Oath of Office

His meeting with the Russians was two hours away. The turquoise-and-cobalt water was much too cool to swim, but the air was a pleasant — and a slightly unseasonable — twenty-five Celsius. The cloudless sky made it feel even warmer. He would use the time waiting to work on his tan.

Praia de Benagil was not an incredibly large beach. It could be packed with pale British tourists in the summer, but now, in May, he had the place almost to himself. A few climbers, probably Americans, scrambled up the rock cliffs to the east. A Nordic-looking couple with a small child braved the chilly water, splashing in the surf near three wooden fishing boats that lay on the sand on the western end of the beach, by the walkway up toward the village.

Gaspard spied a slender woman in a black two-piece as he tromped along the beach leaving splay-footed divots in the sand. She had staked her claim in the center of the beach. She lay provocatively on her back, her head propped up on a woven-grass beach bag, the brim of an almost comically huge hat shielding her face while she read a paperback. Gaspard thought she might be a blonde, maybe with a splash of freckles across her nose, but the hat made it difficult to be sure. That did not matter to him. She was a leggy thing, with all the right swells and curves and a minuscule suit that obviously meant she sought companionship. Anyone with a figure like that, who wore such tiny bits of cloth, was… well, looking for it.

He would sit near enough to strike up a casual conversation, and see where it progressed. The French were not animals. He was not an animal — not any longer, having attained a certain amount of refinement with his newfound wealth. He would be discreet, smooth, the perfect gentleman. If that did not work, he would let her know how rich he was. Whatever method he employed, Hugo Gaspard intended to take this nubile creature to his villa by midafternoon. She could drink wine and eat chocolates while he met with the Russians, and then they would spend the evening together.

It was a good plan. Gaspard was a man of vision — and he could envision it — every delectable moment.

Gaspard’s three bodyguards flanked him, gazing outward with the predatory looks he paid them for. Gaspard himself had carried a pistol most of his life — since his time as a thuggish youth running a string of hundred-franc whores in the Bois de Boulogne. His lunatic mother — a prostitute and a heroin addict — had passed to him one single piece of worthwhile wisdom during her short life: A man who carries many keys may look important — but a truly important man hires someone to carry the keys for him. Now, having made enough money to buy all the whores in the park, Hugo Gaspard paid others to carry the guns.

Sun glinted off the thick gold chain that nestled among the rolls of his fleshy neck. Lines of sweat dripped down his chest. He nodded at a spot two meters from the woman, standing by while two of his men laid out his towel. It was extra large, to provide coverage from the sand against his sizable breadth. The third bodyguard, a bulldog of a man with a nose flattened by many fights, eyed the young woman suspiciously. His name was Farrin, and his threatening glare was certainly overkill. The woman had not approached them. They were setting up near her. And anyway, she could not be dangerous. She was so young, so deliciously… breakable.

“Relax,” Gaspard said, loud enough for the young woman to hear. It would not hurt for her to know that Gaspard was a man in charge of other men. “This peach is nearly naked. What harm could she possibly bring to me?”

She glanced up from her book — a mindless romance written in English, judging from the bare-chested muscleman on the cover — and then she looked away, pretending to ignore him. Faint parallel scars on her upper thigh, like a tribal initiation or ritual, became visible as Gaspard got closer. There was a story there, to be sure, and he would have it before the night was over.

Gaspard situated himself on his belly, grunting a little as he wallowed a depression into the sand beneath his towel, enabling him to lie relatively level. Resting his jowls on stacked hands, he could ensure an even tan on his back while still gazing sideways at the young woman.

“Are you American?” he asked, eyes half closed, sleepy from the radiation beating down from the sun and the exertion of walking fifteen meters up the beach.

She raised the brim of her hat and gave him a long look, as if considering whether or not to reply.

“Dutch,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“Your book is written in English,” Gaspard said and chuckled. “What do the English know of romance? French romances are much better, both in the writing — and in the flesh.”

“You read a lot of romance novels, then?” the young woman asked.