Free The Stolen by T. S. Learner

this?’
    â€˜The money is good.
Very
good. These three, they’re real players. I can’t tell you who they all are, they’re always masked when we girls enter the room. But I do know von Holindt is one, one of the girls recognised his body from an individual client session. Another one has red hair – red pubic hair,’ Celine said, interrupting the rather vivid images that were starting to crowd out Klauser’s thoughts. ‘But the other, he’s the real bully, you get the feeling the girls are playing out scenarios he’s lived – and they’re not pretty.’
    â€˜Nice guy.’
    â€˜Nice doesn’t pay, sweetie. This Johnnie wears a bull’s mask, really ornate, covering his whole face. It’s like that’s part of the turn-on, to be completely enclosed from the neck up. Then I realised it wasn’t just his way of
hiding
his identity – it
was
his identity. When he puts that mask on he
becomes
the bull.’ Celine wrapped her hand hopefully round his flaccid penis. He removed it.
    â€˜How old?’
    â€˜Mid-sixties, judging by the rest of him and average height, maybe five ten? And I can tell you he’s not circumcised, but that’s not going to help you, is it?’
    Klauser winced. He hated to think of Celine with another man, but this was worse: the idea of her having to service such perversity – he wanted to protect her, ridiculous he knew, but he couldn’t help it. Noticing, she leaned over and kissed his nipple, then smiled up at him.
    â€˜He’s the real puppet-master, this bull guy. The others are always kow-towing to him.’
    Klauser thought about Christoph von Holindt, about his public profile, his well-publicised charity works.
    â€˜Christoph von Holindt, the epitome of the good bürgher… A scandal like that could ruin him.’
    â€˜Which is why it’s better that these guys express their dark side in a professional arena. Truly, us girls deserve medals. We’re more than just glorified social workers and pleasure workers – we’re exorcists.’
    At which Klauser began to laugh – until he realised Celine wasn’t joking.
    Â 

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    Several waiters circled the chatting journalists and researchers, carrying trays of champagne and canapés. Matthias stood by the huge window looking out over Zürich, a glass in one hand. He’d just finished a short interview for
Der Stern
when the sudden scent of perfume made him swing round.
    â€˜So is the rumour true that you dance about the laboratory naked playing the flute when you’re really inspired?’ The same female paparazzi journalist pushed another full glass of wine into his hand while relieving him of his empty one.
    â€˜An outrageous claim, but actually true – except for the naked part… ⁠’ Again, Matthias found himself stammering slightly. He peered short-sightedly at her nametag. ‘Fraulein… ?’
    â€˜Names are so defining,’ she murmured seductively. ‘I know nothing about science, but I love musicians, especially when they’re tall and extraordinary-looking.’ She smiled carnivorously at him then pulled a business card from her jacket pocket.
    â€˜Here, for when you feel like playing more than just the flute.’ She pressed the card into his hand, but by the time he looked up again she was gone, and in her place was the man Jannick had pointed out earlier. At about six foot five he stood over Matthias, a threatening presence despite the grin that now ran over his fleshy lips.
    â€˜Great pitch. You guys really got the goods?’ he asked in English, his accent American.
    â€˜The research speaks for itself.’ Matthias stepped back; over six foot himself, he wasn’t used to this sensation of looking up.
    â€˜I’ve read it; it looks kosher.’ The American swung a huge, bear-like hand towards Matthias. His grip was assured and a