Last Hope, Book One: Onslaught (3 page)

“It’s the only way,” Budd answered. He looked around the reception, taking in the detail of his surroundings. The large room, about 270 feet wide and 180 feet deep, had marble floor tiles and cream-painted walls. The white ceiling, which was decorated with sparkling chandeliers and swirling patterns of plaster, was thirty feet above the floor. A horseshoe-shaped reception desk was positioned to the right of the doors from the glass entrance foyer, which a map on the desk had told him was called the Tropical Walkway.

Budd had also discovered that, despite its size, the marbled-floored reception did not take up the entire ground level of the building. Behind a wall of doors marked “Employees Only” were offices that occupied the rest of the New Millennium Hotel’s 330-foot square base.

In the corners of the reception area were clusters of wide, low-backed leather sofas and stylish coffee tables, which were occupied by guests waiting to check in or out. All around, there were countless mauve-suited employees rushing to and fro.

A bell chimed as an elevator reached the reception level, and Budd turned back to the bank of machines. Of the twelve, the four nearest the entrance from the Tropical Walkway were roped off and manned by several employees. A group of well-dressed guests were gathered around them. More and more people were coming from the Tropical Walkway to join them.

In front of Budd, a set of the brass doors had opened and a mauve-suited attendant was waiting patiently inside. He eyed the strap of Budd’s rucksack. “Can I take you to your room, sir? May I ask its number?”

“805,” Budd said as he stepped into the interior of the elevator. He pointed to his left. “But where’re all the fancy pants headed?”

“They would be non-hotel guests with reservations at the Skyview Restaurant, sir. It serves London’s finest food.”

“Forget my room. Take me there.”

The elevator attendant’s finger hesitated over the button. “May I ask if you have a reservation for dinner, sir? It’s just that, after 9:00pm, the restaurant opens to the general public. It’s always fully booked. As it’s just after 9:00pm now, you may have trouble getting seated. Of course, there are other restaurants in the hotel.”

“But that’s the best grub?”

“Without question.”

Budd eyed the name embroidered on the attendant’s jacket. “Then that’s the place for me, Stephen Doring.”

“Very well, sir,” the attendant said. He pressed the top button on the panel and the doors slid closed with a chime of the bell.

The elevator started to ascend.

“Does it make that ringing noise every time?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. This is your first visit, yes? I’ll explain a few things about the lifts. You can only reach the restaurant and the reception from this group, the West Bank, which serve the entire height of the hotel. The East Bank serves from the first to the eighty-fourth floors only.”

Above the doors a display showed the number of the floor they were passing. When they reached twenty-four, less than a third of the way to the restaurant, the elevator stopped and the doors opened.

Three people stood waiting on the outside, a man and two women.

The two women were wearing knee-high suede boots and very-revealing black dresses. They had the same blonde hair, a color that Budd guessed had come from the same dye, and the same shape of puffy lips and full bosom, which he thought was probably the work of the same plastic surgeon.

They could’ve been sisters…

The man appeared equally as false. His short hair was spiked upwards with gel and, despite the fact that he was indoors and that in any case the sun had long since set, he wore a pair of curved sunglasses. The top two buttons of his white shirt were undone, showing the heavy golden links of a thick chain, and his black pants and leather shoes looked too immaculate to be anything other than brand new.

Budd took an immediate dislike to the man, and he stepped backwards, away from the three, as they entered the lift.

“Good evening, ladies, sir. Which floor can I take you to?” Stephen Doring asked, his own opinion of the group concealed behind his workmanlike smile. When none of the three bothered to answer his question, he simply let the elevator continue up towards the restaurant.

“Baby, come back to our room,” one of the blonde women said softly. Now that the doors were closed, the air was clogged with the sickly smell of mingling perfumes. Budd edged further away until his back pressed against the rear of the elevator.

“You know I want to, but my girlfriend’s waiting in the Skyview. I’ll come and see you tomorrow morning.”

That’s it. I think you’re getting to know me! What did I think of this guy? Go on, have a guess. Yep, you’re right. I thought he was a jerk…

“Why do you want her, anyway? Two are much more fun than one,” the second woman whispered, although not quietly enough so as to be discreet. Her voice was almost a giggle, and as she spoke she turned her slim body, trying to shield the young man from view. Even so, after a flash of red-painted fingernails showed at her tiny waist, Budd was sure that she had slipped her hand into the front of his pants. She leaned in close and breathed into his ear.

The man’s resolve cracked. “Stop the lift. Now,” he said, his voice quivering.

The attendant did as he was asked and the elevator doors opened.

The three hurried out, stifling their excited laughter and the man pressed the outside call button, drumming it with his finger.

Budd noticed that the attendant was slower than usual to get the elevator moving again. His eyes were fixed on the two female forms barely concealed within their dresses.

Eventually, the bell chimed and the doors closed automatically.

“That was interesting,” Budd said.

Stephen Doring turned to him, his job momentarily forgotten. “Imagine having one woman like that, let alone two.”

Budd smiled. “In my experience, women who spend that much time on their appearance always look like being a lot more fun than they really are.”

The elevator carried on up.

“Sir, I am afraid that no headwear is permitted inside our restaurant. And neither is your bag. This establishment has strict rules. You will have to release them to me, and I will have them placed in the cloakroom.”

Budd handed over the blue rucksack but hesitated with his Stetson. “You’ll be careful with her, yeah, pal? You’ll make sure she won’t get stolen, right?”

“Sir, I offer you my word that no one will steal this, this hat of yours.”

“Fine, then. Now, how long before I get some grub?”

“What name is your reservation under, sir?” the maître d’ asked. He opened a large black notepad of bookings and picked up a black fountain pen from his wooden podium.

“Er, I don’t exactly have one. I’m a guest.”

Very slowly, the headwaiter closed the leather notepad and put down the pen. He straightened his waistcoat and brushed a fleck of dust from his trouser leg. “I’m sorry, sir. Guests are free to eat here at the Skyview Restaurant any time before 9:00pm, but after that a reservation is needed. I am afraid, sir, that the clock reads ten minutes past the hour.”

“What’s ten minutes? My watch says it’s 9:00pm. The customer’s always right, you’ve heard that, ain’t you, buddy?”

“Not when they are wrong, sir. My reservations have started to take their seats. I do not have room for
ad-hoc
hotel guests at this time of night. This is a highly-regarded restaurant, certainly the top one in London, and debatably in all of Europe. You will have to eat elsewhere in the hotel tonight.”

“Just Europe, hey? How ’bout the States?”

“Sir,” the maître d’ replied with a sigh. “That can be taken for granted.”

“Oh, come on, pal. I’ve played the game and let you take my stuff. You can squeeze me in, right?”

“I’m not sure you understand, sir. This restaurant is fully booked and I cannot simply ‘squeeze’ you in.”

“All right, all right,” Budd said as he reached into his pocket. “I’m an American, so I know how the world works. How much to take a seat?”

The maître d’ eyed the roll of cash that Budd brought out of his pants. “You are not the first American to have resorted to this, sir. But I cannot accept money for a table I do not have.”

“C’mon, take it.”

“No, sir.”

“C’mon,” Budd said, thrusting the notes towards the breast pocket of the maître d’.

The hotel worker took a step backwards. “Sir, please put your money away. Perhaps, if you care to wait at the Skyview bar, I could inform you if we receive notice of any late cancellations. Would that be acceptable to you, sir?”

“That’d be great.”

“Come with me then, sir,” the maître d’ instructed.

Budd pocketed his cash and followed the maître d’ towards the double wooden doors of the Skyview Restaurant. Two mauve-suited attendants pulled them open, offering polite bows as they approached.

Barely inside the vast dining room, Budd paused to absorb the impressive sight. From left to right, the restaurant was over 300 feet wide and 150 feet deep, the floor filled with more than two hundred tables, each one set for between two and ten places. Almost every seat was occupied. The entrance was in one corner of the restaurant and from there Budd looked across the sea of white tablecloths. Waiters swarmed with brisk efficiency. They wore the same uniform of white shirts and black waistcoats, pants or skirts, bow ties and shoes as the maître d’, and had the same, immaculately clean, close-fitted white gloves.

Moving his eyes to the guests, Budd saw that the majority of the men were donned in smart suits and tuxedos, while the women wore evening dresses and gowns. He momentarily felt uncomfortable in his brown pants and blue sweatshirt.

What did I care if I didn’t fit in?

I was on a kind of vacation, and, after all, lots of posh women, especially British ones, long for a bit of action in the rough. At least, that’s what I’m told, and they certainly do in the movies. And being some rich lady’s guilty pleasure has always been a position I’ve felt capable of fulfilling…

The wall that ran parallel with the entrance had many other doors, each one complete with a small porthole window at eye level, from which the waiters rushed in and out. He guessed that the partition concealed the kitchen. The other three sides of the dining room, along with the domed ceiling, were made of glass and offered unobstructed views of the London skyline, a dark horizon cluttered with innumerable electric lights.

“Sir, please follow me,” the maître d’ instructed again.

Budd did as he was asked and was led straight to the opposite corner of the room, where a long wooden counter arced around from the glass walls and was surrounded by a section of floor raised from the restaurant. Inside were a few dozen people, who were sitting in leather sofa chairs and talking quietly over their drinks.

The maître d’ stopped as he reached the rising steps to the bar area. He smiled politely. “Should a reservation be cancelled, sir, I will come and let you know. Good evening.”

“Thanks a bunch,” Budd muttered, turning away and heading over to the counter. “Double Scotch, please. Forget the ice.”

“Certainly, sir,” the barman answered.

Having tasted his drink and paid for it via his room’s tab, Budd took a seat on one of the sofas. Around the edge of the raised area was a wooden railing that had glass panels between its uprights. Budd looked around the restaurant, focusing on the different guests, soaking up the atmosphere and passing the time as he sipped his Scotch.

Most of the people were as dull as drying paint; rich, slightly fat, bald men with their chubby, well-dressed wives—the Skyline was too expensive and public to take a mistress—or they were bankers and city workers who were trying too hard to entertain clients. Did I say they were bankers? I guess that pretty much sums ’em all up nicely…

On one of the two-seater tables closest to the bar, right next to the exterior glass wall, sat a woman who appeared to be in her early twenties. Her dark hair was shoulder-length and curved inwards at the bottom, almost touching the delicate straps of the red dress she wore. Her skin was sun-kissed with an even tan. She was alone, although in the center of her table there was a bottle of champagne in an ornate bucket of ice. Candles with wax-lined stems burned on either side of it. Her eyes looked along the Thames River to the west, watching the dark waters flowing far below.

Budd glanced at his watch. It was shortly after 9:30pm.

By 10:00pm, he realized that he was no closer to being seated. Most of the people who had been sat around the bar had been taken into the restaurant, while many others timed their entrance through the main doors perfectly and arrived the moment the waiters finished preparing their table. Either way, none of the seats were empty for long.

Budd was on his third Scotch, and the woman in the red dress was still alone, her bottle of champagne unopened. The menu lay untouched on the table.