history. He last wrote her two weeks ago, asking how she was doing.
She never replied.
What few conversations they were able to have in between dodging bullets and bad guys in Afghanistan and Iran weren’t exactly pleasant. She was angry, and had a right to be. He thought maybe they could patch things up.
Looks like he thought wrong.
Jack shut his computer. Might as well take advantage of the downtime and see the city. He started to pull up TripAdvisor on his phone to get a list of ideas of places to check out at night, but it suddenly struck him that he just wasn’t in the mood. He sure as hell didn’t want to hit the bar scene, and any museums he’d want to see would be closed by now. Besides, he still had a shit-ton of work to do on the Dubai deal that was still sitting on his virtual desk. He’d feel better about himself if he actually accomplished something for the good money the firm paid him.
He decided to put in three good hours of work, and if that didn’t settle his brain down, he’d pop an allergy pill and knock himself out so that his brain clock would reset itself for the task at hand tomorrow and maybe, just maybe, he could get the hell back home and reschedule his trip for Cory.
42
LUANDA, ANGOLA
It was the newest and most exclusive luxury hotel in the capital city—surprisingly, one of the most expensive cities in the world now, thanks to all of the oil money—built by a Chinese firm for Chinese investors. Expat Europeans and Americans loved it, though there were fewer of them these days, thanks to the regime change. Mostly it was Chinese executives. It was the place to be seen for business and social contacts. Few Angolans could afford it.
The young, mixed-race Angolan woman turned nearly every head as she crossed the expansive lobby. Green eyes, caramel skin, thick blond curls, and a hard, curvaceous body flowed with effortless grace toward the private express elevator serving the penthouse floors.
She waved a key card in front of the buttonless call device, and moments later the mirrored elevator doors opened.
She was a regular now.
The hard, familiar face of the rock-jawed Chinese security officer greeted her with a curt nod as she stepped inside. Once the doors closed, he pressed a button holding the elevator. He wanded the perfectly proportioned physique with a handheld metal detector. His cold eyes searched hers for any sign of deception or fear, but found none.
She flashed a teasing “come hither” smile for her own amusement but elicited no reaction from the iron-hard security man. He checked her small handbag. Key card, lipstick, breath mints, and three condoms in gold foil packets.
He spoke into the mic attached to his wrist.
The elevator rose swiftly.
* * *
—
The doors opened on the fifteenth floor. Another unsmiling security officer with an earpiece greeted her with a nod. He stepped aside.
She brushed past him toward the double mahogany doors. A third guard opened one of them, and she passed through.
She stood on the polished Carrara marble floor of the vast living area, feeling the suck of air as the heavy door closed behind her. The last rays of the setting sun were swallowed by the blue-black Atlantic Ocean filling the wide picture window.
Fan Min, the CEO of Sino-Angola Energy, rose from the circular red leather couch in the center of the room, a wide, toothy smile on his face. The fifty-nine-year-old man wore a black smoking jacket, black silk trousers, and red velvet slippers. His poorly dyed jet-black hair was combed back and greased, Pat Riley style.
He asked her in his thickly accented Portuguese what she wanted to drink. She told him rum and Coke. He poured one for each of them. She thanked him. He took his blue pill. She smiled. His dark eyes raked over her body as she drank.
She said she had a surprise for him. He lit up like a child at Christmas. She showed him the new condoms she brought him. Three of them, wrapped in gold foil. Very special.
He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners.
Extra, extra pleasure, she promised.
Like she was supposed to say.
“Lindo maravilhoso,” he said, pouring her another drink.
They sat on the red leather couch together. Ships’ lights like stars floated in the black Atlantic beyond.
She finished her second rum and Coke while he stroked her smooth skin with his long, delicate fingers, whispering “Belezhina” over and over like an incantation.
She