Lord of the Swallows Read online

  Malko climbed in as well, but Zhanna didn’t start the engine. She gave him a meaningful look and quietly said:

  “I very much enjoyed meeting you.”

  “The pleasure was mutual.”

  Smiling enigmatically, she suddenly brought her face close to his.

  Only a boor would be so rude as to not at least give the young woman a good-night kiss, a quick peck without any romantic implications. Their lips touched chastely for an instant, but then the young Russian started kissing Malko in earnest, her little tongue probing for his. At the same time she grasped the nape of his neck, as if to keep him from pulling back, and the kiss became deeper. It was a real movie kiss, like the one Grace Kelly shared with her lover in Dial M for Murder.

  This burst of apparently sincere passion aroused Malko’s libido. Alexandra’s going to be angry anyway, he thought, so she may as well have a reason for it.

  But when he put his hand on Zhanna’s thigh, she pulled away, breathless.

  “I find you enormously attractive,” she said, her eyes shining.

  The kiss seemed the logical extension of their flirtatious glances over dinner.

  The Bentley’s engine purred to life and Zhanna switched on the headlights. She drove out onto Princess Grace Avenue. There was still a lot of traffic, and they moved at a snail’s pace.

  Without looking at Malko, she abruptly said:

  “I’d like to see you again.”

  This was an unexpected development. Malko glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Zhanna’s public persona was proper and self-effacing; she was no sex kitten. Still waters run deep, he thought.

  Malko hadn’t moved when she spoke again, quietly.

  “Don’t get too close to me. I think we’re being followed.”

  Malko’s pulse speeded up.

  “By who?”

  “My husband is very jealous.”

  —

  Leonid Androsov drove the rental Mercedes carefully and cautiously. A veteran of Russia’s elite Alpha counterterrorism unit, he could do just about anything, from garroting a man to dismantling a diesel engine. Androsov had been parked at a bus stop outside the Sporting d’Été, and started following the Bentley when it emerged. His inconspicuous black Mercedes was no different from the dozens of others driving around Monaco, and the Bentley’s Swiss license plate was easy to make out in the darkness.

  Seated next to Androsov, Grigory Lissenko was chewing on an unlit cigarillo and taking notes for their daily report. Their team watched the Khrenkovs in eight-hour shifts, like in a factory. This required twelve men, because the couple didn’t always travel together.

  Twenty minutes later, the Hôtel de Paris finally came into view.

  The Bentley pulled into the hotel’s valet parking area, which was full of luxury vehicles. Crowds of modestly dressed sightseers slipped in among them to take one another’s pictures, happily posing next to Rolls-Royces and Ferraris, under the vaguely contemptuous gaze of the hotel security people.

  A gorgeous brunette in a bright red ultra-short skirt slowly made her way across the restricted parking lot and headed for the casino. For her, the hour of the hunt had arrived. But competition among the call girls was fierce. The Moldovans, for example, were facing a wave of aggressive women from the Baltic, who were even taller and more beautiful.

  The Bentley stopped in front of the hotel, and a valet parker rushed over to open the door.

  Zhanna turned to Malko with an ambiguous smile. They hadn’t made a move toward each other since their passionate kiss in the parking lot.

  “What’s your room number?” she asked.

  “It’s 406, but—”

  “You’re not alone, I know. Neither am I. And as I said, my husband keeps an eye on me. But I want to see you again.”

  “That seems pretty difficult,” said Malko, who wasn’t too motivated. The somewhat ordinary blonde didn’t especially turn him on.

  “We’ll manage!” she said. “Give me your cell number.”

  After a brief hesitation, Malko gave her his number, and she keyed it into her iPhone.

  “I’ll see you soon!” she said.

  They got out together and climbed the steps to the hotel. Zhanna hadn’t given him her room number, he noted.

  That was cautious of her.

  The center of the lobby was occupied by a huge table bearing a ten-foot-high flower arrangement. As they walked around it, Malko was still unsure why this seemingly well-behaved woman had come on to him. And something else intrigued him: despite the passion of her kiss, he had the feeling Zhanna was playing a role.

  But what role, and why?

  —

  Lissenko stepped out of the Mercedes, which then reversed out of the hotel lot and went to park down the avenue. He smoothly climbed the hotel steps. A martial artist and former wrestler, he was all muscle. He could easily kill a man with his bare hands, and had often done so.

  He had developed a specialty in Chechnya, where he was given captured boiviki guerillas to execute. He would lock his muscular thighs around the man’s chest, seize his head in his huge hands, and violently twist it. Cervical vertebrae shattered, the prisoner died without a sound.

  Inside the hotel, Lissenko spotted the tall Austrian he was tailing. The man was standing to the left of the monumental staircase leading up to the boutiques, waiting for one of the elevators. Lissenko strolled over to the elevator, and when the cabin arrived, he quickly stepped in. His “target” had already pushed the button for the fourth floor, so he pushed number three and waited, studying the tips of his loafers.

  He was completely calm.

  Lissenko no longer felt any emotion when on a mission, and this one was especially easy. He probably had forty pounds on his neighbor in the elevator, and could strangle him with one hand.

  Without looking at the other man, Lissenko stepped out of the elevator at the third floor onto an elegantly appointed landing with an authentic Louis XV desk. Moving quickly, he made for the stairwell and climbed a flight, stopping with his head level with the fourth floor. Hearing the elevator stop, he watched through the crack under the stairwell door as the man turned left and passed by without seeing him. Lissenko climbed the remaining steps, slipped silently through the doorway, and followed him down the narrow hallway leading to the Rotonde wing of the hotel. On the plush blue carpet, the Russian moved without a sound.

  Chapter 2

  Reaching Room 406, Malko slid his key card in the lock and opened the door. At a glance, he could tell the suite was empty, and his pulse ticked up a notch. Where was Alexandra?

  Her cell phone and purse lay on the bed, so she had stopped by the room and must be somewhere in the hotel, but where—and with whom?

  Malko left the room and headed back down the twisting hallway, his footsteps muffled by the blue carpet. Just before he reached the elevator landing, he noticed a husky man walking ahead of him.

  Even from the back, Malko recognized the stranger who’d gotten off the elevator on the third floor. What was he doing here?

  When they reached the landing, the man got into the elevator without turning around, leaving Malko to wonder about him.

  One thing was clear: the man had been following him but had been surprised when he came back out of the room. Who could he be?

  Malko immediately thought back to the car that had followed Zhanna’s Bentley when they came out of the Sporting d’Été. Bodyguards on her jealous husband’s payroll, she’d said.

  Malko promised himself to steer clear of her. She wasn’t attractive enough to be worth risking trouble. And right now, he had to find Alexandra. If she wasn’t with a man in one of the Hôtel de Paris’s hundreds of rooms, she could only be at the bar.

  Alain Ducasse’s restaurant Le Louis XV was closed, and it wouldn’t be like Alexandra to waste her time in the shopping gallery. Malko quickly scanned the lobby, whose vast marble floor made it feel almost like a cathedral. A dozen gorgeous Eastern European women sat along a table
on the left, on the lookout for clients entering the hotel alone.

  Their eyes lit up when Malko passed, but he ignored them and stepped into the Bar Américain, where a band was playing an insipid jazz tune. There weren’t many customers, but Malko’s heart skipped a beat when he spotted Alexandra’s cobalt blue dress in the back of the room.

  His fiancée was sitting with the Ponickaus and Zhanna’s husband around a bottle of Taittinger champagne in a crystal ice bucket.

  There was no sign of Zhanna.

  Alexandra greeted Malko with an ironic sally.

  “So, did you win?”

  “I didn’t gamble,” he said. “Isn’t Zhanna with you? We came back together a few minutes ago.”

  “She must have gone to bed,” said Khrenkov. “Did she come out ahead, at least? I’m surprised she wanted to gamble. She hates casinos.”

  Though he didn’t let it show, Malko was surprised. The outgoing Russian blonde had fooled him. The only reason for her sudden urge to play her favorite number was to be alone with him. Zhanna’s newfound passion was assuming unexpected proportions.

  Khrenkov finished his glass of champagne and stood up.

  “Good night, everyone,” he said. “I’m going to bed. I’m sure Zhanna is already asleep.”

  Alexandra crossed her legs with deliberate slowness, looked Helmut Ponickau in the eye, and said:

  “I’d like to go dancing someplace less depressing than the Sporting.”

  “We could go to Jimmy’z,” the baron suggested.

  Malko, who had a terrific urge to get Alexandra into bed, promptly scotched the nascent plan.

  “It’s barely one in the morning,” he said. “Nobody shows up there before two.”

  Alexandra recrossed her long legs, briefly flashing white satin panties.

  “Too bad,” she said.

  Seeing Malko’s look of annoyance, Ponickau declared a truce.

  “We’ll go some other time!” he said. “I’m feeling a bit tired, too. Let’s just finish the champagne.”

  He took the bottle and poured the rest of the Taittinger into their glasses.

  They all wound up in front of the elevators together, but they separated on the fourth floor: the Ponickaus were staying in another wing of the hotel. Walking to Room 406, Alexandra tripped on the carpet. When Malko caught her and put his arm around her waist, she whirled on him, hissing like an angry cat.

  “Didn’t you enjoy the blow job?”

  Malko kept his cool.

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” he said. “The woman doesn’t do a thing for me. You’re the one I want.”

  She shrugged and pulled free.

  “Her husband looks like an undertaker, so I understand why she might want some distraction. You think I didn’t see what she was up to, during the whole dinner? She couldn’t take her eyes off you. If she could have gotten to you under the table, she would’ve done it.”

  “Well, Helmut couldn’t take his eyes off you, either,” he retorted.

  “Helmut has always liked me,” she said with a nasty smile. “I thought you knew. In fact, if he weren’t with his fat cow of a wife, I think he would’ve asked me up to his room.”

  “And you would have gone?”

  “I like being desired. And he has a lot of charm.”

  “Have you two been lovers?”

  Malko was putting the key card in the door lock.

  “Curiosity is an ugly fault,” she said, stubbornly turning away from him.

  Standing slightly akimbo, Alexandra gave Malko a challenging look, and he felt his desire for her catch fire. The moment they were inside, he shoved her against the wall and slipped his hand through the slit in her skirt to her upper thigh.

  “I can’t tell if Helmut wanted to make love to you tonight,” he said, “but I’m going to be the one to do it.”

  Alexandra didn’t stir, even when he started to rub her through the satin panties.

  “She couldn’t have given you much of a blow job,” she said coolly. “I’m not surprised. She looks more like a businesswoman than a slut.”

  He shoved the panties aside and forced his way into Alexandra’s most intimate parts, going as deep as he could.

  “You’re hurting me,” she said coldly. “People usually handle me more gently.”

  She was openly defying him.

  He angrily grabbed the panties and yanked them down her slim, tapered thighs.

  “I don’t feel like making love,” she said.

  “Neither do I,” he snapped. “I just want you to suck me off, the way you do so well.”

  Her defiant attitude was inflaming his libido, already aroused by the brief interlude with Zhanna Khrenkov. Feeling his cock swell, Malko rubbed gently against Alexandra, who continued to pretend not to notice. When he pulled himself out of his trousers, she lowered her eyes, feigning indifference.

  “Do you really want to?”

  Without answering, he seized her neck and pulled her head toward him. When she resisted, he pushed down on her shoulders, forcing her to kneel.

  The hard part was done.

  In surrender, Alexandra took the stiffening cock in her mouth. Her natural sensuality aroused, she began to give Malko what he’d demanded.

  Eyes closed, he leaned back against the wall. Alexandra’s unfair accusation had sparked a fantasy: he now imagined that it was Zhanna, with her lively little tongue, who was sucking his prick. He twisted Alexandra’s long blond hair into a knot, and used it to push even deeper into his unresisting fiancée’s mouth.

  He came with a groan of pleasure.

  She was still the best.

  But when he opened his eyes, he found Alexandra looking at him strangely.

  “If I said you were the second man to come in my mouth this evening, would you believe me?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she snatched up her panties and went to the bathroom, locking the door.

  Malko felt as if he’d been stabbed in the heart. Alexandra was quite capable of doing what she claimed, just to get back at him. He could remember some of the outlandish places where the two of them had made love in the past. The Hôtel de Paris had enough nooks and crannies to shelter a quickie.

  Malko started to take off his tuxedo, promising himself to never see the Russian blonde again.

  —

  The Khrenkovs were eating breakfast in the sitting room of their suite.

  “It would be nice to invite our friends to Ducasse’s place before we leave,” Zhanna suggested, breaking the silence.

  “Sure,” agreed her husband distractedly as he read the emails on his iPhone.

  “I’ll invite the Linges, too,” she said casually.

  At that, Khrenkov quit reading and shot her a look of annoyance.

  “Do you really want to? Those aren’t people we should be seeing, and you know it.”

  Zhanna was unmoved.

  “There’s no risk,” she said firmly.

  Khrenkov gave her a long, searching look.

  “I’m not an idiot, Zhanna. I know you find him attractive. You should be more careful.”

  She didn’t bother answering, merely stood up and said:

  “I’m going down to the spa. I’ll drop off the invitations at the front desk.”

  The moment she left, Khrenkov traded his iPhone for a small, very heavy cell phone. This was the secure, bug-proof telephone he used to communicate with his security detail. When he had its chief on the line, he gave him his instructions. Vladimir Krazovsky’s team wasn’t directly under his command, but they took orders from him. They also filed reports on all his requests.

  Feeling reassured, Khrenkov turned his attention back to the Tokyo stock market. Zhanna is being reckless, he thought. Surprising, for such a strong woman. Or else she wants revenge.

  —

  When Khrenkov phoned, Krazovsky was in the Méridien dining room, eating a hearty, Russian-style breakfast with one of his men, Gleb Yurchenko.

  Except for the night shift,
who were resting, the other team members were at nearby tables. More Russian was spoken in the restaurant than French or English these days. The Méridien Beach Hotel was also the Eastern call girls’ base of operations. The women had noticed the Russian security team but asked no questions. They saw them as neutral, neither threats nor customers. They figured the men probably worked for a Monaco security service for visiting oligarchs. Back in Russia, having bodyguards was a status symbol, even if you didn’t need them.

  The team leader hung up and relayed Khrenkov’s orders to Yurchenko.

  “We’re leaving in ten minutes,” he said. “We’ll go to the casino parking garage.” This was an underground lot across from the Sporting d’Hiver and the Hôtel de Paris. The security guards didn’t get to use valet parking unless the job required it.

  Krazovsky then went looking for Grigory Lissenko, to find out what he had learned about the target the previous evening.

  —

  The mood around the lunch table was falsely cordial.

  The phony Italian princess and her husband had left for Rome. The Khrenkovs’ American friends were dazzled by Le Louis XV’s sumptuous décor. Across the way stood the Monte Carlo Casino, designed by Charles Garnier. Crowds of sightseers on the Place du Casino gazed up at the rich people on the wide restaurant terrace, hoping to spot celebrities.

  Helmut Ponickau was keeping the conversation going, helped by Zhanna and one of her American girlfriends.

  Sitting as stiff as a statue of the commander, Alexandra was icy. She stared at the horizon, as if hoping a dragon would swoop down and swallow Zhanna in one bite. For her part, Zhanna glanced often at Malko but more discreetly than the previous evening. She was wearing a very sexy outfit: an almost transparent top and linen pants so tight they seemed painted on.

  Fortunately, they had reached dessert, a delicious raspberry soufflé, cooked by Ducasse himself, that had the Americans drooling.

  Over coffee, they started exchanging business cards to stay in touch. Malko and Ponickau didn’t need each other’s cards, of course, but Malko handed cards with his Liezen Castle address to the two American couples.