Business interests in the Arab Emirates had taken a worrying turn for the worse with world oil prices tumbling, oil employees refusing to work in the oppressive heat and uncooperative local authorities threatening to drown the new venture in red tape. Concerned for the performance, viability and profitability of the expensive project, he’d travelled in from abroad and once he’d arrived and leant on certain people, the entrepreneur had persuaded the locals to see things from his perspective. It had cost him a small fortune just for the privilege of investing in the Emirates and to make things worse, his overbearing business partner had summoned him, drawing him away from the tense situation for a trivial matter and possibly derailing any headway he’d painstakingly made. If it wasn’t for the fact he needed his impetuous partner to get the venture off the ground and keep it flying, he would’ve simply refused to even consider leaving his struggling enterprise.
Scrutinising the Burj Khalifa, the purported tallest building in the world, the suited figure almost pressed his face against the hot tinted glass yet even in the 500 metre gap between buildings, he still had to lift his head to accommodate the Burj’s skyward reaching spire. The 355 metre tall Marriot topped out at seventy-six floors, but the Burj towered another half kilometre above that at 209 floors. From the expansive window he had visual access across Dubai’s reaching skyline, and in one direction he could see the distant Gulf of Oman and in the other, the Persian Gulf languished in the desert heat. Behind the Marriot, the Rub’ al Khali—a trackless and wasted, uninhabited desert but flooded with subterranean oil—sweltered in the morning heat, dissuading even the toughest Saudi from entering its burning interior.
The door to the luxurious top-floor penthouse room cautiously creaked open, disturbing his concentration and distracting his attention away from the troubling thoughts. Ailsa’s shapely form, dressed in a figure-hugging skirt, wiggled over to the window and teased him with her presence, but he was in no mood for play and in fact, the familiar beauty was beginning to bore him. As he walked the streets of Dubai in Ailsa’s immaculate company, he could see the wandering eye of wealthy Saudi men undressing her as they strolled past, but their soliciting attention didn’t bother him and his own wandering eye searched the many attractive pickings of the wealthy city.
He was pining for a greater business challenge and to break loose from his inhibiting business partner, seemingly acting as his subordinate and carrying out his errands while his own business venture suffered. Convinced of his own abilities in the commerce arena and sure he was potentially a gifted business tycoon, it would only take one lucky break to launch him into the super wealthy category and shake off the dependence on his banker. Dubai was a perfect place to search for greener business pastures, deciding a change of feminine company was just the first step to a new and invigorating corporate strategy.
A phone call chimed into the room and distracted Ailsa’s wanton attempts to engage the handsome businessman in her game, giving the man a reason to escape the woman and turn his attention to business instead. The seductive smile waned across Ailsa’s contoured face, but her perfect white teeth shone like pearls through her parted lips. She knew her trade well and also knew when a man became bored with her flirting. It didn’t happen often, but she’d been with this demanding man for many months now and was expecting her marching orders at every turn.
Ailsa followed the tone of the man’s steady, flat voice drifting across the penthouse from the phone, listening intently to the conversation. “Hello.” There was a pause and then she heard him respond, “Yes, this is he.” Ailsa pressed closer to the conversation. If she was right and her time with the anxious tycoon was coming to a close, maybe she could listen in and gather information with which she could glean a bonus for services rendered and be convinced to keep her mouth shut.
“Antonio... bonjour!” The man took a seat and settled in for a lengthy conversation. “It’s about time you reported in. What have you found out?!”
Ailsa strained to hear, but the one-sided conversation didn’t make sense and putting together a plausible tale with the intention of blackmail was quickly slipping away.
“Mmm, I see. So according to your law, its rock solid and there is no way around it unless the party can be convinced. What about international law? Isn’t there a loophole around it that way?”
Ailsa stared at the back view of the focused man, his face turned away from her and concentrating intently, nodding his understanding as if he was sitting across from the third party.
“This isn’t the news we were expecting, Antonio, and if you know what’s good for you, you’d better come up with a convincing determination. In the meantime, I’ll break the news to the big man. Maybe we’ll have to turn up the heat a notch from this end and see if we can’t compel a solution before things unravel.”
As the elaborate phone made contact with its cradle, Ailsa huffed. She couldn’t use anything of that conversation for a bonus. Not to be outdone, she put on her best smile, sidled onto his lap and kissed him with all the experience she had gained from her long career, hoping to loosen his tongue. Convinced she had ignited his interest, she broke for a pause and smiled. “What was all that about?” Ailsa purred seductively.
To her surprise, the man immediately rose to his feet, carelessly dumping the bountiful beauty onto the floor. “None of your business, Ailsa!” he hotly retorted, striding for the hotel room door.
*~*~*~*
Niccolo and the Sticky Lizards rode a curling tsunami wave of success and everywhere they turned, adoring crowds followed their music with idolatrous fervour. Rapturous media coverage accelerated the hype and before long fans were beginning to recognise Niccolo’s dark Mediterranean features in public places, staking out his activities in the hope of a close encounter with the Italian diva. In one instance, a casual walk down the quays on a pleasant summer afternoon resulted in a frenzied mob ripping the shirt from Niccolo’s back in the desire for a piece of the rock apparition. If it wasn’t for the quick thinking gendarmes close by, they would have taken more than his shirt. Fortunately for Niccolo, the police appeared from nowhere and stole the struggling singer from the frolicking horde, bruised and shaken, eventually making it back to his hotel room escorted by law enforcers.
Hearing of the incident, the Sticky Lizards gathered around their lead singer and ridiculed him, purporting he had been overwhelmed by a handful of teenage girls, but when he tried to correct their understanding and explained there were as many as a few hundred, they simply walked away in contemptuous disbelief. Niccolo’s fondness for bending the truth was well known among the group and it wasn’t until a large group of trawling fans ambushed the whole company one evening, did they finally accept his explanation. Being a well known rock star wasn’t turning out the way they’d expected and just remaining anonymous to go about their normal daily routines became increasingly difficult. Their hotel rooms were under constant siege from fans and even changing hotels hadn’t remedied the situation, with eager scouting groupies eventually locating the new host and broadcasting the result over social media.
It wasn’t until the Maestro met the group cowering in the Auditorium Stravinski’s band room, did he understand their predicament and offer a solution convenient for all. In an unnoticed covert operation, the group’s belongings clandestinely disappeared from their hotel rooms during a concert that night and after the show, a diversion drew adoring fans away from the Auditorium Stravinski in a rampage. By the time the boisterous worshippers realised they had been tricked, their idols had simply vanished and no amount of searching could locate their fancies.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 59
Early morning’s balmy, humid heaviness had given way to the refreshing eager breezes of early afternoon when Niccolo’s eyes finally blinked open. Blockout curtains bowed and stretched like a sailboat under full sail as the lake breeze forced its way into the upstairs bedroom and tantalised the stuffy room with its delightful cool breath. Niccolo yawned awa
y the sleep from his mind in a routine of stretching gymnastics, finishing the invigorating performance with a sharply exhaled... ‘Yah!’
Calmly scrutinising the quiet room, he’d had the first solid night sleep for days after shaking off the rigorous concert schedule and playing cat and mouse with over enthusiastic fans. An unexpected small boat trip after their last concert unnerved the Italian idols, rocking precariously under its load of passengers. Unable to see around the black depths of Lac Léman in the late night hour, Niccolo felt uneasy traversing the short distance between island and mainland in a tiny boat at the Maestro’s command. But as the silence and peace of their new sanctuary crept into the waking group’s psyche, the insecurities of the short water crossing appeared a small price to pay, escaping the treacherous hordes of overzealous fans. Energetically throwing back the blankets and bouncing from the comfortable bed, Niccolo pulled open the window curtain, uncovering an unobstructed and peaceful view across the calm waters of Lac Léman and to the distant hazy shore.
A small nervous flutter stirred in the singer’s stomach as he looked down at tiny waves breaking on the carved stone steps leading into the inviting lake water, suddenly realising what his day held in store for him. Reaching into his pyjama shirt pocket, Niccolo removed the timeworn photograph that hadn’t left his possession since the meeting with the Maestro and his weird companion nearly a week ago. Once again studying the stunning features of a young girl, searching the lines of her flawless face: the way her nose turned up slightly in an impish pixy pose; the obvious dark coloured eyes alight with passion and life; and the long, rich velvet black hair twisted into tightly curling springs of Mediterranean beauty.
It was as if he was gazing at a female version of himself.
The first contact Niccolo had had with Vincenza Morola had been harrowing to say the least. By the straining gasp from the woman when Niccolo’s phone call connected and he’d identified himself, he was sure she’d had a heart attack and couldn’t stop crying through the whole interview. Driven on by a desire to bridge the unknown empty years, Niccolo had purchased a first-class train ticket for Vincenza from Rome to the Montreux Gare. But as the time came closer for her arrival, the unanswered questions haunting the desolate space where she should have been for all the missing years came flooding back and making the painful wait as time passed torturously slow.
A knock at the bedroom door startled him from his thoughts and he quickly stuffed the picture back in his pocket. After a brief pause, Niccolo called, “Come in!”
A tall, heavily built woman pushed open the door, causing Niccolo some angst. “I am Natalya. Breakfast... or maybe lunch, whichever you choose, waiting downstairs.”
Niccolo gawked at the huge bulging figure toting an apron but looking as if she’d be more comfortable in a railway gang than a kitchen. Titanic arms protruding from her blouse like ancient tree trunks, and the thick foreign accent almost seemed like someone’s poor attempt at comedy, prompting him to guess she was most probably Russian, or pretending to be.
The skinny kid’s frightened stare amused the woman considerably, but she decided to put the puny rock star out of his misery. “I look after you and your friends, just like Maestro pay for.”
Strangled in her massive grip, Natalya carried a ponytailed blond wig, attracting Niccolo’s attention immediately. Following the entertainer’s amused expression to the hairpiece in her hand, the powerful woman grinned a gappy-toothed grin and teased, “We make you look like pretty Russian girl in proper disguise on such an important day.”
Niccolo panicked at her threat, staring nervously at the blond wig and wondering just what the Russian roadblock actually had in mind. Unsure of her intent and certain she would easily overpower him, Niccolo fidgeted awkwardly until her offhand comment revisited his mind with even greater curiosity and stifled his anxiety. How did she know today was an important day for him?
Natalya appeared to be enjoying Niccolo’s discomfort, with her huge blue eyes dancing with jest. “Boat ready take you to shore once we have fixed disguise a little,” Natalya teased as her face once again broke into a threatening toothless grin just before she turned and shut the door to Niccolo’s room.
Natalya’s breakfast of rye bread and Bavarian sausage sat like a ship’s anchor in Niccolo’s delicate stomach, but that was just the beginning of the torments. Niccolo’s skinny frame shuddered under Natalya’s massive hands as she poked and prodded, forcing him this way and then the other. Once she’d finished painting, pushing and pummelling the entertainer’s delicate features, her toothless grin reappeared, stretching across the massive face and approving of her own handiwork.
When Niccolo caught a glimpse of his disguise, he couldn’t believe the transformation and realised Natalya had been teasing him about turning his appearance into a pretty Russian girl’s. Admiring the new look, Niccolo affirmed her efforts. “You’re good, Natalya,” Niccolo bubbled.
“KGB training,” Natalya smiled big and placed a chubby, sausage-like finger to her lips, feigning secrecy and stealing animated stares around the room looking for signs she’d been detected.
The singer threw a quick glance at the kitchen clock with Natalya intercepting his hasty movement, answering the unspoken question before it was asked. “Come, we take you to mainland; Vincenza train nearly here.”
Niccolo began to ask how Natalya knew about Vincenza and her visit. But a bigger riddle stole across his thoughts, intensifying Niccolo’s flabbergasted state of mind and wondering how the Maestro knew of his missing madre. An image of the photograph and the girl’s personal information scribbled across the picture’s back drifted into Niccolo’s mind and left him grasping with the mystery. The unanswered questions momentarily lingered in an intensely private emotional war, but had to be cut short when Niccolo was herded down to the boat by the massive towering woman.
*~*~*~*
Niccolo stepped from the small craft onto the pier, steadied by Natalya’s big arms gripping the jetty and holding the craft anchored to the dock as if it had been bolted in place. Gazing back at Natalya, she’d already cast off and was steadily turning the dinghy around as if she’d done this trip a thousand times before. Niccolo pulled in a nervous breath, checked around the busy scene and strode directly for Quai de Clarens, making a beeline for the Gare de Montreux and Vicenza’s train. As the pleasant afternoon walk began to congest with ambling festival crowds, Niccolo panicked when a group of giggling young teenage girls overtook him, but a relieved sigh forcefully escaped his lips when they kept running and finally disappeared onto the bustling Quai de Vernex, reassuring the rock star Natalya’s handiwork had lived up to expectation. Niccolo glanced at his watch and put on a burst of speed, realising the train would beat him to the platform if he loitered any longer trying to dodge exuberant fans and instead, decided to trust Natalya’s expertise in deception.
Within half an hour he’d traversed the Quai Edouard-Jaccoud, crossed the Grand’ Rue, accessed the Escaliers de l’Hôtel Suisse and entered La Gare de Montreux. As Niccolo entered the platform area, the ETR 610 had already arrived and a solid wall of disembarking passengers had turned the station into a figurative farmyard. He anxiously studied the faces, searching for Vincenza’s unmistakable features, until a sudden thought riveted the singer to the platform.
Drawing the photograph from his shirt pocket in a hasty grab and taking a long, probing look at the blurry image, an unexpected notion vexed his thinking. The picture would have to be at least fifteen years old, and just maybe Vincenza was no longer this young looking girl, but a thirty-something expandable Italian mumma. Feeling less enthusiastic, Niccolo wandered among the tired disembarked passengers, examining disgruntled faces and comparing likenesses until those being scrutinised hastily averted their eyes. Then like an apparition of spring in the mountains, a young looking woman stood forlornly by her baggage, glancing around the station and obviously waiting for someone. Niccolo’s heart skipped as he approached the slender figure of
a Mediterranean beauty. She’d aged well and could’ve stepped straight from the photograph’s shadowy paper.
“Mi scuso, signora... Vincenza Morola?”
“Si, signor... Is that you, Niccolo?” Vincenza’s brown eyes were big and pleading, fast filling with tears.
Without thinking, Niccolo took the woman in his embrace and held her tightly, and as time stood still, mother and son connected and the many years of wasted tears melted away into a fervent emotional reunion.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 60
Alone and slumped at the kitchen table, Marie-Laure jumped as an incoming call broke the tense silence and interrupted another pleading tearful petition to God for her son, Ryan. Wiping her face with the back of her hand, it took a few seconds to identify the intruding calamity and then stealing a quick glance at the kitchen clock, she almost tipped over her chair in a bid to answer the family telephone. Jonas had been gone for many hours in a bid to search the concert venues and attempt to locate their wayward son, but she hadn’t heard from her husband since he’d left and hoped the call would soon shed some light on Ryan’s untimely disappearance.
Marie-Laure hurried into the passageway and swiped at the phone located on a small antique table but almost dropped it in her haste. Quickly regaining her grip in a frenzied juggle, she pressed the receiver to her ear and offered a breathless... “Oui, allô?!”
Jonas’ defeated and tired voice filled her ear. He hadn’t seen their son or anybody who had knowledge of Ryan’s whereabouts, but his intention was to continue his search until he’d exhausted all avenues and then as a last resort approach the police for help. Jonas had visited the YWAM marquee in search of Alex Dupont, but Alex was nowhere to be found either and wasn’t answering Jonas’ calls, although the morning shift of YWAM delegates had reassured Jonas they were expecting the YWAM boss to surface at any moment.