head thrown back, red hair whipping about her face and eyes to the ceiling in raptures of unadulterated classical ecstasy. Despite the fact that, to date, her repertoire had contained nothing but strictly classical pieces, her popularity with non-classical audiences had critics claiming her to be the most influential crossover artist ever.
Leaving Khachaturian and giving her audience no chance to recover their composure, Charlotte-Rose moved effortlessly into Un Sospiro by Liszt. Meanwhile, behind her in the wings, her devoted assistant, Daniel, was being beckoned into the shadows by a tall, handsome, elegantly dressed man of about forty, holding an enormous bouquet of red roses. Dutifully, Daniel responded.
"I take it these aren't for me," noted Daniel, coyly engaging the stranger.
"I'm afraid not," the man said with a smile, his voice deep and smooth. "But I would be very grateful if you would ensure that she gets these the moment she leaves the stage at the end of her performance. She'll be expecting ... well, she is expecting something, from me."
"So, you're the mystery man Charly's been keeping under wraps," said Daniel. "I can see why. Don't worry, Romeo, I'll see that she gets them."
"The moment she leaves the stage," the man said firmly, although the charm made the order feel more like a request. "Especially the note. It's really very important."
"Honey, I'll give them to her personally. And, who shall I say they're from?"
"She'll know," he replied and vanished.
A hopeless snoop, but justifying it as a result of being utterly protective of his girl, Daniel couldn't resist the temptation. There was something about this latest suitor that just didn't add up. For somebody chasing an international superstar he was far too circumspect. Laying the bouquet down on a packing crate, Daniel gently removed the card from the envelope pinned to the clear plastic wrapping. With a little guilt he looked back out to the stage and watched Charlotte-Rose for a while, then turned his attention to its message. In a somewhat messy hand, it read: Meet you at the helipad at midnight. Don't be late. Paradise awaits! Raoul x
Chapter 12
OFFICE OF THE SPECIAL REPRESENTATIVE OF INTERPOL TO THE UNITED NATIONS
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK, USA
Pat Ryerson, deputy director of Interpol Washington, led a slightly built, emaciated, nervous-looking man into a private room at the very back of the suite that comprised the Office of the Special Representative.
The man was in his mid-forties. He had greasy, shoulder-length dark hair parted on the left and combed over lazily so that it sat in bedraggled curtains on either side of a narrow, rat-like face. The brown eyes were shifty, constantly moving and floating in deep gray craters upon a marginally less gray landscape. His patchy red and brown beard was really no more than a collection of haphazard tufts resulting from a weekly, sometimes only a fortnightly, shave. His teeth were yellowed and his breath sour from far too many cigarettes. His clothes - leather jacket, shirt, jeans and boots were black and grungy.
The room was plain and not particularly noteworthy. It contained some chairs and a table with a telephone. It was just like any other corporate interview room in any other first-world high-rise building. Although this one had spectacular views across the East River.
Ryerson brought the man to the table and sat him down with sufficient courtesy to warrant a thank you, which he received. Across the table sat Brett Tappin. On the far side of the room, leaning against the wall to Tappin's left, stood Alex Morgan.
"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Durad Lazarevic," Ryerson announced before joining Tappin at the table.
"Good afternoon," said Lazarevic stiffly.
"Good afternoon, Mr Lazarevic," Tappin replied. "I'm Assistant Director Brett Tappin of the United States marshals Service." Lazarevic nodded in response and then looked to his right toward Morgan, awaiting an introduction. "You don't
Leaving Khachaturian and giving her audience no chance to recover their composure, Charlotte-Rose moved effortlessly into Un Sospiro by Liszt. Meanwhile, behind her in the wings, her devoted assistant, Daniel, was being beckoned into the shadows by a tall, handsome, elegantly dressed man of about forty, holding an enormous bouquet of red roses. Dutifully, Daniel responded.
"I take it these aren't for me," noted Daniel, coyly engaging the stranger.
"I'm afraid not," the man said with a smile, his voice deep and smooth. "But I would be very grateful if you would ensure that she gets these the moment she leaves the stage at the end of her performance. She'll be expecting ... well, she is expecting something, from me."
"So, you're the mystery man Charly's been keeping under wraps," said Daniel. "I can see why. Don't worry, Romeo, I'll see that she gets them."
"The moment she leaves the stage," the man said firmly, although the charm made the order feel more like a request. "Especially the note. It's really very important."
"Honey, I'll give them to her personally. And, who shall I say they're from?"
"She'll know," he replied and vanished.
A hopeless snoop, but justifying it as a result of being utterly protective of his girl, Daniel couldn't resist the temptation. There was something about this latest suitor that just didn't add up. For somebody chasing an international superstar he was far too circumspect. Laying the bouquet down on a packing crate, Daniel gently removed the card from the envelope pinned to the clear plastic wrapping. With a little guilt he looked back out to the stage and watched Charlotte-Rose for a while, then turned his attention to its message. In a somewhat messy hand, it read: Meet you at the helipad at midnight. Don't be late. Paradise awaits! Raoul x
Chapter 12
OFFICE OF THE SPECIAL REPRESENTATIVE OF INTERPOL TO THE UNITED NATIONS
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK, USA
Pat Ryerson, deputy director of Interpol Washington, led a slightly built, emaciated, nervous-looking man into a private room at the very back of the suite that comprised the Office of the Special Representative.
The man was in his mid-forties. He had greasy, shoulder-length dark hair parted on the left and combed over lazily so that it sat in bedraggled curtains on either side of a narrow, rat-like face. The brown eyes were shifty, constantly moving and floating in deep gray craters upon a marginally less gray landscape. His patchy red and brown beard was really no more than a collection of haphazard tufts resulting from a weekly, sometimes only a fortnightly, shave. His teeth were yellowed and his breath sour from far too many cigarettes. His clothes - leather jacket, shirt, jeans and boots were black and grungy.
The room was plain and not particularly noteworthy. It contained some chairs and a table with a telephone. It was just like any other corporate interview room in any other first-world high-rise building. Although this one had spectacular views across the East River.
Ryerson brought the man to the table and sat him down with sufficient courtesy to warrant a thank you, which he received. Across the table sat Brett Tappin. On the far side of the room, leaning against the wall to Tappin's left, stood Alex Morgan.
"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Durad Lazarevic," Ryerson announced before joining Tappin at the table.
"Good afternoon," said Lazarevic stiffly.
"Good afternoon, Mr Lazarevic," Tappin replied. "I'm Assistant Director Brett Tappin of the United States marshals Service." Lazarevic nodded in response and then looked to his right toward Morgan, awaiting an introduction. "You don't
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