"Have you made up your mind about him?" the rather average type man asked pleasantly, without the slightest show of jealousy.
Monica Paladin took off her black suede gloves and dropped them on the table of a corner booth in the lagerhaus.
She eyed the man thoughtfully with just the hint of a smile as she seated herself on the chintz upholstered benchseat and took a pack of Turkish Hills from her breast pocket. It was a private lounge and smoking was permitted, if not encouraged.
The man held out his lighter and ignited it deftly. He breathed the smoke she blew at his fashionably whiskered face. "Well?" he said, squeezing her shoulder affectionately.
"I like him," she said. "Now bring me a drink before I have a fit. It was a six hour flight in coach. A can of Coke and a bag of peanuts has never really been my style. Make it a Bloody Mary. And some deep-fried chipotles."
"What do you say?"
"Please, asshole."
"That's better. I will make a lady of you yet, Monica."
The man, whose name was Guido, was a 42-year-old waiter and co-owner of the establishment. It was situated on the historic Paracelsugasse, said to be one of the places Beethoven resided when in Vienna. It was a long soccer kick from the Danube and had a brisk tourist trade.
The tavern interior was dark varnished wood and brass, with crystal teardrop lighting fixtures above the double row of booths; the long mirror behind the bar etched with 18th century worthies, and, in the crook made by a staircase and a counterful of plaster busts, a player-piano that softly tapped out 'Moonlight Sonata.'
A discreet door next to the busts led to the private lounge. At this time of day, an hour before the martini lunch crowd, there was just Guido and Monica.
He set the drink and platter of hot crisp chipotles on the table and sat across from her. "I'll take one," he said, flicking a finger at her Turkish Hills.
She pushed the pack to him and gingerly picked up one of the fried peppers.
"He's rich," she remarked, "not that it matters. And after his concert performance Saturday night he'll be famous."
"What, he plays an instrument?"
"He's a conductor, Guido. He's to conduct the philharmonic. I hear he plays a dozen different instruments but not at concert level. It's his maestro skills that are said to be exceptional. That and his business acumen."
"And you met him where?"
Monica took a long lingering sip of her Bloody Mary, her black forest eyes boring into the candid orbs of her ex-lover.
She ran a tongue over her upper lip and said, "Five months ago in Tel Aviv. He's CEO of Magna. They make munitions for all sorts of guns and artillery of French make. He was there to work out a contract with the Israelis. Very lucrative. He played the piano for Netanyahu, the prime minister, and hit the wrong note twice, he told me. A 'fault,' it's called. But he doesn't think the prime minister was aware of it."
"Ah. And what were you doing in Tel Aviv?"
"Sightseeing."
"Like hell you were."
"Don't be difficult. You want me to be a lady, don't you?"
"At certain times and places, yes," said Guido. A wistful look passed over his angular face, and leaning back he drummed his fingers on a napkin. "I think you're some kind of spy," he mused, "a corporate spy, I'm betting. You were in Tel Aviv to learn about the contract, or something like that."
Monica considered smiling in response, but chose not to. She ate a chipotle in silence, staring at the ceiling. Guido got up and went to the refrigerated shelves for a bottle of Heineken.
"When we were together--" he began.
"We were never together."
"You know what I mean. You were trying to get a third movie role. Your second film, your last one, where you played a business executive who plots the murder of her competitor, well..." He uncapped the beer bottle. "Well, I think you went into the corporate world when you found out that the Hollywood studios had blackballed you. 'Below Zero,' your last film, you got a lot of stunt training, for the scenes where your character burglarizes the homes of rich businessmen."
Monica lit another cigarette and observed him through the smoke. "Are you getting around to something?" she asked with a tentative pleasantness.
"Magna doesn't make just cartridges and artillery shells," Guido said, leaning against the bartender's counter, "they also make explosives for demolition companies and the like. Weren't you with an actor's workshop in New York on 9-11?"
Monica stood, put on her gloves, and with a soundless laugh she went over to Guido and flicked ashes on his hand that held the bottle.
Through a painful smile he said, "Goddamn you."
"You invited me here for lunch, and for an investment opportunity in a home brewery scheme with a big beer maker. Alright. I'm here. And then you make this outrageous insinuation."
"It pays to check out prospective investors, Monica. You've known Phillipe Sorgensen for at least fifteen years. Since your senior year in high school. He was the chief financial officer for Magna back then, and in 2002 he became their CEO. He got controlling interest in an upstart movie studio and renamed it Magnitude Films. In 2008 you landed your first movie role. Bit parts for a couple years, then your big break. 'Into the Storm,' three Oscars and suddenly you're on the A list. Then 'Below Zero.' Magnitude had a star in their pocket. But then a muckraking journalist got HIS big break, and blew your cover. Miss Paladin, the satanist who donated money to the Bloodsport cult in Brazil. So much for your acting career."
"Fuck that, it's old news. What are you trying to say about 9-11?"
Guido opened his mouth to answer her, but the iciness of her eyes had him closing his mouth and weighing the bottle. She took it from him and poured its contents on the floor.
"How much have you drank this morning, Guido?"
He seemed relieved, contrite, forgiving. "The usual amount," he said and leaned over to kiss her, but she took a step back.
There was nothing he could do to save himself. His feet were kicked out from under him, pressure on the back of his neck, his forehead slammed against the brass foot rail.
He lay on his face, unconscious.
Monica went to the lounge door and bolted it. When she returned to the prone body of Guido she felt and found a pulse. She frowned. She picked up the beer bottle, smashed it on the brass rail, and with its sharp jagged edge she cut a deep gash across the swelling bruise on the forehead. For good measure she lifted the head with her gloved hands and, all her strength marshalled, she slammed it against the hardwood floor.
The back exit door was for emergencies only. An alarm would sound if opened. Monica pondered that for a moment, then went down a short narrow corridor to a breaker box on the wall. She shone her cell phone light on the switches.
The one marked 'Sicherheitsalarm' brought a smile to her full lips.
She tripped it to the off position.
Phillipe Sorgensen tapped the golf ball with his rolled umbrella and watched it travel smoothly across the carpet to the overturned wine glass. It missed by an inch.
Dimitri picked it up and rolled it around in his fingers, contemplatively. "Unfortunately I was right about that."
"About what?" asked the elderly Phillipe, leaning on the serpent handgrip of his umbrella, his right hand removing the king-size Havana cigar from his crooked smile.
"About whom," said Dimitri. It was his fiftieth birthday and he was thirty pounds heavier than on his forty-ninth. He unbuttoned his ill-fitting blue serge coat and set the golf ball on his desk. "The masseuse, who bungled her attempt to liquidate Hermann Claus and got herself liquidated instead. Or that's what we must presume. No word from her the past two days, and our contact in the ICS says that Claus is still experiencing that thing we call life."
"I do recall you expressing doubts about the methodology. You know, in my excitement over the conductorship I forgot to tell you that Monica called me today."
Phillipe was walking slowly over to the desk, where the afternoon light from the office window cast a faint shadow of the Millennium Tower over the chair and blotter. "She told me that 'G force' was no longer a factor. You were right about that, too, Dimitri."
"Guido Geitz? What? Dead?"
"In your own words, that's what we must presume," said Phillipe, amused at the look of astonishment on his adviser's bloated face. "Monica Paladin has the soul of a viper," he added, holding up his umbrella cane and admiring its serpentine handgrip.
Outwardly Dimitri composed himself, but his loins and bowels were stirring a mixed cauldron of emotions.
He put a hand on the sleeve of Phillipe's expensive coat and said with grave urgency, "I know you're fond of her, and I can understand that, but, my friend, she is a malignant narcissist. She would not have passed the rigid tests that Claus's organization gives their prospects if she was anything like an empath. She has served you well in the past, not least of all in New York when... still in her teens... and she's so much more capable now, to be sure, but... loyal? Honorable? Phillipe, you musn't think she's capable of the finer sentiments! She feels none of that!"
The elderly man grinned in a deliberately ludicrous manner. "You were not the one in bed with her last night, Dimitri. Oh..." He shook his head in self-deprecation. "Yes, you're right. Since we are in the presumptive mood, I must consider that she might be here in Vienna to kill me. But I am eighty-two years old. Death at the hands of a beautiful woman is more appealing to me than a heart attack. No, hear me out! I have taken precautions. And the first of them was to put three million dollars in a trust fund that will be accessible to Monica in a year's time, provided I am alive and of sound mind. She knows this. So, you see, there is an incentive for her to thwart any attempt on my life. Your Tokyo Rose failed, but my Black Dahlia will not."
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