Olivia leapt from Jean-Claude.
“Aye! I hope you are not that rough with my clients,” he said in French.
She rolled off the bed and worked bra straps over her shoulders.
“No,” she said. “I treat your clients well. You gave me only the gentlemen.”
“I wish I had to share you with no one.”
She slid her pantyhose up her legs and reached for a blue satin evening gown.
“Consider yourself lucky I sleep with you at all.”
“How would it appear if my top lady ignored me?”
“Top lady? You’ve only known me five weeks.”
He strolled to the bathroom. She heard him flush his condom into the Parisian sewer system and splash water from the rushing faucet. He returned and grabbed her waist.
“You are a truly magnificent woman,” he said. “Leave the CIA and stay with me. I will triple your salary, whatever it is.”
Olivia teased herself with the idea until she could flush the greed from her mind.
“We’ve got a bad guy to catch,” she said.
*
Olivia reached for the sleeve of Jean-Claude’s Armani suit and followed him onto the Parisian streets. She had become accustomed to appearing graceful while laboring against four-inch heels, but she stumbled as she turned from the setting sun.
“Easy,” he said as he steadied her.
“I’m fine,” she said.
She followed Jean-Claude around a corner, and a black limousine stopped at the curb.
Jean-Claude opened the door and she slid in ahead of the pimp. Her team leader and CIA agent, Gerald Rickets, sat across from her.
Even sitting, Rickets looked large. He filled a gray suit that spanned half the back seat. His deep black eyebrows furrowed as he scowled at Jean-Claude.
“You’re set for tomorrow?” Rickets asked in English.
“Yes,” Jean-Claude said in a Parisian accent. “I will escort Marko to the second floor lounge to close the deal. I told him that his cash is in my safe behind my upstairs bar. He will suspect nothing.”
“How many men is he bringing?” Rickets asked.
“How should I know?”
Rickets extended a thick finger at Jean-Claude’s nose.
“Don’t get flippant with me, pimp.”
“I prefer the term ‘man of leisure’.”
“You’re scum to me,” Rickets said, “The only reason I haven’t had you shut down is that I need you. After we’re done with Marko, if I hear of an American tourist getting so much as a genital wart from one of your whores, I’ll become your worst nightmare.”
“Marko’s been selling his girls across Europe for years,” Jean-Claude said. “You didn’t find him so offensive until he started shipping to the United States.”
“I didn’t have jurisdiction until he starting pushing his girls in America. You just follow my plan, and if one hair on her head gets hurt, I’ll hang you by your balls.”
Jean-Claude looked at Olivia and smiled.
“I would hang myself if I were to let harm come to such a lovely creature.”
“You’d better see that it goes down clean,” Rickets said. “If I don’t get a takedown signal forty-five minutes after Marko walks through your door, I’m busting in with half of the Parisian police force.”
“What of it? You’ve already threatened to send half of my ladies back to Eastern Europe.”
“You bought slaves. Deal with the consequences.”
Olivia moved aside as Jean-Claude leaned forward.
“Listen to me, you self-righteous bastard,” Jean-Claude said. “I rescued slaves. Any lady who wishes to leave me may do so, but I treat them well, offer them protection, and pay them more than they ever imagined. Those in my employ will laugh in your face if you offer them your version of freedom.”
“We’ll see how your attitude changes tomorrow.”
“My attitude will be better. I will be rid of your constant threat to shut me down, and I will have earned the favor of this lovely woman you sent to tempt me.”
Olivia blushed.
“Get out,” Rickets said.
Jean-Claude stepped out and slammed the door.
“Why are you so tough on him?” Olivia asked.
“I don’t trust pimps,” Rickets said.
“He’s not a bad guy.”
“You’re in character too deep,” Rickets said. “Rookie mistake. You get a few undercover ops under your belt and you’ll know the difference. Until then, watch yourself.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Rookie mistake number two. Just remember your training and go nail me a slave trafficker.”
The next day, Olivia held Jean-Claude by the sleeve of a pinstriped Armani suit. She saw a red leather glove grasping his other arm and followed tan skin to the bare shoulder of the pimp’s favorite whore, Danielle.
Danielle wore her brunette hair in a bun with curls reaching to either pronounced cheekbone. Olivia thought that in her red satin evening gown, the brunette whore resembled a demon seductress. Danielle met Olivia’s glare, exposed capped teeth, and flared her nostrils in a smirk.
Olivia looked away. Her arrival five weeks ago, albeit undercover, had made the brunette whore jealous. Olivia wished Danielle were elsewhere, but Jean-Claude without a lady by either side would arouse suspicion.
Olivia heard a thud from a metal door. One of Jean-Claude’s bodyguards stepped to the door, slid a bar aside, and glanced through a peephole. He slid the bar closed, turned to the pimp, and nodded.
“Well,” Jean-Claude said in French, “our guests are right on time. Won’t you let them in?”
The bodyguard opened the door, and Olivia was disappointed to see only one man–a man too tall to be Marko–march toward the pimp. His boots clapped against the hardwood floor.
The man brushed back shoulder-length blond hair, removed his sunglasses, and slipped them into the breast pocket of his trench coat.
“Pavlo,” Jean-Claude said in English. “It is a pleasure to see you again. You are not alone, I trust.”
Olivia’s disappointment became discomfort as Pavlo let his gaze settle on her.
“I do not remember this whore,” Pavlo said in a Ukrainian accent.
“I have suppliers of talent other than your boss. Tell me, is he here? I wish to make his acquaintance.”
“Send your bodyguards away.”
“Away? Where should I send them?”
“I don’t care,” Pavlo said. “Send them to the fucking grocery store if you want your new whores. Marko didn’t come here to have guns pointed at him.”
“Impossible,” Jean-Claude said.
“Then we’ll distribute our girls elsewhere,” Pavlo said and turned away.
Olivia clenched Jean-Claude’s sleeve and nodded toward a black marble countertop.
“Drinks?” Jean-Claude asked. “We should drink to failure?”
“No,” Olivia said. “Lock their guns in the cabinets below the bar.”
“Wait,” Jean-Claude said in English. “But where are my manners? I’m sure I could bend my rules for Marko, provided that we lock your firearms behind my bar.”
Pavlo raised a wireless phone to his cheek and exchanged words in Ukrainian. He lowered the phone, reached into his pocket, and withdrew a Glock pistol. He extended the handle to the pimp.
“My dear,” Jean-Claude said and nodded at Danielle.
Danielle frowned but accepted the pistol and walked towards the bar. She sneered at Olivia as she passed.
“I will return with the guns from my colleagues,” Pavlo said, “and give them to you. Then send your guards away, and I will let my colleagues in.”
“As you wish,” Jean-Claude said.
Pavlo exited and returned with three weapons that he handed to Danielle for storage. The pimp’s two bodyguards left the establishment as Pavlo surveyed the room, lifted his phone to his cheek, and spoke again in Ukrainian.
A loud thump sounded from the door, Pavlo opened it, and three men walked in. Other than briefcases and darker shades of hair, two of the men were clones of Pavlo, but the third man caught Olivia’s eye.
He was shorter and barrel-chested. Combed forward, his coarse gray hair contrasted with the ruddiness of his face. She smelled the sharp, spicy sweet scent of his cologne but wasn’t close enough to recognize the brand. The shape of his head reminded Olivia of a melon as he smiled.
“Jean-Claude,” he said, “it is good to meet you.”
Olivia released the pimp’s sleeve as he accepted Marko’s hand.
“Marko, I presume?” Jean-Claude asked.
“I wanted to finally meet the man who has purchased thirty-four women from me. My top French client.”
Olivia glanced at Jean-Claude’s breast pocket and trusted that the microphone and transmitter embedded in his wireless phone had relayed Marko’s incriminating statement to the surveillance team across the street.
“The honor is mine,” Jean-Claude said. “This calls for drinks. What should we serve, my dear? Cabernet? Merlot? Perhaps something stronger?”
Olivia recognized Jean-Claude’s question as a veiled request for confirmation of Marko’s identification.
The Ukrainian’s face matched her memory of the photographs in his dossier. His height appeared correct at five feet, nine inches, and his confident appearance and direct manner of speech matched his psychological profile. The coldness of his eyes suggested a monster lurking beneath his skin. She was certain Marko stood before them.
She signaled Jean-Claude–and the surveillance team listening through the pimp’s wireless transmitter–by suggesting the Ukrainian’s preferred drink.
“Something stronger,” she said while overlaying a Parisian accent on her English to suppress her Connecticut nasal twang. “Perhaps, Finlandia vodka?”
Marko raised an eyebrow.
“Your whores have good taste,” he said.
He removed his sunglasses and placed them in the breast pocket of a suit that Olivia suspected was an eastern European imitation of an Italian-cut.
“Your club is a bit dark,” Marko said, “but I could get used to it. Pavlo’s description did not do it justice.”
“Black marble on the dance floor and the bar. Booths of black leather,” Jean-Claude said. “As you see, I keep the lighting soft and the décor dark. It creates an air of secrecy my clients appreciate.”
Marko grabbed Olivia’s chin roughly, but she stayed in character and let him leer.
“Had I known how pretty your whores look in your gentleman’s club, I would have come long ago. I will have this one before I leave.”
Jean-Claude cleared his throat.
“I have reserved some ladies that you yourself sold to me. I think you’ll be impressed how good Parisian food can make a woman more full-bodied, like a fine wine. Or if you wish, I have a nice diversity of ladies available.”
“Where?” Marko asked and released Olivia’s chin.
“I offer private accommodations on the third floor, and I have closed the club until dinner. The afternoon is yours to enjoy, after business, of course.”
“Yes,” Marko said. “After business.”
*
Olivia poured vodka into shot glasses while Danielle held a tray. The brunette avoided Olivia’s gaze. Everyone else had gone upstairs except Pavlo, who watched over the locked weapons.
Jean-Claude’s voice echoed from a hardwood staircase.
“Make haste, ladies. Never keep a Ukrainian separated from his vodka.”
Olivia poured the final shot, and Danielle raised the tray to her shoulder. She smiled, making Olivia uneasy.
The brunette passed her pimp on the staircase.
Olivia joined Jean-Claude and took his arm. The pimp spoke in French.
“What’s in the briefcase?” he asked.
Pavlo shrugged.
“Speak English, pimp,” he said. “Or Ukrainian, if you know how.”
“The briefcase,” Jean-Claude said.
While Pavlo opened it and withdrew a laptop computer, the pimp whispered in French.
“He doesn’t understand French.”
“Right,” Olivia said.
“What are you waiting for?” Jean-Claude asked. “He’s already admitted to selling me women.”
“Women, yes. But I want him for selling juveniles.”
“I don’t like this. His men are rough, and rumor has it that they carry more diseases than rats. I don’t want him touching any of my ladies.”
Olivia glanced at her gold Cartier watch.
“They won’t. Takedown happens in thirty minutes. Earlier if I give the signal.”
“Give it now,” he said. “You have enough evidence.”
“Do you know where he’s keeping his latest shipment?”
“Not yet.”
“Then there are twenty women who want us to find out.”
*
Olivia followed Jean-Claude into his second-floor lounge, and Pavlo closed the door behind them. Red lighting around the ceiling trim painted rosewood walls sanguine, but a chandelier illuminated the center of the room in white. Chairs and sofas surrounded a glass coffee table.
Gulping vodka, the Ukrainians encircled the table. Behind the small upstairs bar, Danielle piled clean shot glasses on a tray in preparation for the next round. A mirror spanned the wall behind the brunette whore.
In the mirror, Olivia saw herself as a photographic negative of Danielle. Fiery red curls fell to either of her cheeks, and her black dress complemented her fair skin.
Olivia heard empty glasses clanking on the table and Pavlo setting down the laptop. She worked through the men huddling around the monitor to clear the mess and listened for clues about the location of Marko’s slaves.
“Here are your women,” Marko said. “They are beautiful, yes?”
On the screen, a video camera panned across women in jeans and tee-shirts huddled in a hotel room.
“You warned me they were young,” Jean-Claude said. “But half of these are children. That one can hardly be fourteen years old.”
“There are men with fetishes,” Marko said.
“Not my clients.”
“You wish that I sell them to someone else?”
Olivia glared at Jean-Claude. He understood.
“No,” he said. “I will find use for them. I’ll take them at the agreed upon price.”
“Excellent,” Marko said. “More drinks, then.”
“Right away,” Olivia said.
“No,” Marko said. “You stay. Send the other.”
Olivia sought Jean-Claude’s approval, and he nodded.
She watched Danielle depart. When she turned back, she saw Marko withdrawing a knife from his sock and caught a glimpse of Pavlo’s fist before it cracked her jaw.
*
A blast woke Olivia. Naked, she was lying on a couch. Her jaw ached, and Marko was on top of her, pumping. The stink of his sweat soured the spicy sweet scent of his cologne. During a misplaced thought, she recognized it as Drakkar Noir.
Turning her head, she saw Pavlo knocking away a metal block that had been part of Jean-Claude’s safe until blown off by plastic explosives.
Pavlo rattled off words in Ukrainian. The anger in his face revealed that he had blown open a steel box containing no cash.
Pain shot through Olivia’s mouth as she turned to Marko. His face was a sick mix of sexual ecstasy and anger. Satiated, he dismounted her.
“So, it is true,” he said in English. “It is a setup. Hand me the knife. I will kill the CIA bitch myself.”
The door burst open. Wearing body armor, Rickets led a team of Parisian police officers into the room. As Marko raised a bloody blade over Olivia, Rickets sent a bullet through his shoulder.
As police swarmed the Ukrainians, Rickets swept a jacket over Olivia.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
“Gerry,” she said.
“Don’t talk. Medic’s coming.”
“Did we get him?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “While you were unconscious, they gave enough clues for us to find the girls, and there was plenty of incriminating evidence. You got him.”