Read Last Call For Caviar Online
Authors: Melissa Roen
Last Call For Caviar (9 page)
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I was slipping on my high-heeled gold sandals when Giovanni’s driver rang the doorbell five minutes early. I just had time to glide the strapless turquoise silk over my breasts and thighs, slick a transparent rose gloss across my lips, shake my tangle of curls one last time and grab my purse, before he rang again.
I felt naked. And it wasn’t just because of the wisp of a silk dress that rode up on my thighs. This party tonight was high-security. Hence, I carried an evening bag and was unarmed. Even if I was clever enough to circumvent the metal detectors that guests were obliged to pass through to enter, my ensemble left little to the imagination.
Too bad high fashion hadn’t yet decreed that a well-dressed woman might accessorize for a gala soiree with a diamante-encrusted evening holster slung jauntily around her hips. But give it time: I predicted within a year it would become “de riguer.”
The order had come down from Giovanni to pull out the stops. I hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed. Still, I felt a tingle of anticipation about the soiree. It had been months since I’d dressed up and gone out, or met anyone new. I hadn’t had sex in so long, I couldn’t, as they used to say in my grandmother’s day, remember who got tied up first.
The driver pulled the Mercedes up in front of the Casino and within milliseconds of coming to a stop, Andre the head valet, tall and distinguished in his cap and cape, was there to hold the door open.
I saw Giovanni, hair slicked back and wearing a dark Lanvin suit, waiting as promised, just before the entrance to Buddha Bar.
“Cara, you look divine.” Joe picked me up and twirled me around a couple of times, and I realized, as the world finally stopped spinning, that I would need to toss back a few to catch up. Joe had started the party without me.
I hadn’t seen Giovanni since our lunch at the end of May, and he seemed thinner, somehow harder. Sacha’s death had marked him.
We joined the line of guest at the metal detectors at the foot of the marble stairs, which seemed like a formality, since quite a few of the woman were clad only in ostrich egg-sized jewels and sheer whispers of fabric that barely covered their lean thighs and high breasts.
Lights sparkled in the trees of the garden before the massive, two-story high, carved wooden and iron-studded doors that led into the restaurant and nightclub. Night-blooming jasmine and wisteria climbed the trellised walls of the courtyard, their perfume mingled with the spice of incense wafting from amber globes that swung gently from the low-hanging boughs of magnolia trees. Sprays of orchids and palm fronds adorned the red brocade-clothed tables scattered along the terrace, while lithe, dark-haired waitresses, garbed as temple dancers, proffered flutes of champagne to the four hundred invited guests.
Giovanni handed me a glass of champagne for the sake of form. He knew my preference, and as soon as we could make our way through the crush to the bar, he would swap it out for an ice-cold vodka martini. I thought, for the hundredth time, “Why couldn’t I have fallen for a guy like him?” Having had to take care of myself for so long, it was a pleasure to sit back tonight and let someone else drive the train.
Thirty minutes later, I was starting to get buzzed from the two vodka martinis I downed in rapid succession when Joe said, “Come. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
He led me towards a group holding court in a secluded corner of the courtyard. I could immediately sense the group’s dynamics; just as flowers turn their faces towards the warmth of the sun, there was only one person in this setting who was authorized to shine. The rest were just acolytes mirroring her reflection.
Lounging against the pillows like Nubian royalty—a gold, one-shouldered sheath shimmered like molten liquid against her café au lait skin, ropes of jet-black hair coiled high above kohl-rimmed golden eyes, contrasted with full red lips, a gem-studded gold collar enclosing the length of her swan’s neck—sat a modern-day Amazon who could easily have played point guard for any team in the NBA.
“I want you to meet Anjuli del Solaire. Maybe you’ve already heard of her and the humanitarian work she is doing with her Sun Angel Centers?” Giovanni said, in courtier mode.
With languid grace, Anjuli del Solaire brought the palms of her hands together and bowed her regal head, “Namaste. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Maya. Please sit down here next to me, so we can talk.”
Her voice was as melodious as temple bells; the sincerity and spirituality that shone from her eyes was mesmerizing.
“Are you familiar with the work we are doing worldwide through our network of Sun Angel Centers?”
“No, Anjuli, but I’m very interested in learning about them.”
“We practice the ancient discipline of Vipassana meditation to unite the planet in expanded consciousness and raise the world’s vibratory levels. Our goal is to balance the unbalanced vortexes and heal the diseased energies of our wounded planet. We now have over a million disciples around the world, at various chapter houses, meditating round the clock to heal our world and save all of humanity.”
I must have murmured the right encouragement, or maybe Anjuli could see I was spellbound, my third eye opening to the pearls of enlightenment she was bestowing on me.
“Have you met Graciella? She’s one of our newest and most gracious patrons. With her most generous gift, we’ve just opened our Mother House here in Monaco. If you are interested, we can make a date for tea to show you our meditation temple and holistic healing facilities.”
Of course I knew Graciella. Neither the five-carat pigeons-blood ruby that hung from a gold filigreed chain dead center in her forehead, the bangles of sapphires and emeralds that jangled along her arms, or even the expensive multi-hued sari could disguise the lank hair, jutting chest bones, or the nervousness pinwheeling in her slightly protruding, dishwater-brown eyes.
I also knew her chief yes-maiden, Madeleine Jones, who claimed her family had arrived in America on the Mayflower. Madeleine considered herself Monaco’s reigning socialite and always attached herself to random celebrities, the filthy rich or any fresh blood just off the bus. I’d heard whispers that she’d actually arrived in Monaco on the lam from Christine Keeler’s call girl ring that had brought the British government to its knees during the Profumo scandal in 1963.
I wondered where Madeleine was keeping her coffin these days, because in the years I’d known her, she hadn’t aged a day. She still looked like a well-preserved fifty, if somewhat waxy, but then again, fifteen years ago she’d also looked like a well-preserved fifty.
“Hey, Graciella, its good to see you. Love the ruby. And Madeleine, you haven’t aged a day; you really need to bottle that potion.”
We all air-kissed like old chums, keeping the requisite three inches between lips and cheeks. I was raised right and knew how to play nice.
As an only child and heiress to a mega shipping fortune, Graciella was a Seeker. She traveled the world, from ashrams in India, where she sat at the feet of the latest Baba Cool, to master classes with shamans in remote African tribes. Treks on elephant back to zen retreats in the jungle-clad hills of Chiang Mai alternated with holistic spa treatments at Chiva Som or sleep—rejuvenating clinics and light plastic surgery at La Prairie.
With the hundreds and hundreds of millions her daddy had left her, Graciella financed temples and ashrams in her family name worldwide. She kept spa resorts in the black even during the off-season. There were yogis driving new Silver Shadows thanks to her, shamans with freshly thatched huts and all the whiskey, goofer dust and juju bones money could buy. Sacred elephants gorging on bananas. There was even a seaweed wrap named after her.
“Anjuli is an angel, truly a gift from God to mankind,” Graciella said, her eyes shining. “You really must join us. You’ll find it so rewarding.”
I could see Graciella had been guzzling the Kool-Aid, and it would be a rough detox to pry her tongue from the bottom of that bottle.
“Wow, I’d really like that. I would love to speak with Anjuli in a more, how should I say?—umm…. discreet setting. I’ve got lots of questions about your work, and I’m fascinated how you came to this amazing calling that will save mankind.”
I saw my enthusiasm pleased her. She preened a little at my praise and graciously bestowed another blessing of Namaste my way. Then, I leaned closer so only Anjuli del Solaire could hear and whispered, “Lucy Brown.”
Her eyes widened in recognition and then they narrowed to yellow slits. Suddenly, a sharp wind rustled through the trees, throwing shadows that danced across her face. The black coils atop her slender neck seemed to flare into a hood, and like a cobra, she swayed hypnotically before my eyes. Time really did seem to stand still, and I understood what prey must feel like, caught in that baleful glare in the long, last seconds before the killing strike.
Then, the vision shifted, and once again the halo was back in place; the benevolence shone forth, and her voice was like a silken caress.
“It would be my pleasure to meet with you… as you say… more discreetly. Here’s my private number.” Anjuli handed me her card and continued. “I’m counting on you to call me. Let’s plan on doing this very, very soon. I have this feeling you and I are going to become most intimate friends. Somehow, Maya Jade, I feel like I’ve known you forever.”
She clasped my hand between hers as we said goodbye. Her face was wreathed in grace, and I alone could feel her long red nails digging into my palm as she gazed one last time deeply into my eyes.
There are certain places in the world where people radically reinvent themselves, and both Monte Carlo and Vegas are on that list—places where status is taken at face value; respect and acceptance are more readily granted, if you have the money to back up your claim.
All you needed to do is show up in a chauffeur-driven Bentley with a clean dish towel on your head, and the con is on. Check into the most expensive suite, reserve a private baccarat table, spread around some serious dosh, and you, too, could be a Saudi prince straight out of the Arabian Nights.
Standing at the bar, I raised my martini in silent tribute and thought, “Lucy Brown, hats off to you! Damn, girl, that’s pretty slick.”
It must have been at least fifteen years, and her nose hadn’t been quite so perfect, her eyes such a hypnotic gold, or the cheekbones so high, but the six-two physique was a little hard to hide. I could still see traces of the girl she had been in spite of all the misdirection and theatrical disguise.
The daughter of a Brazilian father and American mom, Lucia Montero Brown had been a minor sensation inside the paint, in U.S women’s college basketball for two seasons in the mid-nineties, until a knee injury had ended her championship dreams. But her statuesque good looks and family connections down south made her a sensation on the South American party circuit from Rio to Havana, with frequent stopovers in Miami.
Maybe if she’d been born ten years later and hadn’t had the bad knee, she could have played pro ball in the WNBA, and her life would have taken another turn. Lucy liked the attention that her striking appearance guaranteed, and the whirl of parties set her on another path, crowded with rich lovers, and strewn with temptations that she couldn’t resist.
I first met her in Miami when she was just starting out on the party circuit; then, many years later in Ibiza, when the years of late nights samba-ing on the dance floor had taken their toll. By then, she was a bag lady for the South American drug cartels, thanks to her American passport and former minor celebrity in the States. With the freedom and protection a U.S. passport bestowed on its bearer to travel the world, she could open bank accounts, transfer money, and make payoffs anywhere.
The money-running gig obviously paid her well over the years, but she had to have someone with deep pockets backing her to mount this kind of sting. I wondered how the transformation to Anjuli del Solaire had come about. I was certain, however, that there really weren’t a million souls scattered about the planet in lotus positions attempting to raise the world’s consciousness.
I was looking forward to our tete a tete and seeing how Lucy would spin this. But I remembered the seconds when the cobra had spread its hood. I really shouldn’t accept any tea from her hand until I knew where we stood—or I could figure out a way to run a tox screen first.
I drained my martini and set the glass down on the bar. The party was heating up. This evening was turning out much more interesting than I had expected, and the night was still young. I went to look for Giovanni in the crowd.
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Giovanni was talking to two men—security, by the looks of them—by the massive doors that opened into Buddha Bar. When he saw me, he broke away, took my arm and led me into the garden to a table partially screened by a stand of bamboo. One look at his face told me something was going on.
“What is it?”
“Cap Negre fell. The gangs of insurgents are looting all the villas along the cape, and the Gendarmerie and barracks of Le Lavandou are in flames. The front line of the Security Zone has been pulled back to fifteen kilometers west of Saint Tropez.”
“That’s less than sixty kilometers from Cannes. Do you think the military will try to take Le Lavandou back?”
“I think the town is lost. No one has any stomach for urban warfare. It’d cost too many lives, fighting house to house, and for what? Better to leave what’s left standing to the insurgents and their sympathizers from Le Lavandou. Luckily, they were able to evacuate most everyone who wanted to leave. Word is that all the off-duty Gendarmes who were sleeping in the barracks were killed. The fire spread too fast; accelerants were used!”
“What about all the farmlands in the Var? Surely that’s got to be a priority. The Security Command has to hold onto that sector.”
“Obviously we can’t lose our food source. They’ll draw the line in the sand there. But what really worries me are the reports that the insurgents were using some pretty sophisticated and expensive Russian weapons for the assault: PK machine guns with night sight vision, AK-47 assault rifles with under-barrel grenade launchers and trucks mounted with Katyusha multiple rocket launchers.”
Giovanni continued, “Supposedly, that’s how they took out the barracks—a truck with a Katyusha rocket launcher on the back.”
“Merde! That’s some heavy artillery! Hmm… Russian-made weapons? Well, that’s a pretty obvious calling card. I guess we won’t need to scratch our heads, wondering who benefits most from fear of the hordes right at the door.”
We both said at the same time, “Slava.”
“This plays right into his hands, strengthening his argument with the Prince that the security of the Principality should be entrusted to him.” Giovanni stated.
“Do you really think he’s made a deal with the faction from Marseille?” I wondered.
“Slava certainly has the connections to make an alliance. In his younger days, he was a gangster, involved with gun-running, prostitution and drugs. Now, Slava craves status and the finer things. What could be better than his own kingdom, or rather, a 24- carat gold Principality for his base of operations?”
“Who is in charge in Marseille, and what’s their end game?
Giovanni went on to explain. “There’s just not enough credible intel yet, but it appears there’s no one charismatic leader that all the gangs are rallying behind. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s like the Balkans in the ’90s, with each warlord or criminal gang running their own show. Lately, it’s gained a popular character, given the hunger and desperation of the populace—people who were formerly hard-working and law-abiding. What little money, security and property they had, has been lost in the financial fuck-up created by the greed of the banks and financial markets, the political and business elites.”
“Well, they’ve got every reason to be angry, frightened and feeling betrayed.” I concurred.
Giovanni continued his analysis. “There’s a limited quantity of resources, food, fuel, shelter to go around. The Security Zone of the Cote d’Azur has all those resources still in abundance for the privileged few. For the hardened criminals and sociopaths? It’s greed, anarchy and looting, but for the majority? It’s simple, Maya; they want to survive, too. And there’s a lot more of them than there are of us!”
I thought for a minute about Giovanni’s analysis of the rebels from the southwest, and then I asked the obvious question.
“But if we could connect the dots so easily—and trace the arms used in the attack on the barracks at Le Lavandou back to Slava, don’t you think the French military or the Prince could, too?”
“I think arming the insurgents out of Marseille is just a little message directed at the Prince that Slava can throw his might behind any side he chooses. He’s showing the Prince that he can’t depend on the French for the Principality’s security. If he can make a deal with the Prince, he’ll call off his war dogs.”
“That’s a dangerous play. What if the insurgents slip their collar and he can’t control them any longer?”
“That’s a very likely possibility. Everything is getting crazier and crazier by the day.”
I could see him trying to shake off the worry that weighed him down as he changed the subject, “Anyway, tell me how you got on with Anjuli.”
I filled him in on our meeting and all that I knew about her from before.
“Joe, the one thing that stumped me is the question of who’s backing her. She has the drug cartel connections—Slava has some pretty shady alliances of his own. Just thinking out loud, could Slava be her money man?”
“That’s a definite possibility. But how would she fit into all this?”
“There are lots of ways a woman like her can be useful: as his eyes and ears, for instance. She seems to be only targeting women for now, but Lucy Brown is damn sexy. For influential men in government or Slava’s rivals for power, she’d make one sweet honey trap.
“People searching for answers always place their trust wholeheartedly. Joe, don’t you remember Guyana and the Reverend Jim Jones? Donating a fortune to the Sun Cult is a classic example; it’s the first things a convert does for her spiritual security.”
The pieces seemed to be falling into place and (our theory of) Slava’s far-reaching strategy was becoming clearer.
“Lenin said, “Religion is the opiate of the masses.” How better, Joe, to keep dissent at a minimum than to drug everyone with the same Kool-Aid and the same church services?”
“I still don’t like the idea of you getting involved in this, Maya. Since Anjuli knows that you know her real identity,” Giovanni thought for a minute, “you’ll have to meet with her. It can’t be avoided. You have to convince her you aren’t a threat in any way.”
He paused, “Damn! I don’t like this, Maya. I shouldn’t have brought you tonight. I keep thinking of Sacha and what happened to him because he knew too much.”
“Joe, it would have happened anyway, tonight or another time. Monaco is too small; Lucy and I would have crossed paths. Maybe it’s better this way—that I recognized her first! Now I won’t be taken off-guard. She can’t know I suspect her of being in bed with Slava. At this point, she’ll be more concerned with me blowing her identity. She’ll first try and buy me off, and I’ll let her think that’s what I want.”
I continued, “Lucy, like most people who are running a con, have only contempt for their marks; they think no one can see through their smoke and mirrors. She’s so sure she’s the cleverer one; it’s her Achilles’ heel! Lucy is caught up in being the star and everyone fawning over her, all I have to do is stroke her ego a bit and I should be fine.”
“Ok, let me think about it. I don’t want you meeting with her until I can get some people in place. Promise me that.”
“Absolutely; you’re the boss. I want to walk out of there in one piece.” I smiled at him to ease his concern. “The fact that she doesn’t know if I’ve told anyone else will give me some protection. She can’t poison the whole town. If anything happened to me, it would draw the wrong kind of attention. Slava and Anjuli aren’t in power yet; the Prince could have them thrown out of Monaco if they go too far. They still have to walk softly for a time. She’ll try and keep me sweet.”
“Va bene, there’s nothing we can do about it tonight. I think they’re calling everyone to dinner now. Shall we go in and try to have a good time?” Giovanni offered me his arm.
As Giovanni escorted me towards the crush of partygoers jockeying for tables, I couldn’t help thinking about the surreal contrast between this opulent party and the brutal guerrilla war being fought on our doorstep. A fortune was being thrown away tonight on this lavish spread—money wasted and jewels displayed—while down the road, Kalashnikovs and rocket launchers lit up the sky. At midnight, there would be a fireworks display to celebrate Midsummer’s Eve, the shortest night of the year.
It felt like we were sitting on top of a powder keg. Tick tock. Tick tock.