Mira Destovsky and Ivanova were dead and gone. Mira’s younger sister, Alexandra, had assumed command of Mira’s business empire.
My name is Jelena Miskoba. I was trained by the former KGB as an assassin. I only graduated when the Soviet Union was in total disarray after its collapse. I had learned the arts of cold-blooded murder and excelled in them. I was not like some of my peers who orgasmed when they killed. It was not a sexual thrill for me, it was a job. I was also highly trained in English because my mother had been from that country but I was also fluent in both French and German. It was intended that I would be deployed in England as the killing arm of my country there. Because of my innate sexuality, a lesbian, I had also been expected to target useful women for intelligence purposes.
The Union’s collapse meant that job had disappeared just as I was ready to embark on my career. I was fortunate to meet Alexandra. She was the second child of Andrei Destovsky who had acquired a massive business through ruthless determination, good contacts with some of my former bosses and extreme violence. Fear was the key to his success.
On his death the empire had passed to his first daughter Mira. She was aware of the dangers from her father’s rivals and had taken extraordinary measures to ensure her safety. Eva Borodin was Mira’s head of security. She had been a member of a military unit which specialised in the protection of senior members of the Party. She was brutal and revelled in her cruelty, inflicting totally unnecessary pain whenever she could, merely for her own pleasure. Borodin was not particularly intelligent but she had animal cunning and was, therefore, formidable.
It was Borodin who had interrogated me after Mira’s death. I had insinuated myself into Mira’s trust and confidence. It had been a long mission during which I had had to tolerate many humiliations and, all the while, maintain the fictional identity of the English journalist, Joanna. Borodin had been very suspicious and I had to call on my reserves of strength to withstand her questioning. It was fortunate that her cruelty was not matched by her intelligence.
Satisfied that I was not involved in the murders of Mira and her secretary she paid me off handsomely but with threats of dire repercussions should I ever talk. It was perhaps fortunate that ‘Joanna’ was killed in an air accident a few days after her release. I was able then to return to my native Russia and make my way back to join Alexandra in England but using my identity as Jelena. It is not of course my real name. Sometimes I can barely remember what that is.
Three Years Earlier
The bar of the Hotel de Gascogne in Paris is a sophisticated and elegant place. A piano was playing quietly in one corner and I was sitting at the bar. I have naturally black hair and was wearing it long and loose. I was wearing a long, black silk evening dress with silver straps over my shoulders and with silver embroidery around the neck and hem. Black and silver sandals covered my stockinged feet. I wore a silver broach on my left breast. It was a stylised handcuff.
My training in the KGB, even though I had never been sent on a mission, had given me skills others cannot understand. Using those skills I had identified a number of well-placed women who, given the right circumstances, might employ me and pay me well. I knew of the vicious animosity between Mira Destovsky and her sister, Alexandra. I also knew that Mira had secured the services of Borodin and that I would never be able to supplant her. I wanted power and wealth. I had used other dark skills to acquire sufficient funds for my efforts to achieve my aims.
Alexandra Destovsky lived a life of enormous wealth despite her sister having assumed control of their father’s business interests. I knew she seethed with jealousy. I also knew she had inherited her father’s ruthlessness, as indeed Mira had. The women shared a weakness, sexual excess. Alexandra, having moved to live in both England and France, pursued her interests in different circles from Mira. She preferred the decadence of the French lesbian scene which was too expensive for most people. It was also a bit rich for some. I knew, because I had undertaken exacting research and had felt the sting of a whip more that once.
And so, there I was in the Gascogne’s bar, confident that it was the route to meeting Alexandra and making my first steps into her life. I had had to endure several nights there, ignoring men’s approaches, politely but firmly asking them to leave me alone. Some women, too, had approached me, for the bar was known as an assignation point for some of the louche denizens of Parisian lesbians. Alexandra was known to go there to find women. She did not have a permanent partner. She preferred, it seems, not to allow anyone to get close to her.
My outward demeanour did not change when she entered the bar. It was 11 pm and she was alone and wore an evening gown of incredible beauty. Her short cut, blonde, almost silver hair contrasted with deep red lipstick which matched the red in her dress which covered only one shoulder. Slashed up the left side to her thigh, the dress revealed a bare leg rendered shapely by the nail like spikes of her heels. She stopped in the entrance and surveyed the room. I did not look at her directly. I had so positioned myself that I could watch the entrance in the mirror behind the bar. I nursed my gin and tonic, occasionally glancing at the Cartier Tank on my left wrist. It was not a real Cartier but would pass for it to anyone but an expert. There had been no point in squandering my ill-gotten gains on the real thing. That would come soon enough.
I watched as she made her way across the bar and made no attempt to look at her when she sat two seats away from me. I heard her speak in French to the barman.
“Champagne. Also, get this lady,” in the mirror I saw her point to me, “whatever she wants.”
I turned slowly to look at her. “No, thank you. I’m fine.” I spoke in Russian.
“How do you know I am Russian?”
“Because your French is accented.” I smiled and she returned the smile.
I studied her. She had high cheekbones and her makeup was delicate, aside for the lipstick, and delicately applied. She had not done it herself. Her hair shone in the subdued lighting and deep blue eyes surveyed me. I knew she was wondering if I would be hers to enjoy this night. She wore no jewellery except a pair of drop earrings studded with diamonds, a bracelet of silver in the form of a bull whip curling around her wrist – a sign of her membership of an exclusive fetish club in the 6eme arrondissement close to her lavishly appointed townhouse and the Gascogne itself.
Her survey ran from my face, down over my body to my feet then returned to rest momentarily on my broach.
