Across the aisle from them, Henrik drained first one cup and then the other. His chin dropped against his neck as he stifled a belch.
A wonderful time. Well, yes, at first it was. But it struck Khan that there was something not quite right. The time was wonderful but not perfect. It wasn’t that he was worrying about bank business. The bank was always in and on his mind, even on these trips north. Scotland was not a refuge. There were computers and modems and faxes and telephones in his house. A call might come on his portable phone during lunch or dinner, or to his bedside telephone in the middle of the night. New York might call to warn of an incoming fax, for his eyes only. Seoul might need information. Karachi, Lahore, Patna, Bombay, Bangkok, George Town, Shanghai... not everyone appreciated what the local hour was when they called. If it was the middle or the beginning or the end of their banking day, then it was Khan’s banking day, too.
But no, it was nothing to do with business. Business was not a problem. Was the problem Shari or Sherri? Ah, yes, maybe. Maybe that was it. She did love what he did to her in bed... and elsewhere in and out of the house. Her American accent grated, but only a little. She was not overtalkative, which was a relief to him. And she looked good all the time. She made herself presentable. What then?
Well... There came a time when, sated, he liked his women to open themselves up a little to him, to tell him about their lives. Normally, he was uninterested in pasts, but there was something about the aftermath of the sexual act. He liked to listen to their stories then, and file them away. So that he could assure himself he had been fucking someone’s history, a real flesh-and-blood human, and not just a beautiful dummy.
And it was here that Shari or Sherri had disappointed him. She had disappointed him by being at first vague, and then by making obvious mistakes. For instance, she told him about a childhood incident when a boy neighbor had lifted up her skirt and slipped his hot little hand inside her pants. She told the story twice, and the first time the boy’s hand had gone down the front of her pants, the second time the back. Khan hadn’t commented, but it had made him wonder. He made her work harder, recalling more and more of her past for him. He got her to go over the same story twice, once at breakfast and once over dinner, checking for mistakes in the retelling. There were one or two, not significant in themselves.
He remembered how he met her. In a club. She’d been with a friend, a male friend, an admirer perhaps. She’d caught Khan’s eye several times, and he’d held her glances, until eye contact between them became more prolonged and meaningful. He was a sucker for this kind of conquest, the kind where he almost literally tore a woman from another man’s arms. By the end of the evening, she was at his table and the other suitor had vanished. It had been easy, and she’d been ravishing, and he’d felt the sweet, warm glow of success.
He knew she worked as a model. Well, he knew she said she worked as a model. He’d once picked her up outside a prestigious model agency off Oxford Street, but then, when his car had arrived, she’d already been waiting on the sidewalk, hadn’t she? How was he to know that she’d ever actually been inside the building? What really did he know about her? Precious little, it suddenly seemed to him. He’d liked that in the past, had preferred it. Keeping things casual, no hint of a more meaningful, a more lasting, relationship. But now... Suddenly he wanted to know more about her. What was her last name? Kazowski? Kaprinski? Something East European. She told him she’d changed it to Capri for modeling purposes. Shari Capri or Sherri Capri. Stupid name. Stupid names.
And another thing, wasn’t she overfriendly towards Henrik? With her “Thank you, Henrik” whenever she stepped into or out of the car. Her smiles to him. The way she lightly touched his arm if she wanted to ask him something. Checking that she was in the bath, Khan strode quickly to his study, unlocked the door (he was never so foolish, so trusting, as to leave it unlocked, but then, locks were easy to pick, weren’t they?), and made for his desk. He glanced at it, looking for signs that things had been moved, pages turned over. Nothing. He checked his computer for a certain phone number, then picked up the telephone and dialed London. An 081 number, Outer London. There was a young firm used by the bank sometimes. They were dynamic, and they got results. Nobody wanted to know how they got results, but they got them. There was no one in the office, but as he’d expected, a recording gave him another phone number where he could reach one of the partners. He entered this number onto his computer for future reference, then dialed it. The call was answered almost immediately.
“Hello, is that Mr. Allison? It’s Khan here. I’m calling from Scotland. There’s a job I’d like done. Private, not on the bank’s account. I want you to check on a Miss Sherri S-h-e-r-r-i or Shari S-h-a-r-i Capri C-a-p-r-i. I’ll give you her home address and where she says she works. I want anything on her you can find. Oh, and Mr. Allison, she’s up here with me, so there should be no problems. I mean, you won’t bump into her should you happen to... well, you know what I mean. Her home address? Yes, of course...”
Afterwards, he felt a little relieved. Allison was extremely capable, ex-CID. And his partner Crichton had a pedigree which took in both the Parachute Regiment and the Special Air Service. Yes, a trouble shared was a trouble halved. Khan felt better. So much so that he was able to put his troubles out of his mind for a quarter of an hour, time spent in the bathroom with a wet and so very slippery Shari or Sherri Capri...
On their last evening, they dined in. There was a local chef who, on days off, could occasionally be persuaded to cook for Khan and his guests.
Usually, Khan reserved this treat for larger dinner parties. But on Sunday morning, news came through of a spectacular deal which had been concluded by the Southeast Asia personnel during their whistlestop tour of the British Isles. A great deal of money would be traveling from the UK to the bank’s Southeast Asia office, and it would travel via the London office where a certain amount, as always, would be held back in the name of handling fees. A sum slightly in excess of one million sterling.
It was a job well done, and Khan, who had played no part in it, felt a little of its success rub off on him. A quick call to the chef, Gordon Sinclair, had secured his services, and when all was said and done, it was practically as cheap as eating out, since this way Khan would drink champagne, wine, and spirits from his own well-stocked cellar. And at the end of the evening, it was always pleasant to share a malt with Gordon and talk about food and the appreciation of food. Gordon knew that Khan had contacts in London, that he had eaten in all the top restaurants and was on first-name terms with many of the restaurateurs and chefs — not merely in London but, it seemed, all over. And Khan knew that Gordon had itchy feet, that the only thing tying him to Scotland was his Scottishness. He would have to flee soon if he were really to start — the term came to Khan with a smile — “cooking”: a quality London restaurant, where he could make a name for himself, and then his own restaurant under his own name. That was the route to success.
They would talk about these things and more. Perhaps Shari would be listening, or perhaps she would have retired for the night, to be joined by Khan later.
Yes, it was Shari, not Sherri. Shari Capri. Allison had phoned with this information, and with a few other snippets. But as he pointed out, weekends weren’t the best time to track down information, especially not from places of employment. Come Monday, he could work on the model agency, but not before. It was half in Khan’s mind to ask if he’d considered breaking and entering, but such a question would have been in considerable bad taste, besides which, if his phone was bugged, he could be accused of incitement to commit a criminal act. That would never do. So he had to accept what scant information Allison had gleaned and wait until Monday. By Monday he would be back in London, he would have said good-bye to Shari, with promises of phone calls and meetings for dinner — promises he seldom kept as a rule. But it might be that he’d have to keep tabs on her for a little while longer, just until he knew the truth.