Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [62]
“Oh, shit,” Wendy whispered. “I didn’t … Are you going to—”
“No. This is your lucky day.”
He walked out.
Tariq Himsi was contemplating the power of money. And the vagaries of choice. Finding the Emir a companion, even for a fleeting assignation, was a delicate proposition. His tastes were specific; his security paramount. Fortunately, the whores here were plentiful, easy to find on the street, and, as it turned out, quite accustomed to unusual requests, such as being driven to an undisclosed location in a vehicle with blacked-out windows. His earlier surveillance had shown that while morally corrupt, these women were far from stupid: They patrolled their corners in twos and threes, and whenever one of their cohorts got into a car, one of the others would take down the license plate number. A quick trip to one of the local airport’s off-property park-and-ride lots had solved this problem. License plates were easy to install and even easier to dispose of. Almost as easy as disguising his appearance with thick black glasses and a baseball cap.
Tariq had initially considered engaging an escort service, but that brought its own complications—not insurmountable, certainly, but complicated nonetheless. Through their network here he had obtained the name of a service known for zealously protecting its clients’ privacy, so much so that it was used by many celebrities and politicians, including several U.S. senators. The irony of using such a service was tempting, Tariq had to admit.
For now he would satisfy himself with engaging one of the street whores he’d been observing for the last week. Though she generally dressed as did all the others—in obnoxiously revealing outfits—her taste seemed slightly less appalling, her manner slightly less shameless. In the short term, she would do as a receptacle.
He waited until well after the sun had set, then waited down the block, watching for a lull in traffic before pulling out and driving down to where the woman and her two companions stood. He pulled to a halt beside the curb and rolled down the passenger window. One of the women, a redhead with impossibly large breasts, strode toward the window.
“Not you,” Tariq said. “The other one. The tall blonde.”
“Suit yourself, mister. Hey, Trixie, he wants you.”
Trixie sashayed over. “Hey,” she said. “Looking for a date?”
“For a friend.”
“Where is this friend?”
“At his condominium.”
“Don’t do in-home dates.”
“Two thousand dollars,” Tariq replied, and immediately saw Trixie’s eyes change. “Your friends may take down my license plate, if they wish. My friend is … well known. He simply wants some anonymous companionship.”
“Straight sex?”
“Pardon me?”
“I don’t do rough trade. No water sports, nothing like that.”
“Of course.”
“Okay, hang on a sec, hon.” Trixie walked back to her friends, exchanged a few words, then returned to Tariq, who said, “You may ride in the back,” and clicked open the lock.
“Oh, hey, fancy,” Trixie said, and got in.
Please sit down,” the Emir said to her thirty minutes later, as Tariq brought her into the living room and made the introductions. “Would you like some wine?”
“Uh, sure, I guess,” Trixie said. “I like that zinfandel stuff. That’s how you say it, right?”
“Yes.” The Emir signaled to Tariq, who disappeared and returned a minute later with two glasses of wine. Trixie took hers, looked around anxiously, then dug in her purse and came up with a tissue, into which she spit the piece of gum she’d been chewing. She took a gulp of wine. “Pretty good stuff.”
“Yes, it is. Is Trixie your real name?”
“Yeah, actually. What’s yours?”
“Believe it or not, my name is John.”
Trixie barked out a laugh. “If you say so. So, what, you’re Arab or something?”
Standing in the doorway behind Trixie, Tariq’s brows furrowed. The Emir lifted his index finger from the arm of his chair. Tariq nodded and stepped back a few feet.
“I’m from Italy,” the Emir said. “Sicily.”
“Hey, like The Godfather, right?”
“Pardon me?”
“You know, the movie. That’s where the Corleones were from: