The Assassin's Salvation (Mandrake Company) (12 page)

A burly man wearing a vest that showed off tree-trunk arms and a neck as thick as Striker’s waited beside the door. He glared balefully at Sergei as they approached. Sergei’s return stare was blank and gave an air of disinterest.

“We have an appointment,” Jamie announced before the men could do anything besides stare at each other. “Is this the right door? For Fletcher Fergusson?”

“
Lord
Fletcher Fergusson,” the bouncer said.

“Oh? His public encyclopedia entry didn’t mention that he’d been promoted to finance lord.”

“It will happen soon. He prefers people call him lord, regardless, since he owns half of the city.”

“I prefer people call me dashing and handsome,” Sergei said, “but we don’t always get what we want.”

The bouncer glared harder at him.

“Could you let his secretary know we’re here?” Jamie rushed to say, not wanting the men to have a reason to test each other physically. Maybe
after
the appointment, they could play fisticuffs.

The bouncer already looked like he wanted to pummel Sergei. For his part, Sergei simply stood there with his hands behind his back, his expression bored. He didn’t bother to hide the bulge of his laser pistol beneath his jacket, nor the numerous knives he had slipped into sheaths around his body earlier that morning. At the time, Jamie had watched with bemusement as he put them on. Now, she was glad he was well armed and that he looked intimidating, every bit the dangerous man he was, even if he wasn’t as meaty as the door guard.

“He already knows,” the bouncer said. “You can go in.” He let Jamie walk in without hesitation, but held out a hand in front of Sergei.

Jamie tensed, afraid he would say that her bodyguard wasn’t invited.

“You’ll be asked to remove your weapons inside,” the bouncer said.

“I get asked to do a lot of things,” Sergei said. “Sometimes they happen, and sometimes they don’t.”

The bouncer snorted, but let him pass.

They walked past numerous potted palm trees, the air humid and rich with the earthy scents of growing things, as well as whatever chemicals were used in the spas. A male receptionist stood behind a small podium. Jamie recognized him as the man who had answered the call and made her appointment. She checked the time and was relieved that they had made it with a few minutes to spare.

“Ms. Flipkens,” the man said, his baritone pleasant. “And bodyguard.” He touched a button on the podium. “Your presence has been noted. You may take a seat.” He extended his hand toward a velvet bench.

“You gave him your real name?” Sergei didn’t sit down. He stood beside Jamie, his eyes toward the foyer.

“I thought about making up something, but was afraid they might ask for identification before letting us in.”

“You don’t have any fake IDs?”

“I… No.” She looked up at him, trying to decide if he was teasing her. “Should I?”

“I suppose it depends on whether or not you’ll be concocting more schemes that involve going out with me again.” He smiled. Good, he wasn’t truly worried about the fact that she had used her name. Or if he was, he wasn’t letting it bother him.

“Let’s see how this one goes first.”

“Sounds reasonable.” He was still smiling. He wasn’t enjoying himself, was he?

Jamie might have enjoyed the research and cooking up the idea, but now that they were going in to see a powerful man, one who could have them killed with a wave of his hand, there was sweat slicking her palms, and she couldn’t sit still on the bench. She kept fidgeting, crossing and uncrossing her legs. She had been utterly useless in that meeting with Felgard. She hoped things didn’t devolve into a shootout here. Before coming, she had pulled her hair out of the braids, afraid they might make her appear too young to be taken seriously. Now it hung it loose about her shoulders, where it would doubtlessly get in her face if she had to run or fight.

Sergei watched her crossing her legs. He had to know how nervous she was. Did he lament the inexperience of his partner for the night? Jamie forced herself to plant her sandals flat on the marble tile floor. She had borrowed black slacks and a white blouse from Lauren, whose monochromatic wardrobe tended to be dressier than Jamie’s, and she was modeling Ankari’s footwear—the grease-stained boots she usually wore would have been out of place here. Or so she assumed. She hadn’t seen any other women yet.

Another man in a business suit walked out. Several of his buttons were undone, his hair was damp, and he carried a towel bag.

“Next,” the secretary said and pointed at Jamie. Unlike the bouncer outside, he was utterly ignoring Sergei.

That didn’t keep Sergei from sticking to her shoulder.

“You didn’t bring suits and towels?” the man asked.

Suits? Swimming suits?

“Were we supposed to?” Jamie asked, panicking slightly. This hadn’t been part of the script.

“You, at least. And your man, too, if he expects to go in with you. Lord Fergusson takes his evening appointments in the spa. Everybody knows this.” He gave her a frank look.

“Er, yes, I hadn’t realized it was so late…” Jamie looked at Sergei, wondering if she should admit to being from out of town. Sergei was giving his suspicious squint to the secretary. It failed to faze the man, who sighed theatrically and said, “I will arrange for appropriate spa wear.”

“Can’t we wait until he’s done… bathing?”

“When he’s done, he goes home. Do you wish to speak with him or not?”

“Yes, please.” Jamie grimaced at how meek she sounded. This was exactly what she had been confessing to Sergei. A lack of thorns. How would she ever grow thorns? She didn’t even send back wrong orders at restaurants.

The secretary tapped another button, then pointed to a silver door behind him. “Through there. The attendants will see to your needs.”

Jamie walked in that direction, murmuring to Sergei as she went. “Did you know about the towels and suits?”

“No. Assassins don’t frequent spas.”

“No need for massages after a tense job?”

“I don’t like to be touched by strangers.”

The door opened before Jamie could touch the handle. Steam flowed out, along with the scent of some floral perfume or incense that had far too many aromas mixed together.

“Shoes off,” a short, gray-haired woman demanded with the authority of a drill sergeant. She pointed to a robot waiting with a tray.

“Guess I didn’t need to worry about borrowing sandals,” Jamie murmured.

“You—” the woman stabbed a finger at Sergei, “—remove your weapons. Shoes. Put them there.”

Sergei removed his boots, but didn’t reach for his weapons. Jamie deposited the sandals on the tray.

“Weapons off,” the woman repeated, “or you’re staying in this room.” She pointed at Jamie. “Girls, that door. Go. Boys, there, but there are lasers guarding the door. Weapons detected? Your balls get fried.” She cackled.

Jamie questioned the woman’s sanity. She looked at Sergei, wondering if he wanted to go through with this or not. She might have set up this meeting, but it was his mission. He might yet decide that sneaking into Fergusson’s home would be easier—or less humiliating—than dealing with this.

“Come,” the woman said. “Remove your weapons, or I’ll remove them for you.” She grasped the air, as if her hands were pincers. “And I’ll stop to feel
all
of your weapons.” When she grinned—or was that a leer?—and looked at his crotch, she displayed a few missing teeth.

The promise of lasers hadn’t moved Sergei, but he stepped back at this new threat and reached for his weapons belt. Trusting he would survive the event, Jamie walked toward the “girls” door.

“You’re here to service the lord?” the woman asked her. “Clean yourself and use the powders by the door.”

Jamie froze. “
Service
the lord? I’m not here to service anyone.” Horrified, she reviewed the call in her mind. The secretary hadn’t said anything about sex or servicing, but had she missed some important innuendo? He had seemed professional—he hadn’t even glanced at the chest she had been thrusting outward—but maybe that was how it worked at these luxury facilities. Maybe these special evening appointments were just for… servicing. But those two other businessmen who had walked out, they hadn’t serviced anyone, surely.

The woman clucked dismissively and waved toward the door.

“Wait to come out until you see me,” Sergei said, his eyes narrowed to slits.

Jamie hesitated, but nodded. It wasn’t as if there were legions of guards standing out in the foyer. They ought to be able to escape if this grew too weird. So she hoped.

She entered the communal changing room, which was even muggier and steamier than the previous rooms. Doors opened to saunas and pools of bubbling water with nude women relaxing in them. Female servants and robots waited here and there, holding trays with clothes or towels on them. Jamie watched for signs of sexual activities, but so far, it looked like a normal locker room, if a much higher-end one than she had ever frequented.

A servant hurried out of a side door and extended a tray toward her with a skimpy two-piece swimming suit on it. “For you, ma’am.”

Jamie picked up the bottom half of the garment. It was more string than swimming suit. “I’ll take a robe too.”

“Pardon, ma’am?”

“So I can do an unveiling.” Yeah, right.

“Ah, yes, very sexy. I understand, ma’am.” The woman didn’t leave until Jamie removed both pieces of the bikini, but then she hustled back through the door from whence she had come.

“Very sexy, that’s me,” Jamie muttered.

A nude woman walked past, her hips swaying.
She
might qualify as very sexy. Jamie had never swayed, not intentionally.

Reluctantly, Jamie removed her clothing and tied on the two-piece. It was hot and humid enough in the changing room that she didn’t mind undressing, but there was no way she would go outside without that robe. She sat on the bench and waited. She wondered if Sergei had been handed the male version of her suit. Something with strings. She snorted, her humor tickled, but that woman hadn’t said anything about
him
“servicing” anyone. He would probably receive some baggy swim trunks. If they made him change at all.

The servant returned with a robe that was far thinner and lacier than the big, fluffy white garment Jamie had envisioned. Still, it covered up far more than the bikini did. She was still worrying that she had accidentally signed up for an altogether different type of meeting than she had intended.

With the robe wrapped tightly about her body, Jamie headed for the back door, pausing to eye bottles of fragrances and a couple of bins of white powders. She had no idea what the powder might be for, but didn’t touch anything.

Before she could open the door, a naked woman stepped through, a weary look on her made-up face and a towel pressed against her abdomen. She smelled of musk oil, her lips were puffy, and bite marks marred the skin of her throat and breasts. The woman shuffled past as if she were in pain. Jamie looked away, though not quickly enough to erase the image from her mind. Whatever this place was, more went on here than bathing and massages.

“Forget this,” she muttered. She pushed open the door, but only so she could find Sergei and tell him she had changed her mind.

He was waiting in the steamy pool room outside, as he had promised, his back to the wall and his arms crossed over his chest, as usual. What
wasn’t
usual was all the bare, muscular flesh on display. His suit wasn’t quite as skimpy as hers, but it wasn’t baggy and didn’t hide much. She gulped and told herself not to gawk, but her eyes struggled to obey the order. A number of intriguing scars marked his arms and torso, including a long one that disappeared beneath the band of his suit. When her gaze drifted in that direction, she did manage to jerk it back up, her cheeks flaming. She focused on his head at the same time as he looked at her, his face unamused.

“How did you get a robe?” he asked, his glance up and down her body quicker and more professional than her gawk had been.

“I asked.”

“Damn.”

“It’s not too late to back out of this,” Jamie said. “I’m not sure what kind of appointment I got us into, but this place seems to be as much bordello as spa.”

Sergei glanced toward the men’s room door. “I got that impression too.”

Jamie would have guessed that most men wouldn’t find anything unusual or unpleasant about sexual services being offered in an establishment, whether they were openly advertised or not, but Sergei’s eyes seemed more haunted than usual when he looked back to her. Maybe because he had actual memories of what she could only imagine.

“If it doesn’t look like we’re going to get any useful information, we’ll back out,” he said, then tilted his head toward the wide aisle that would lead them past the steaming pool.

It was devoid of bathers at the moment, and Jamie was glad. Even with the robe, she felt naked and vulnerable. The palm fronds waving over their heads in the faint breeze of a fan struck her as menacing rather than relaxing.

At the end of the pool room, a corridor led deeper into the complex, but Sergei stopped in front of two golden doors on a side wall. They both said office. Neither said whose office.

“What happened to all of those helpful servants?” Sergei muttered.

“Are you in need of direction?” a cheerful voice asked from the wall. “A directory is available.” A map appeared on the wall between the doors.

Jamie found their room and pointed at the doors, which were also labeled “offices” on the map. “Helpful.”

“Terribly.”

Sergei lifted a hand to knock, but the door on the right opened before he did so, with steam and a heady scent of spice wafting out. Jamie couldn’t identify the blend of odors, but they were pungent. Not unpleasant, but she wasn’t sure she would want to spend a long time in a room with such an overpowering scent.

Sergei took a few experimental sniffs. “There’s a hint of boontail in there.”

“What’s that?”

“Something that relaxes the body. Not that surprising in a spa, but it also reduces inhibitions. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are other pharmaceutical concoctions in that blend.” Sergei touched his temple. “Be aware of your mind, if things don’t seem quite normal. If you feel intoxicated or anything like that…” He jerked his thumb toward the exit.