They both smiled and cried out at the same time.
“Pizza!”
Epilogue
Two nubile young women in thongs and skimpy tops, their bodies glistening with oil, danced to the languorous techno beat throbbing from hidden poolside speakers. Several young men floated on inflatable rafts in the Olympic-size pool, its glass tiles translucent in the late-afternoon sun, creating the illusion that the depths continued to infinity. A bartender stood behind a granite station in a full tuxedo, staring into nothingness, seemingly impervious to the heat.
The men laughed at a ribald joke at the expense of one of the women, both of whom smiled, not understanding the language. They were Czech and communicated in English with the men, although they hadn’t been hired for their conversation skills. Part of a rotating retinue of hospitality provided by the host, they spent a month in Dubai at a time, earning six figures before returning home. The agency that specialized in providing the entertainment could arrange for whatever the guests’ tastes ran to, be it a Parisian model, a Russian dominatrix, Vietnamese twins, or a Venezuelan beauty queen. In a world where there was no limit on cost, anything was possible — for a price.
The swimmers were the scions of wealthy Saudi royalty, their petro-dollars incalculable, and as such they were accustomed to their every whim being instantly met. Weekend gambling trips to Monte Carlo, shopping sprees in London or Milan, heli-skiing in Alaska, African safaris for endangered species — nothing was off-limits, resulting in the ennui only apparent in the super-rich, a perennial boredom in a world where, because cost was no object, nothing had any value. Two of the three men had been in rehab in a private Swiss clinic more times than most rock stars, and the other had criminal charges awaiting the customary acquittal after sufficient money had changed hands. They were on break from their studies in Europe, enjoying their fathers’ offer of diversion with one of the wealthiest men in Dubai.
Sheik Ahmed Suliman was infamous for his sybaritic pursuits; his hedonism was whispered about in royal courts and scandal sheets the world over. An invitation to his forty-thousand-square-foot villa was a rare treat, and the men had been enjoying it for the last few days. They spent their mornings jet-skiing in the Persian Gulf, their afternoons skeet shooting, and their evenings dining on the offerings of a Michelin chef while swigging Château Pétrus like mineral water.
Inside the villa, Suliman lay on a massage table in a specially designed room, its temperature and humidity controllable to within a tenth of a degree, the light adjusted to a warm glow. The room was silent, as he preferred it after spending an hour in his isolation chamber, where he floated weightless as he meditated.
His corpulent form spilled over the edges of the table. A towel with his initials and family crest embroidered on it covered his hirsute lower back and mountainous buttocks. A statuesque blonde in a white silk kimono entered, carrying containers of heated, scented oils, and placed them on a rolling table by his side. He cracked open an eye and grunted.
“My back is at it again,” he said in accented French.
The blonde nodded. “I know just how to fix that.”
His porcine cheeks quivered as he smiled. “You are a miracle, Yvette.”
She smiled warmly, if not entirely sincerely, and he closed his eyes; but not before he eyed the green statue sitting in one of the backlit niches that lined the room’s walls, and snuffled in satisfaction. His latest acquisition, there was only one other like it in the entire world — in Thailand, where it was revered by royalty as a national treasure.
The Emerald Buddha’s countenance regarded him impassively as the Swiss masseuse began her ritual, its timeless eyes beaming as she shed her clothes and reached for the oil, the bruises on her thighs and abdomen a small price to pay for the riches her benefactor regularly bestowed upon her.