me perform before in Sitges, albeit with a different dance partner. I was hoping that Chey’s appearance instead would not ring any unwelcome signals. It took every ounce of effort to relax my limbs and maintain eye contact with Chey as I usually would instead of scanning the audience for signs of trouble.