Vienna (15 page)

“That's for Vienna to decide.”

Justine turned to her. “I don't want you doing this, okay?”

Vienna thought that was stupid, but people were already looking their way. Not that Justine would care. She would keep arguing until her feet took root and drained the Thames. “Okay.”

Justine's smile was tight-lipped. “Game over.”

The man rubbed his thumbs across his fingertips. “Did you know Andries was in Scotland before he came out to see you? His destination appeared to be Glasgow, but he went to a place named Dumfries, not far from Lockerbie.” He put his hand into a nose-dive. “My source in Glasgow suspects David had a bonnie lass stashed away, but I don't buy it.”

“Why not? He lied about everything else.”

“Because there was no percentage in it, and Andries never did anything unless he had an angle. You've heard rumors connecting him to the murder of a German art dealer?”

“Never proven,” Justine said.

Why would she defend him?

“All the same, I looked for artists in Dumfries. Came across a gent by the name of Julian Dardonelle—clearly not from a local family. I gave him a call.” Small teeth flashed. “He wasn't home. The day after David Andries was shot, Julian washed out of the Schelde.”

Vienna tracked the name down. “The river that flows through Antwerp.”

“The same.” The photographer spread his arms wide. “The police have no reason to connect the two deaths.”

Justine closed her eyes. “Meaning?”

He shook his head. “Five o'clock, American Bar.”

“If we aren't there by five-oh-one, we aren't coming.”

The man nodded. “Till then.” He turned away.

“Wait,” Vienna said. “What's your name?”

The man gave her a puzzled look, as if he hadn't expected to be asked. “Gary Sinoro.”

Another two blocks and they were inside the art deco Savoy; up to a top-floor suite. Leather chairs and two queen-sized beds guarded by a squad of mahogany posts. Vienna looked down at the Thames. Lord Davy would be somewhere in the city. As well as Arthur Grayfield, his smile warm and comforting. Just another lie.

Vienna found nothing better to do than fidget while Justine inspected her wardrobe.
The most expensive dress in the world is thought to be the diamond-laden spider web worn by Samantha Mumba at the premiere of …
Boring.

After series of calls from her BlackBerry, Justine spent thirty minutes in the adjacent room talking with Hargrave. When she returned she went to her closet. “What is it, Vienna?”

“Does there have to be anything?”

“Yes.”

“We have to see Mr. Sinoro.”

Justine sighed. “We are, after all, professionals.”

Vienna felt the sticky irritation that crawled through every conversation with Justine. “What does that mean?”

“All that reading and no Hunter S. Thompson?” Justine gathered her workout clothes.

“I don't know what you're on about.”

“It's impossible to understand Americans unless you read Hunter S. Thompson. He was our inner rage and our finest muse.” She started changing clothes. “I have a Kindle here.…” She dug into one of her bags and handed the e-reader to Vienna. “
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
.”

“Does this mean we'll meet Sinoro?”

“It does.” Which was unfair because Vienna had practiced several arguments and now she didn't need them.

She turned her attention to the e-book and paged through the contents.
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
What a stupid title. She read the introduction and saw that Hunter S. Thompson committed suicide by shooting himself. Which was as American as you could get.

“I have to do my Pilates, be back in ninety minutes. And Vienna? Don't leave the room.”

“Okay.”

Vienna began reading, impatient with how slowly the machine turned pages. It started sort of funny, in that way that never made you really laugh, but then it got mean. And then terrifying. But it couldn't be true, could it? It was just a stupid story. Vienna was using the Sony to search for the definition of “sunshine blotter” when Justine returned. “What did you think of the book?”

Vienna gave the rehearsed answer. “Strange.”

That made Justine laugh. “Not as strange as reality. But I see you have other concerns.”

Vienna closed the laptop. “What do we do now?”

“Preliminary Clay to Flesh session tomorrow at the Eye.” Justine started stripping down as she talked.
She's comfortable being naked in front of me.
So? She was comfortable being naked in front of everyone. Vienna didn't want to think about that.

“Will Mr. Hargrave be there?”

“He's more of a behind-the-scenes operator.”

“Do you think he's involved in replacing the statues?”

“He's making a great deal of money representing me. It's in his best interest that this goes smoothly. And despite his joking, I think he does care for me.”

“You should refuse to do any more.”

“Why so jumpy?” Justine was nude, letting her hair down. Vienna thought the sheen of sweat was pretty, but Americans were fussy about such things.
She would be upset to know what I am thinking.
Best not to look.

Vienna turned away, shifting into uneasy suspicion. Maybe Justine Am didn't care if people saw her naked because Justine Am wasn't real. “Prosopon,” she whispered. A mask.

“Vienna?”

Vienna dragged herself back to Justine's question. “Sinoro mentioned the Order of the Golden Fleece. They include the ruling monarchs of Europe and a good portion of Asia.”

“That's more than mildly alarming.”

Why were Americans so ignorant?
“The Order of the Golden Fleece is an honorary title started in 1430 by Philip the Good.” Vienna saw that Philip captured Joan of Arc and that her fate had been sealed years before with the assassination of John the Fearless by the Dauphin. “Dauphin the dolphin,” Vienna whispered. But dolphins didn't matter because Justine was looking at her, and she didn't look angry or impatient like everyone else did. Vienna felt herself blushing, which was thick as two short planks, so she went on with what she'd been trying to say. “You can look up every living member online. It's a trinket rich people get to add to their names. It's not like they all get together in a secret lair and don black robes and decide how to run the world.”

“Perhaps I've seen too many James Bond movies.”

“A complete tosser. Besides, we were told that Andries's father was associated with the order, not that he was a member himself. There are numerous ancillary organizations.”

“Filled with wealthy individuals?”

“I assume so.”

“Paranoia aside, powerful people rarely get that way by mistake. They see a different world than we do.” Justine walked to the bathroom, talking over her shoulder. “Still, it's worth remembering that Sinoro's idea of a solid source is the nearest gossip blog.” She paused. “Vienna? Why did you turn away?”

“I didn't want you to be embarrassed.”

Justine stopped moving.
What is she thinking, behind the mask?
“I have to shower,” Justine said. Which told Vienna nothing. “Then we'll see what Sinoro has.”

By the time they left the suite, Vienna felt the greasy anxiety of Thompson's book leaching through her.
We are, after all, professionals.

The oversized leather chairs of the American Bar threatened to swallow her. Justine had some trick that kept her afloat. They waited three hours, but the photographer failed to show.

“Typical,” Justine said. “Bedtime. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

 

13

Justine thought Boadicea was an odd name for the London manikin. Hadn't the Warrior Queen burned the place to the ground? Or had that been the Romans? Vienna would know the story, footnotes and all. Better not ask with anything under fifteen minutes to spare.

The statue had a round face and dark bourbon eyes under a Japanese hime cut. Hardly expected coiffure for a barbarian, and the one-off eye color meant contacts for Justine. Early on, some genius from Czasky's publisher thought it would be clever if Justine's eyes matched the manikins'. An obscure meta-statement on reality versus image that would be exploited by intellectuals as an excuse to buy the book. Heaven forbid the real reason ever be mentioned.

Boadicea had been one of the more difficult shoots to arrange. The statue was on loan from Franklin Court, a livestock magnate who kept the manikin in storage near his Mayfair flat. He had little tolerance for fashion or photography but greed was always in style. Czasky flashed enough money to free Boadicea during one of Franklin's many vacations to the Canaries.

Now there's a man with a Spanish lover stashed away.

After the shoot, the manikin would vanish back into storage.

The London Clay to Flesh photographer was George Holt, a young gun Justine had worked with once in Italy. Despite his age, he'd racked up the hottest portfolio in the business. He'd even obtained his own measure of celebrity after a 4chan hacker released dozens of pirated images from his unpublished early work. The Internet's hive mind appended a wistful soundtrack and the pictures went viral.

Tall and on the lean side of athletic, Holt let his brown hair run free range, flopping down over his eyes. His face was so smooth Justine figured he had a doll's chance of growing a beard. His dazzling talent was punctured by almost crippling shyness. He worked like a fire dancer, always at the edge of his subject.

“I would like to have the ascending portion of the Millennium Wheel serve as the background for the initial medium shots, if that is okay, Miss Am. I see the concept of ascension as crucial to the premise.” Holt bit his lip as if he were asking her on a date. The last soul in the business not jaded by beauty. Justine wondered if that's what made him so good.

“It's fine, George.” She liked working with him.

Holt nodded. “Good. We need the manikin in the foreground on a narrow focal plane, maybe even fake a tilt-shift in post, and you medium distance in soft focus. Then we'll progressively reverse the field in keeping with the theme of life from the inanimate. We can start with darker wardrobe to contrast the sky.”

George took few photographs but gave copious notes to his younger sister, Emily, who served as assistant and business manager. Emily's dishwater blond hair was held in a high tail by a twenty-cent band of blue elastic. Razor thin arcs for eyebrows and a dusting of light base on her cheeks. Melanin deficiency had left her eyes pale blue; stunning hand-me-downs from Slavic ancestors charging across windswept tundra. Wasted on a tomboy who didn't know what to do with her angular beauty.

She helped Justine with wardrobe, though they were only testing a few pieces before the next day's full shoot. “So, what's it like beating around the bushes?” she asked.

“More difficult than pole dancing,” Justine answered.

“I can imagine. What's she like?”

“Spookier than moonlight shadows in the woods.”

“Yeah? How did she set her hooks in you?”

“She doesn't believe in any of this.” Justine waved at the clothes. “It reminds me there is more to life.”

“A little young for philosophy, aren't you?”

“Young is a relative term in the biz.”

“Point taken.” Emily paused behind a questioning look.

“Yes?” Justine asked.

“One of us has changed since Milan. You said all the right things back then, which was boring as hell. Now here you are, performing this agonizing, slow-motion implosion, in full sight of the public no less. It's wonderfully cathartic. I like it and I want to meet the girl who caused it.”

“I'll bring her tomorrow. She needs to get out more.”

“Does she really have … you know…” Emily tapped her temple.

“You just say what's on your mind, don't you?”

“George never will, so I have to.”

Justine smiled. “She isn't what I would call normal—whatever that means. You'll have to see for yourself. You have to do me a favor in return.”

“Yes?”

“I want pictures of the manikin from every angle. I need them today.”

“Why?”

“That's not part of the deal.”

“A mystery then? I love mysteries.”

“If you solve Vienna, tell me. She makes me want to scream ten times a minute.”

Holt had the shooting schedule blocked out by mid-afternoon. Justine prepared to leave as Emily was convincing her brother to take pictures of the manikin. Justine turned to her. “Do you know a photographer named Sinoro?”

Emily was silent while she thought it over. “Don't think so. Why?”

“Another mystery,” Justine said. “See you tomorrow.”

Back in the suite, Vienna sat on the bed, wrapped around herself. She insisted they eat at the Savoy. “Mr. Sinoro still might show up.”

Justine gave in, escorting her to the American Bar. “What did you do with the day?”

“I used your laptop. Mr. Sinoro was right about David Andries's father. Jorgan Andries was an architect working out of Oslo. He liked Byzantine design.” Justine caught the familiar delay of derailed thought. “Squinches,” Vienna said. A shift of her eyes and the original discourse resumed. “I think he was a distant relation to the northern branch of the Habsburgs, but no one online is certain. He was a member of the Order of Rahab.”

“Rahab?”

“Her house backed the great wall of Jericho.” Vienna rocked forward. “‘Your terror is fallen upon us, and all the inhabitants of the land faint because of you.'”

Justine gave what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “Never heard of knights called that.”

“One of ninety-three recognized orders of knighthood in Europe. They became allied with the Order of the Golden Fleece in 1728 when…” Vienna's voice trailed off. “Anyway, modern members tend to be wealthy. I couldn't find much about them.”