Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters; I just manipulate them.
Please review even if it's bad!
I'm trying to get to the action parts, but it is just so slow!
Chapter 5
Last time I turned my attention to my journal, I did so from the room we occupied briefly at the Four Seasons hotel. Today I am sitting in beautiful bedroom decorated in feminine shades of ivory and rose. It is a lovely bedroom, on the second floor of a large and charming château belonging to Rade Vaschenko. We arrived here early this morning.
We left the club, Nespavos, just as dawn was breaking above the slated rooftops of the surrounding buildings. We slipped through a back door into a narrow alley where a red sports car, a Porsche, idled in the alleyway. Clouds of white from the exhaust pipe mixed with pre-dawn fog to partly obscure the black Hummer that hovered behind it like a monstrous spider.
"Miss Reisert." Rade, slanting his dark eyes my way, shook back his thick wavy hair. "You will ride with me."
Katya melted wordlessly away from his side and walked back toward the Hummer, tossing a set of keys into the air. Jackson caught them deftly and draped an arm across my shoulder. I won't say that he actually shoved me toward the Porsche, but it was more than a subtle nudge. I glanced up at him and gave a small shrug worthy of Katya.
"Of course." I climbed in the passenger seat.
Rade's oversized frame seemed too big for the Porsche. His leather-clad arm brushed against mine with every shifted gear. He drove with cool skill, though, hanging a right turn out of the alleyway without bothering with the brakes. He touched a button on the dashboard and sound filled the tiny space.
"You know The Doors?" he asked.
"I am familiar with their music, yes."
"Jim Morrison was under appreciated as a poet. He was… he was true genius." Out on a broad avenue with sparse traffic, he accelerated, winding the tachometer up to the maximum before shifting into a higher gear. "True, he had no business sense. He died very poor, very young. Such a tragedy."
"I think addiction played a big part in that tragedy."
"Bah! Addiction is nothing more than undisciplined genius. Morrison was tragic genius, nothing less."
The ghostly music of The Doors, and the foggy, chilly, streets of Prague created a spectral, eerie atmosphere as we drove west, away from the dawn and back into the darkness.
Soon we left the main thoroughfare and wound down broad avenues lit by streetlights resembling nineteenth century lamplights and dotted by mansion-sized homes, interspersed periodically with what appeared to be large expanses of parkland. This then, would be where the wealthy of Prague retired to in the evenings after the banks and law firms closed (or in Rade's case, after the bars closed.)
Rade slowed as we drew even with a wooded area separated from the street by a high iron fence. Tall double gates slid open before us. The Porsche accelerated through them and down a dark road through the trees, toward a lighted area bordered by more fencing. Rade downshifted through a second set of open gates leading into a circular drive curving toward the grounds of a house of palatial proportions, slowed and came to a stop.
As I climbed out, the Hummer roared to a stop behind us. Jackson disembarked from the driver's seat, followed by Katya and the two chess players from Rade's office. I didn't see Rade's blonde bodyguards anywhere.
Subtle outdoor lighting made it possible to see the house clearly, even though dawn was still a promise and not yet a reality. I saw before me an elegant mansion made of pinkish stone surrounded by formal gardens that I looked forward to seeing by full daylight. A horseshoe shaped staircase led from the drive to the main body of the house where two massive oak doors stood open, spilling golden light out onto the walkway.
Katya strode ahead of us, moving up the staircase with purpose. As she drew nearer, she called out something in what I guessed was Russian. Twin statues flanking the doors came to life. Came to heel, actually.
"Do not attempt to approach the dogs, Miss Reisert, Jackson," she called out. "They are not pets; they are weapons."
She needn't have worried; I am very fond of dogs, but I was happy to leave these two alone. Heavily muscled and tall enough to reach well past Katya's waist, they stood at full attention and made no sound.
In response to a subtle hand gesture by Katya, both dogs suddenly dropped their sentry roles. Tails wagged and snouts snuffled with pure affection as the small Russian girl knelt and wrapped her arms around them. They licked her face, wagged some more, and when she rose to lead them away, they followed her happily.
With a bemused smile, Rade watched them go. "Katya loves the Weimaraners. They are trained to obey my guards, but with no one else but Katya are they playful."
The tall Russian mobster led the way up the stairs and into a huge reception hall that looked like something from a movie set. Walls of stone soared upward, topped by arched ceilings inlaid with medieval battle scene frescos. On one wall, a divided staircase curved elegantly up toward a balcony leading to adjacent wings on both sides.
Rade raised his arms proudly, possessively. "You like it?"
"Very much," I murmured.
"Baroque, and reminiscent of an Italian villa." Jackson strolled across the marble floor and stopped in front of a life-sized marble statue of a Madonna and child. "Seventeenth century, I'm thinking."
"Yes!" Rade seemed pleased. "It is Roman inspired. The architect was a Frenchman who lived for a time in Italy. So I am told. The château was built in the 1600s, but I assure you it has been updated, and you will find all of the modern conveniences you could wish for. I came into possession only recently. The last owner found himself in an embarrassing financial position, and I was in a position to help him."
"Oh, Peter, Aleksei! Here you are." The two blonde men had arrived, toting what appeared to be the luggage Jackson and I had left behind at the hotel. Katya drifted through the door behind them. "The Hapsburg Room, I am thinking for Mr. Rippner, and the Versailles Room for Miss Reisert."
"Lisa," Jackson interjected, sliding his hands in his pocket and sauntering my way. "Please call her Lisa. I'm sure she prefers it. Don't you, Leese?"
He stood so close to me I felt little jolts of alarm. That interlude of intimacy on the dance floor might never have happened. I stared into his insolent blue eyes, determined not to flinch or blink.
Finally, I glanced coolly back at our host, who had been watching us intently. His dark eyes flashed with bold curiosity. "Of course. Please call me Lisa."
"Yes. Lisa it will be, then. We are all friends here. There is no need for formality among friends." He clapped his hands briskly. "Now, the hour grows late. Or early, depending on your perspective. We shall retire for sleep. I regret that I have kept you out so late. I have little need for sleep myself, and I forget sometimes to be considerate of others.
"Peter will show you to your rooms. You will ring when you awaken and a breakfast tray will be brought to you. Or lunch, if you prefer. Jackson, you and I will meet for business this afternoon in the library. Shall we say three o'clock?" Rade lifted a hand toward Katya, who slid silently to his side. He caressed her hip, and dropped his lips briefly to her neck. She made no visible response.
"Miss Reisert – Lisa - you will please feel the freedom to roam the house at will. Katya will be around if you wish a guided tour, or perhaps you wish to go shopping. Tonight we shall meet again, and we shall dine together." With Katya half a step behind him, he led the way up the right-handed fork of the staircase. At the top he stopped, turned and said, "I bid you good night now."
He and Katya disappeared into the eastern wing of the house; Jackson and I followed Peter to the right, down a long hall into the western wing. Jackson's room was four doors down on the left and mine was directly across the hall from his. I closed the door on Peter and looked around at the pink washed walls, the delicate floral bedding and drapery, and the burnished oak floors. An adjoining bathroom offered sparkling marble amenities.
Immeasurably grateful to be alone for the first time in nearly two days, I washed my face, brushed my teeth and put on the sleep pants and shirt I found in the suitcase. I climbed into the four-poster bed and tried to sleep but found myself wide-awake.
I climbed out of bed, raised one of the windows about an inch and breathed deeply of the fresh air before crawling back under the heavy duvet. Eventually, when the birds were at their loudest, I slept.
I woke up in the early afternoon to find the clouds gone and the sun making an optimistic appearance. I showered, and dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved sweater. I was brushing my hair when I heard a knock at my door. I opened it to find Jackson, who breezed in carrying a tray crowded with a pot of tea, sandwiches, and fruit. I welcomed the tray of food wholeheartedly; the bearer less so.
"Sleep well?" He set the tray on top of a little antique writing desk. "You look good, Leese. I never thought I'd be saying this to you, but intrigue agrees with you. Have you considered a career switch?"
I folded my arms. "And what happy little bug flew up your um, shirt this afternoon, Jackson?"
"Just anticipating closure on a successful business deal, Leese." Jackson poured tea into a fragile looking cup, added two cubes of sugar and stirred. "With any luck at all, you'll be flying back to New York early, with a couple of days to spare. You can get some shopping done. Wish me luck. My luck is your luck, you know."
"You have no idea how badly I want that to happen," My voice was quiet. "And how badly I want to believe you when you say that."
For a few long moments, Jackson gazed through the window into the brilliant afternoon sunlight. He sighed, set his teaspoon gently on a porcelain saucer, and then closed the distance between us slowly enough that I could easily have turned away from him. I did not move, even when he lifted his hand to my face; cradled my cheek. "I'll do the best I can to make that happen, Lisa. That's the best I can do. I can't promise anything else."
His thumb traced a path on my cheekbone; his eyes held mine until I could not stand it anymore. I backed away.
"I should eat something now." I tried for a bright tone of voice. Something in the back of my throat hurt, though. I could not swallow, and I fought hard to keep a tear from escaping.
"I meant what I said, you know. You're good at this. You're resilient and adaptable. And very creative. I have the scars to prove it. Think about it, Lisa. I have the connections that could make it happen."
"There's nothing to think about, Jackson." My moment of weakness was over. I had myself well in hand again. "I'm not you. I would never choose to do the things you do."
"That's too bad. But never say never, Leese."
From Jackson's laptop, I emailed my father just now, a chatty note full of lies, and then I answered emails from Cynthia and from Matthew.
Cynthia had a shopping list of work related questions for me. At any other time, I would have addressed these questions with patience and good humor, but under the current circumstances, I found myself wondering if my friend and co-worker would ever develop enough initiative and confidence to solve her own problems.
My current lack of forbearance was not Cynthia's fault, however, and in any case I knew I must at all costs appear normal, so I answered with as light a tone as I could manage. I felt grateful for the freedom from scrutiny that email allowed me.
This was also a helpful tool for responding to Matthew, who dropped me a characteristically short note offering to cook dinner for me when I arrive home on Sunday night. I thought about Matthew for a moment and was surprised to find that I could not picture him – he was a blurred vision of someone sweet and gentle, but when I tried to bring his features into focus, all I could see was the sharp outline of a man with cold eyes and an unyielding temperament. I shivered and wrote to Matthew about how much I looked forward to Sunday.
I turn away from Jackson's computer now. As tempting as it is to journal on the laptop, I know by now that setting my thoughts down this way helps me find peace of mind. I don't know lies in store for me this evening, but finding some measure of serenity now can only help.