Forever (58 page)

'Yes,' Stephanie sighed, 'I heard you.'

'Good. Then you'll do as I tell you, right?
As soon as you hang up, you'll call the nearest airport? It's in
Nice, I believe . . .'

But Stephanie was no longer listening to
him. Something else had caught her attention - a bright flash of
light glancing off the restaurant's glass door as it opened and
swung shut again.

Instinctively, she shrank further into the
shadows of the telephone booth, facing the wall and making herself
as small and unobtrusive as possible. Then, holding her breath, she
slowly turned her head and peered cautiously over her shoulder.

Eduardo! Looking around the lobby; searching
for her, of course . . .

An involuntary groan, like a high-pitched
mewl, escaped her lips. Swiftly she turned away, her expression
stricken. Shit! she thought, staring accusingly at the receiver in
her hand, as though it had been a snake she had been holding all
this time. Oh, shit!

'Girlie!' Sammy's voice squawked from the
earpiece, sounding suddenly inordinately loud. 'Girlie? Girlie? Are
you still there?'

Stephanie hesitated but for the merest
fraction of a second. Then she quickly hung up, took a deep breath,
and once again peered cautiously back over her shoulder.

Luck was with her! Eduardo was standing with
his back to her. Facing in the opposite direction, away from her,
cocking his arm to look at his watch -

Seizing the moment, she grabbed her purse
and flew out of the phone booth, moistening her lips with the tip
of her tongue and forcing a smile as she made a bee-line towards
him. In her path, a young couple holding hands let go of each other
and broke in two as she rushed forward and past. And then there she
was, standing directly behind him - and he still none the
wiser!

She tapped him on the back. 'Ahem!' she
said. 'Does it just stand there and look pretty, or does it move
and speak?'

He turned around in surprise. 'Where did you
come from? I thought I looked everywhere.'

She smiled smugly. 'Didn't I tell you? I've
got Houdini in my blood, on my mother's side.' She laughed softly
and slid an arm through his. 'Well? Did you settle the lunch tab,
or do we have to make a run for it?'

He smiled. 'Everything is taken care of. But
it is getting rather late. I'm afraid we had better get a move
on.'

Adroitly he steered her to the front
entrance and into the back of a waiting Rolls Royce Silver Spur.
She inhaled appreciatively. The car smelled very much like the
inside of a very expensive, brand-new wallet.

'My. Oh, my.' She ran her hands over the
smooth parchment- coloured leather. Then she looked over at
Eduardo. 'Tell me,' she said. 'Is it true that if you take care of
the luxuries, the necessities take care of themselves?'

Eduardo laughed. 'I certainly hope so.'

'So do I,' Stephanie murmured, kicking off
her shoes and snuggling happily up to him.

Unknown to them, they had company all the
way to the airport.

It was a white Ford Escort, and it followed
the Rolls from the moment it pulled away from the hotel.

It stayed three cars behind the Rolls as it
joined the east-bound traffic on the Croisette.

And it followed at a distance as the Rolls
took the airport turnoff in nearby Nice.

But the Rolls did not head to the passenger
terminal. Instead, it took a service road which led directly to the
hangars and maintenance facilities. There, it stopped in front of a
chain-link gate.

Fifty feet behind it, the Escort slowed and
pulled off to the side of the road. Its occupants watched as a
uniformed armed guard approached the big car. After a brief
exchange, he unlocked the gate and waved it smartly through.

The Rolls drove directly onto the tarmac,
where it was dwarfed by the towering elevator fins of parked
jet-liners, before disappearing from view behind a hangar.

The chain-link gate swung shut again.

The Escort pulled away from the side of the
road and drove up to the same gate and stopped. The guard
approached it, but this time he gestured with unmistakable
authority.
Non, non! Cette entree est strictement interdite aux
personnes non-autorisees! Faites demi-tour tout de suite!'

Nice • Inflight

The Rolls stopped at a set of old-fashioned
boarding stairs. When the driver helped Stephanie out, she found
herself facing two jet engines that were so huge several people
could have stood up inside them. Slowly, she raised her eyes and
looked up past the giant swept-back wing at the rest of the plane.
She was stunned. 'Holy cow!' she said softly.

Eduardo, ducking out of the car behind her,
looked concerned. 'You are not afraid of flying, I hope?' he
asked.

'What?' She turned to him. 'No. That's not
it at all. It just . . .' Words suddenly failed her.

'Yes . . .?'

'This plane! She gestured up at it.

'What about it?'

'Well, I... I expected a private jet,' she
said.

'This is a private jet,' he replied.

She laughed softly. 'This is a goddamn 747,
Eduardo!'

He shrugged, it may be a little bigger than
most corporate jets, but it is private, I assure you. Now come.' He
cupped a hand under her elbow and led her up the boarding
stairs.

The surprises were just beginning.

A beautiful stewardess was waiting at the
top. She wore a futuristic Claude Montana mini dress made of
metallic fibres and her blonde hair was fashioned in an elaborate
retro-Sixties style. '
Senhor
de Veiga,' she greeted warmly
in a naturally smoky voice, it is a pleasure to see you.'

'The pleasure is mine, Camilla,' Eduardo
said.

The stewardess smiled at Stephanie with that
professional smile indigenous to stewardesses the world over. She
said, 'And you must be Ms Williams.'

'Yes.' Stephanie nodded. 'How do you
do?'

'Welcome aboard. My name is Camilla. I am
pleased to be of service, and if you need anything - anything at
all - do not hesitate to call me. Now, if you will please follow me
. . .'

Stephanie stared in wide-eyed amazement as
she followed Camilla. The interior of the airplane was like none
she had ever seen. The starboard side, along which they were
walking aft, was one long, narrow corridor, like that on a train.
Sliding doors led to spacious rooms which opened off to port.

Camilla showed them to a fantastic living
room done in different shades of white with sleek, white-leather
and chrome furniture and silk cushions and museum-quality
Impressionist paintings attached to the white bulkheads. Stephanie
recognised a Monet and a Pissarro and two incredible Vuillards. On
a built-in sideboard was a three-foot-high bronze Degas dancer. Any
museum in the world would give its eyeteeth for any one of these
treasures, she thought.

Camilla said, 'Everyone else is already
aboard. Please strap yourselves in. We have received clearance from
the tower to take off immediately.'

Stephanie looked amazed. The
Chrysalis
she had been able to deal with - almost. But this?
It's more like being on a yacht than an airplane, she found herself
thinking. Maybe that's what this really is? A flying yacht . .
.?

As they strapped themselves into a white
leather couch, the engines started up and the big jet began to taxi
slowly towards the runway.

Stephanie felt as though she had left
reality completely behind. And as the powerful engines revved up
and the plane hurtled down the runway, she could only wonder what
other surprises the future held in store.

Johnny Stone watched the de Veiga jet lift
off and climb steeply up into the sky, where it banked to the south
and got smaller and smaller until it was just a tiny flash of
silver and then that, too, was gone. He said, 'Shit!' very softly,
kicked the front tire of the little white Ford Escort, and
struggled into the front passenger seat of the compact interior,
knocking his kneecaps against the dashboard in the process. He
said, 'Shit!' once again and slammed the door shut. Puckered his
lips and stared grimly out through the windshield.

The ageing Spanish gigolo he had hired in
Marbella, as much for the man's battered cabin cruiser as his
knowing his way around this part of the world, was in the driver's
seat. He asked, 'What do you want to do now?'

'Now?' Johnny made a gun out of the fingers
of each hand and pointed the 'barrels' across the airport. 'I want
you to drop me off at the passenger terminal,' he said, and sat
back.

Ernesto spent his airborne hours seeing to
his far-flung business empire from the computerised command centre
aboard the jet, and Zarah preferred to remain secluded in her cabin
during lengthy flights.

It was a cabin fit for a queen. Located on
the top level of the hump-backed plane, directly behind the flight
deck, it was reached by spiral stairs and was done up all in
various tones of skin-flattering peach: the Edward Fields carpet
with its sculpted butterfly motif; the king-sized bed with its
padded, butterfly-wing headboard; the ultra-modern couch and two
swivel chairs of pearlised peach leather. In addition, there was a
built-in vanity with a round mirror framed by two elephant tusks,
and a gimballed lucite coffee table. On the bulkheads, a collection
of voluptuous nudes by Boucher were spot-lit by invisible
lights.

A separate mirrored bathroom was complete
with Jacuzzi and bidet, and there was a closet where Zarah kept a
complete wardrobe of designer originals permanently on board.

The cabin would have been more than
comfortable on land, and downright decadent at sea. In midair, its
luxury was unheard of.

As the engines changed pitch and the jet
reached its cruising altitude of 28,000 feet, Zarah was lounging on
the bed. Wearing giant canary diamond solitaire earrings, a gold
lame turban, and yellow chiffon harem pyjamas embroidered with gold
thread. Her Coco Coral lips were pouted thoughtfully; her Black
Onyx mascaraed eyes gleamed. All around her, spread out on the bed
like toys, was her vast collection of jewelled butterfly
brooches.

She loved playing with them, loved knowing
their detailed histories and provenances, loved feeling their
flawless workmanship between her fingers. Loved, even more, having
to decide . . . which should she wear? So difficult having to
choose. So endless the selection. There was the butterfly in
profile with wings of diamonds and rubies and a body of teardrop
pearls. Once the Queen of Rumania's. The spread-eagled butterfly
completely encrusted with yellow and brown diamonds. The deposed
Empress of Iran's. A moth with wings of lapis lazuli and a thorax
of gold. According to legend, Cleopatra's. The malachite and jade
one-winged butterfly, delicately hinged to become a two-winged
locket when opened, with a tiny photograph of Alexandra Fedorovna
in the left wing and Czar Nicholas II in the right. The last
Russian czarina's. The butterfly by Rene Lalique, all delicate
stylised Art Nouveau, fashioned of the palest rainbow enamels inset
with tiny diamonds and even tinier sapphires. The Philippine
dictator's wife's. The night-flying moth, made of matched
mother-of-pearl shells and painted with miniature ladies and
gentlemen from the French court. Poor Marie Antoinette's.

And so many more, dozens upon dozens . . .a
queen's ransom . . .

Colonel Valerio, whom she had summoned
immediately after takeoff, was standing near the door at parade
rest, waiting. Still ignoring him, Zarah reached for the
mother-of-pearl moth. The ill-fated Marie Antoinette's. Holding it
up to the light and moving it about, she murmured, 'Ah, how it
shimmers! The way the patterns on its wings change. Amazing, is it
not, to think that something this beautiful could bring such
exceedingly bad luck . . .?'

Colonel Valerio did not reply, for he knew
none was expected.

'But Monica Williams,' Zarah continued,
'does not need cursed jewels. The young woman makes her own hideous
luck, wouldn't you agree, Colonel?'

Now he automatically snapped to attention.
'Ma'am!' he said, realising an answer was expected.

She tilted her head to one side, regarding
the moth as she moved it this way and that. 'I fear our Ms Williams
is becoming a serious liability, Colonel.' She frowned and put the
moth down. 'I have tried to warn her off, but. . . alas. She would
not listen.'

Colonel Valerio waited.

Zarah raked the collection of winged insects
across the peach spread, causing them to click and scratch like a
horde of live beetles. Then, kneeling, she cupped her hands,
scooped up a pile of the precious bijoux, and raised her arms high,
like a priestess with a libation for the gods. She shut her lovely
eyes.

'If the worst comes to the worst, Monica
Williams must be taken care of,' she said, giving Colonel Valerio a
significant look.

And with that, she tilted her head far back,
opened her fingers, and let the butterflies and moths drop.

Down they rained on her shoulders and
breasts; rubies, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, all giving the
momentary illusion that they had come to life and were in flight.
Zarah moaned in a kind of ecstasy and then they bounced and rolled
and were once more still.

Colonel Valerio said, 'I'll call New York
and contact The Ghost. That way, we won't need to get involved
ourselves.'

Zarah opened her eyes. 'Excellent!' she said
softly.

He smiled. 'Ms Williams is as good as dead,
ma'am.'

'Oh, no, Colonel. Not yet.'

'Ma'am?'

Picking up a butterfly at random, Zarah
perused it thoughtfully. 'Do tell your Ghost not to be too hasty. I
believe our Ms Williams will not last long enough to require such
radical measures. I want The Ghost in place merely . . . merely in
case . . . as a precaution. You do understand . . .?'