Lilian

1

1

The men in suits rose from the oval conference table on the sixth floor of a Tokyo skyscraper. Robert Turner, the American multi-millionaire contentedly shook the hand of Yūto Sakuraba, the owner of the skyscraper.

“Once again, we are pleased that you have come, Mr. Turner,” said Sakuraba. The other two Japanese men were the general manager and the legal advisor of Sakuraba’s company. His secretary was standing by the door smiling, clutching a folder to her chest.

“The pleasure is mine, Sakuraba-san,” said Turner.

“Thank you,” added Brody Calvert, who was Turner’s business associate, administrator, legal and business advisor in a single person.

The west side of the conference room was occupied by a window wall with a fine view of Tokyo’s business district including several office buildings and a small park. The houses across the street were covered with Japanese characters, logos and displays of various sizes alternating between advertisements. An hour earlier, as they had stepped in, Turner quickly concluded that his New York office had a far better view.

During the conference, the parties negotiated in their own native languages, which were then translated and relayed into their counterparts’ earpieces by a mobile device. Turner knew a few Japanese phrases but did not exert himself to use them, except when he wanted to impress their business partners—or Japanese women, if given the chance.

As the two Americans were leaving, the three Japanese men kept bowing in quick succession. They waved like children and took turns saying goodbye and sayōnara.

The secretary escorted the two Americans to the lift and made an elegant and polite bow. Turner stepped a little closer and asked her in Japanese when she would leave work that day, but the secretary, after a prudish smile, said goodbye again and headed back to the office. On their way down in the lift, Brody congratulated Turner, but did not extend his hand for a handshake. It was pointless, he knew his boss well enough.

“Congratulations, Robert,” said Brody.

“Thanks. The j**s must be jumping with joy that they’ve made the deal of the century, but they did not do as well as they think,” said Turner and slicked back his curly hair in the huge mirror of the lift. The undulating, dark and silver curls on the back of his head evoked the brushstrokes of a black and white painting. He was a few months away from his fiftieth birthday, but from a certain angle, he could shave off ten years. Five at any time.

“Although,” continued Turner, “thanks to today’s yen-dollar exchange rate, they can call themselves lucky. A week ago, they would have paid millions more.”

“What matters is that we’ve made a good deal.”

“That’s right, Brody. That’s what always matters,” said Turner, although he generally put it as “A deal should be good for everyone, but a little better for us.”

Turner was handsome and always elegant, but he was not the type of man who smelled like money. His suit was tailored, but although he paid a healthy sum for it, you could not really tell its value, like in the case of an Armani or a Brioni. He wore a modest, leather strap, mid-range watch. Nice, but not particularly expensive. He did not wear any jewellery, and when he was not wearing a suit, he did not bother to put on his watch either. His early athletic years left a mark on him, but it was also apparent that he had not paid that much attention to physical fitness in the past ten years. He did not plan to grow a paunch; however, he had been neglecting the business squash games. A long time ago he was good at it, and at tennis too, although he never came to like golf.

Turner was having a good day. This usually meant that in addition to his regular, astonishingly high earnings, he also earned a large amount of money from some kind of extraordinary sale or share in profits. This time it was the former. He had sold his thirty percent share in an American car brand. Not a large brand though, it was not even in the top ten, but so far, he had made good money off it.

Turner has always had a good nose for business, and now he had the feeling that the automotive industry would slump in the following years, something he did not want to be a part of, so he was selling off his assets. Since he was a reputable investor, if he did something like this, several magnates often followed in his footsteps blindly. When he was worried about something, and decided to close a position, and others followed him, from time to time it triggered an avalanche and his fears became reality. Occasionally, he wondered if the changes would also have occurred if he had not done anything. He did not believe, though, that the same would happen in the automobile industry, because it rests on multiple pillars, but he was certain that Sakuraba’s deal, while not as profitable as he thought, also was not a bad one. As long as Sakuraba does not start making foolish investments, he can make a lot of money, but that is none of Turner’s concern anymore. He needs to worry about the hundreds of millions arriving in his account, money with which he has no idea what to do.

It’s not that he does not like money. In fact, Robert Turner idolizes it and spends it whenever and wherever he can. However, in the past few years a slight melancholy had taken hold of him. He no longer found anything pleasurable and knew that it had to do with an upcoming anniversary: he would soon be fifty.

Turner had been to every corner of the world worth visiting, as a rule sleeping, eating and partying at the most expensive places. He enjoyed the hospitality of important people, had an apartment in New York, and a plane that now was waiting for him at Tokyo Narita International Airport to take him wherever he wished to go. He made purchases only with investment purposes, never for personal reasons. When he needed something, he rented it.

His mobile device was a handheld supercomputer, with 24/7 Internet connection from any point in the world, access to the database of his companies, real-time stock market and real estate news, a translator, a projector, and plenty of similar applications. That was all the modern technology he needed or cared for. Innovations such as nanotech tablets, self-driving cars communicating with the traffic signals of major cities and each other in order to optimise traffic, or contact lenses displaying information of anything the wearer looked at disinterested him.

In front of the building that displayed the name of Sakuraba Corporation under enormous Kanji letters, a black Lexus—one of the most expensive models—reserved exclusively for the distinguished clients of the company, was waiting for them. The chauffeur opened the rear door of the car, showed a friendly smile, and bowed slightly.

“Hold on for a second,” said Turner to the chauffer, “I need a smoke. Do we have the time, Brody?”

Brody looked at his watch.

“Just barely,” he said. Turner took out a cigarette from the inside pocket of his jacket and a Zippo lighter adorned with a gilded eagle from his trouser pocket. This was his lucky charm and he always carried it. The chauffeur bowed, indicating that he understood. He closed the door and stood at a military-like at-ease position.

Turner lit his cigarette, inhaled deeply into his lungs, and with his eyes closed, he exhaled a cloud of smoke. Oh, the first drag! There weren’t many things in the world he clung to, but smoking was one of them. Not many people smoked these days. The health campaigns, as well as eradicating cigarettes from movies and public places, were effective. These did not bother Turner. He did not start smoking because it was hip, or because he was indifferent toward his health. He liked smoking; that was all. As harmful (though not as much as it had been fifty years ago) and foul-smelling as it might be, yet he needed it. It helped him think and relax between tasks. He watched the flow of pedestrians of all nationalities, men wearing suits and women in dresses. The weather was nice, and everything was working out.

All of a sudden, a tall, slim, athletic man stepped out of the stream of passers-by. He seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. As he stepped up to Turner, Brody automatically put his hand between them, prepared to push Turner behind him, like a bodyguard. Although protection was not part of his job description, he always thought he had to safeguard his employer to the best of his abilities. In other words, it is advisable to protect the hand that feeds. In the past six years they had spent together, only once had he had to stand between Turner a potentially threatening person. An aggressive beggar approached them in front of a bank and tried to persuade them that Turner could easily buy him an apartment because he was homeless, and that was his sole wish. Turner wasn’t the charitable type, as Brody knew, so he grabbed the beggar and drove him off. The guy was rather dirty and unkempt, and Brody felt his smell on him even days—and several hand-washes—later.

It was apparent that the man now in front of them was not native Japanese, though his eye-fold suggested that he had Japanese ancestors. They both put his age at around forty. He wore a black suit, his dark hair was combed to the side, and he was clean-shaven. After looking at his shoes, Brody knew at once that he was rich, and he certainly wasn’t pan-handling. Perhaps he is a gangster who planned to blow their brains out in the middle of the street for a reason never to be known, or a secret agent who intended to arrest them. In this case, the reason would soon be found out. But Turner wasn’t a gambling man. He had always been careful not to get in the way of the big dogs, and he had always complied with the tax laws, at least to the extent that allowed him to sleep well. Whichever scenario it might turn out to be, it was odd that the stranger was alone.

The man did not seem to be threatening; on the contrary, he looked definitely friendly. Brody was surprised that his pulse did not jump when he saw him approaching them.

“Good morning, Mr. Turner,” he said and nodded to Brody too. His voice was even friendlier than his appearance. His accent was impeccable, akin to a National Geographic narrator’s. Turner did not bother to return the greeting, indicating that being addressed by a stranger was not to his liking. Brody did not greet him either but could not stand there without saying a word.

“How can we help you, Mr…?” he asked with a rising cadence, letting the man complete the sentence.

“I am sorry for interrupting you like this, but I have a special offer for Mr. Turner.”

“Who are you?” asked Turner. It did not particularly bother him that the stranger knew his name. He was not a famous man, but he had been to many places, and appeared on television and in magazines too.

“My name is Rolland Olivier, and all I need is few minutes of your time, Mr. Turner. I am offering something you cannot get anywhere else in the world.”

It flashed through Brody’s mind that the chap might be offering some kind of a s*x service but quickly discarded the idea as he could not imagine him being a pervert or a pimp, nor did he look malicious. He rather seemed like a crafty salesman, who once happened to be an athlete or a soldier. The mysterious offer was proposed as if he just wanted to pique their interest and wasn’t after Turner’s money. Regardless, Brody was certain that it was scam.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” said Brody and took a step toward the stranger.

“Hold on a sec,” said Turner to Brody, as his face was lit up by curiosity. Somewhere deep in gut there was a vague feeling he had not felt for a long time. He pointed at Olivier with his fingers holding the cigarette. “You have one minute,” he said, then nodded at Brody, indicating that it was all right. Olivier apparently knew who was who. He smiled at Turner pleasantly, ignoring what Brody had just said. Brody took a step back and crossed his arms.

“What I would like to tell you can be said only privately,” said Olivier. Turner glanced at Brody and then at the chauffeur.

“Hop in the car, Brody,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

The chauffeur, hearing Turner, opened the door. Brody obediently climbed into the car, but he was frustrated for being outmatched by a stranger. He did not give the smallest sign of it, but he was a bit hurt. After all, he was Turner’s confidant: his business partner, secretary, adviser, drinking buddy, and in fact, his bodyguard as well. So how could he just say, “Hop in the car, Brody?” The chauffeur closed the doors and sat behind the wheel.

Turner looked around in the street but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Pedestrians passed by without end, and the cars on the road moved like a looped short movie. He did not notice anybody in the windows who might have been watching them. The summer sun shone brightly, but the heat was not unpleasant. The place—with all its noise and turmoil—was the perfect spot for a confidential exchange of information.

“Thank you,” said Olivier. “I hope you understand why I approached you this way; after all, you are a busy man who is hard to reach, and I did not want my proposition to get lost among the myriad of others that you probably receive every day. Not to mention that in this matter I prefer a private discussion.”

Turner nodded and took a drag off the cigarette. There was something in Olivier that led him to believe that he was telling the truth and that he was a serious man. He radiated a positive energy and did not employ any tricks that swindlers employ to appear friendlier. Hearing him out should not cause him any trouble.

“I have to be at the airport in forty,” said Turner.

“Well, as I said, our company offers you a service you cannot get anywhere else. We make our clients’ most secret desires come true. All you need to do is enjoy yourself. We assume all risk, and you will pay only upon delivery. We seek out with this proposal only those who are rich enough and who enjoy life and everything else God put on earth.”

Turner did not ask how he knew how much money he had as this could be easily looked up on the Internet. Olivier read what was written on Turner’s face and answered the question.

“We did not investigate you, but we do know that you are wealthy, and that you have profitable companies and investments. We also know that you like spending your money, which, if you ask me, is a good quality,” said Olivier, glancing at the ground for a moment.

Turner realised that until then Olivier had been looking directly at him. He did not glance to his left or to his right like a suspicious person would do.

Olivier continued, “I suppose by now you have come to a point in life where only a few things might surprise you. Well, that is exactly my plan. We offer you something that will surprise you, something you have never done before—something you did not even know existed.”

Olivier’s familiar tone and gestures suggested that they had known each other for decades. He made a point of stressing the important words to ensure that Turner fully understood everything. The key was to plant the idea. He was careful not to invade his personal space. Olivier smiled frequently, and at the same time keenly observed Turner’s reactions and the micro-expressions on his face. He did not sound affected or mannered. “I cannot go into the details right here, and you have to promise that this conversation will remain between us.”

“Go on,” said Turner, with a tone that Olivier interpreted as an assurance of confidentiality.

“Our services do not include anything you would condemn. And like I said, you don’t need to do anything until receipt of your order.”

“But what are we talking about?” he asked without a trace of anxiety in his voice, just a tinge of impatience.

Olivier straightened his back. “As I said, it is about the realisation of your most secret desires. Let me buy you a coffee tomorrow, Mr. Turner, and I will tell you the details.”

Olivier handed him his business card. On the snow-white velvety paper, only his name and a phone number were engraved in serif font. Turner took the card, looked at it, and slipped it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He turned back to Olivier, who shimmered with peacefulness, like a meditating monk.

“I will think about it,” said Turner. He stepped to the bin and stubbed out his cigarette.

“I won’t hold you up any longer then, Mr. Turner. Have a safe journey in case we don’t meet again.”

He extended his hand, but Turner did not shake it. Olivier’s smile did not fade. He nodded, turned around and blended in the stream of pedestrians just like he had appeared. Because of his height, he was visible for a few more seconds, and then vanished. Turner stood for another moment on the sidewalk and watched the people. Still trying to find a reasonable explanation of what has just happened, he climbed into the car, and asked the chauffeur to drive to the airport.

“What did he want?” asked Brody. Turner did not face him, just kept staring out of the window. Brody knew that he was thinking hard about something.

“I don’t know yet,” said Turner after a long pause, “he has a business offer.”

“What kind of an offer?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Turner. Brody sensed that he did not want to talk about it anymore and was worried that without his input his boss might make a reckless decision, which would not be typical of him, but this situation was rather odd.

As the airport came into view, Turner leaned forward to the chauffeur.

“Turn back to the hotel,” he ordered.

The chauffeur signed with a deep nod that he understood.

“To the hotel?” asked Brody in an undertone so that the chauffeur wouldn’t hear him.

“Let’s postpone our departure until tomorrow evening. In the morning, I will hear Mr. Olivier’s proposal out.”

“You know that it will cost us a lot of money,” said Brody, “to rent a hangar for the plane and to accommodate the staff. And the Tokyo airport is one of the most expensive ones.”

“Make the arrangements, would you?” Turner said with a voice so low and distant that Brody did not argue. He took out his phone.

“Are you sure this shady, obscure proposal is worth it?”

“That’s not the point,” said Turner, which in fact meant that it was worth it because someone aroused his curiosity, and it was a feeling long forgotten. Yes, it was definitely worth it.