Free Vulture Peak by John Burdett

trade, where there’s practically no law enforcement and no tax. I could give you the names of twenty mid-rankers from Colombia who sell kidneys, livers, and eyes these days and sleep better for it.”
    “He says things have changed since he last looked into it.”
    Perhaps I had pressed a secret switch of some kind. She gave me the naked look of appraisal, then said, “You don’t know a damned thing about it, do you? He picked you because you speak English and know how to dress? You’re a peasant boy from up-country?”
    “He wants you to teach me the ropes. That’s what he said.”
    I thought I had at last surprised her. She pondered for a moment. “Why not? So long as Vikorn delivers, I can find a use for you.”
    We both paused when two men walked in dressed like lawyers who spoke in British accents. They were discussing a local real estate project and how difficult the sheikh-in-charge could be. Lilly stared at them for a moment, seemed to categorize them precisely—I could almost hear her ticking off the points: net worth, personality traits, sexual preferences, corruptible or not—and turned away. “I can’t initiate you here. Let’s meet at my hotel in an hour. It’s the other six star, you know the one I mean?”
    At the other six star the staff uniforms were not the same, and you beheld the sailboats in the bay from a quite different angle. In the lift I stood behind a burly bellhop until we reached the highest floor. He rang Lilly’s bell, keeping his body between me and the dear valued guest until she had confirmed she wanted to see me.
    Up until this moment I had been quite interested to discover what theme of suite she had chosen. Had she gone for minimalist, or overblown Oriental, or something in between? Now I lost interest in the suite because for a second I did not recognize the woman who was welcoming me into her sanctum. She was wearing an après-tennisshort-sleeve V-neck cotton pullover, a pair of white shorts, and hotel slippers that revealed her toenails, which had been painted with individuated flower patterns. Now I saw she had done the same to her fingernails. She could have been ten years younger, and there was even a twinkle of preppy mischief in her eyes as she welcomed me in with a French kiss on one cheek, then offered her own for me to reciprocate. Even more impressive than her genius for shape-changing was her intuition: her persona of an hour ago I had found intimidating and sexually off-putting. Now I thought her sexy as hell.
    “You changed,” I said.
    She produced a smile and led me gaily into the suite.
    I could have kicked myself for not coming as someone else and wondered if my days as apprentice organ hunter were not already numbered. Meanwhile I was impressed with the suite, which didn’t go at all with the new Lilly. It was perfectly executed belle époque, exactly like the interior of Maxim’s, in Paris, where my mother’s client Truffaut used to take us for lunch at least twice a week. I was so hit with nostalgia, I could have raised the hots for one of the lady lamps. I wanted to play the girl, tell Lilly the eyes and her personality change had left me feeling dizzy. I needed to sit down but was afraid to show weakness.
    She led me to a giant sofa and a low glass table with a fruit bowl big enough to breed sharks in. She was imitating the snake in
Jungle Book
, with its deep-throat gurgle—not to mention Eve herself—when she asked, “Would you like an apple?” I couldn’t help it, I broke into peals of laughter.
    A Mozart sonata suddenly erupted from her cell phone. She listened for a moment, then spoke in impeccable French: “Yes, tomorrow, first-class, three in a row, one window, correct.” She pressed a couple of buttons on the phone, said, “Excuse me,” then spoke again, this time in a language that sounded Chinese, although I could not tell which dialect. She closed the phone, chucked it playfully to the other end of the sofa, and cocked her head