"You look surprised. Mr. Henry."
"I am. The scum that usually hires me this way are generally short, fat, beady-eyed, and can barely speak French or English through their slobbery lips."
"Sorry to disappoint you."
"Believe me, I am not disappointed. Got anything around here to drink"
"Wine?" Carlotta asked, already knowing the answer. "Wine? Hell. lady, mat's for washing down a steak or saying beads!"
"There's a bottle of American whiskey, there, and glasses. Pour me one. too,"
He smiled and roiled toward the table with something akin to a sailor's gait. As he poured the whiskey, Carlotta lit a cigarette and went over what she saw, and what she knew about Jason Henry.
His clothes were far from Parisian chic: khaki pants and shirt with the sleeves rolled to the midpoint of bulging biceps. His shoes were canvas half boots, and he wore no socks. He was a good six and a half feet tall and would never see two hundred and fifty pounds again no matter what diet he used.
Under his roaring manner Carlotta sensed the guile and wit of a true intelligence, and a sensitivity beyond the personality he showed the world. He could have been a New York cop, a New Jersey longshoreman, a Boston politician, or an IRA radical in Cork — anything but an American expatriate on the European continent.
He had served twelve years with the U.S. Army and attained the rank of major in Vietnam. When that war ended, Henry had gone to work for the CIA.
Because of bureaucracy — and the agency not using his many talents — Jason Henry had gotten bored. He resigned. but because of the many contacts he had made, he was able to get work as a mercenary.
Between those jobs, he filled in his time — and his bank account — with a flying service. He was known to have some scruples, but most of them could be stretched with the right amount of money.
Before he had been chosen and contacted by Carlotta, he had been thoroughly checked out on his latest escapades by the Americans and her own SID. Much of what he had been up to had been shady or downright illegal, but mat only made him more ideal for the assignment.
Henry handed her a glass and raised his own in a salute. "To the devil and beautiful women!"
Carlotta smiled and raised her glass. "To them being one and the same, Mr. Henry."
"A lady after my own heart!" He drank and smacked his lips. "If we're going to do some hell-raising and head-busting together, why don't you start calling me Jason?
"Fair enough. My name is Carlotta."
"Carlotta what?"
"Carlotta none-of-your-business. Now why don't we sit down and talk?"
His grin, if possible, widened, and the twinkle in his eyes got brighter. "Carlotta, I think I'm gonna like you."
He took a chair, she the opposite sofa, with a coffee table between them. She spread papers and maps out on the table, and looked up. "There will be certain preparations to make before the actual mission starts."
"And the mission?"
"It's in two parts. The first will be to help two men escape from Castel Montferrato, in Italy."
Henry whistled. "Sounds like fun."
"Now, suppose we get down to it."
She spoke rapidly in quick, staccato sentences, but it still took her over an hour to explain the entire operation with all its ramifications.
When she was finished, Henry got up and poured himself another glass of whiskey. When he returned to his chair, he brought the bottle with him.
"Well?"
"Lady, uh, Carlotta… you know what you're asking for?"
"I do. I've just spelled most of it out."
"You want three untraceable cars to use for carry, lead, and chase. You want three other low-life gunnies that can be trusted, you want to refit a helicopter, and you want the use of my own plane to fly to hell-knows-where."
"That's exactly what I want."
"Like I say, you want a bundle!"
Carlotta placed a pad before him, lifted a pen, and wrote a figure. "I'm paying a bundle, plus expenses."
Henry looked at the figure and roared with a laugh that practically rocked the room's walls. "Carlotta, I'm your man."
She flipped a picture across the table. "Can you fly this?"
"An H-34? Hell, yes. I flew those banana boats before I knew how to fly props."
She turned a map around. "This machine is currently here, in a bam about thirty kilometers from the Italian frontier. It needs to be repainted and resignatured. There is also a hoisting device that has been removed but must be reinstalled with a pickup hook."
He nodded. "Probably the same kind we used in Nam. I know it. When does all this have to be ready?"
"In forty-eight hours."
"Jesus."
"Can it be done?"
Jason Henry glanced again at the pad containing the figures and grinned. "It can be done."
Émile Dobruck stepped from the car and crossed the narrow walk to the Club Paris. Without a verbal order, the driver stayed in the car while the two other passengers, Dobruck's new bodyguards, entered the club with him.
At the door, he was greeted with much bowing and scraping, and was escorted to the best table in the house. This was always the case when he was in Brussels and decided on a night out at the Club Paris.
Émile Dobruck owned the club and most of the real estate surrounding it.
His manager, Montchard, saw his boss enter and, knowing Dobruck's taste, immediately signaled the new girl that he had just hired two days before to wait on him.
"Sophie, that is Monsieur Dobruck."
"Yes."
"See that he gets anything he wants… anything."
"Yes."
Dobruck caught sight of her before she was halfway across the room headed for his table, and smiled.
Her generous hips moved like a metronome. Above the waist she wore nothing but a thin — a very thin — silk blouse. It was unbuttoned very low and knotted beneath her ample breasts. She wore no bra, so there was a great deal of creamy flesh exposed almost to the nipples. The nipples themselves, while not exposed, were still visible, twin pink points of firmness pressed against the tight thinness of the blouse.
Below the waist, she wore a pair of hip pants, cut very low in front and back. They were of black elastic mesh.
"I am here to serve you. Monsieur Dobruck."
Her voice was like silk, and the animal heal from her near naked body seemed to flow outward and scorch him.
"You're new."
"I started just yesterday."
"You're not from Brussels."
"No, I am Spanish." she lied.
"And your name?"
"Sophie."
He nodded. "The bartender knows what I drink."
Dobruck watched her move away. She was young and she was beautiful, and because he was who he was, she would be available.
When she returned with his drink, she brushed the mesh covering her hip against his shoulder, again searing his flesh through his jacket.
He fumbled with his wallet.
"There is no charge. Monsieur Dobruck."
"I know," he replied, folding a large note and slipping it into her cleavage. Perhaps later you will join me for the show."
"I don't know…"
"I'll arrange it."
She returned just as the house lights dimmed. In the interim, she had removed the revealing costume and replaced it with a tight sweater and skirt. The street clothes somehow made her look even sexier, and much younger.
Montchard knew exactly what ferrule Dobruck liked.
By the end of the show, the girl, Sophie, had made him putty in her hands.
"My house is only ten minutes away," he croaked hoarsely.
"My hotel is only two minutes… a short walk."
"But we can be more comfortable…"
"No, I'll feel safer in my own room," she replied.
Dobruck was about to get angry. He was about to let her know who he was and what power he had, when he felt her hands on his thighs beneath the table.