They carried playing trays, dangling from straps around their necks, and gamblers could summon them over for a round of five-card stud or blackjack. Lukacs sat among a quintet of Asian men—a pile of chips and cards and cash between them. A couple of his ugly bodyguards stood back from the table and watched. She quickly abandoned her hopeful paramour and danced to somewhere else.
“Acquired,” she said as she smiled and pranced, barely moving her lips.
“Say again?” Shepard prodded.
Lily put her fingers to her throat and pressed. That sometimes helped with the audio.
“Got him.”
“Outstanding! Who’s he with?”
“Unknown. Hang around for video.”
“I’m glued to my chair, lady!”
This next part was going to be dicey. First, she ran a check on the emergency exits, spotting one to the right near the Ladies, and another directly opposite, near the Men’s. There was likely another somewhere behind the stage, but getting back there would be a last-ditch thing.
Now she needed some cover, at least one “mark,” or two would be better. She had to get near Lukacs with her cell, shoot some images, and send them to Linc.
Ahh, there you are, gents. She smiled as she spotted a pair of European-looking men in their thirties, sitting at a small round table about twenty meters from Lukacs’s position. They were fashionably dressed in gleaming black, with chest curls poking from the tops of silk shirts. One was blondish, and the other one had darker ringlets, probably French or maybe Corsican.
She strode right over to their table, pulled out a chair and plopped herself down. She leaned back, blew out a breath that flicked her bangs, and said, “Whew!” as she fanned herself with a hand. The two men looked a bit startled, but then they scanned her body and grinned. She took a stab at her instincts.
“Bon soir, mes amis.” She nearly had to shout it above the techno fray. Then she leaned forward, displaying her cleavage, and stuck out a hand to the blond one. “Amanda Flay.”
He smiled and took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Pierre,” he said.
The other one took it and squeezed it. “Antoine.”
“A pleasure.” Lily leaned forward, one elbow on the table as she cupped her chin, perused their chest curls and smiled.
“Do you speak French?” Pierre asked in a heavy accent.
“No, but I know how to French. And I’ve always dreamed about a ménage-a-trois.”
The men jerked their heads back and leered at each other. Lily fingered her emerald choker.
“I’m terribly thirsty,” she said. “Escort a lady to the bar?”
“We shall lose our table,” said Antoine.
Lily got up and motioned for her newfound friends to do likewise. She gripped the top spars of their chairs and tilted them both across the table. Then she reached for Antoine’s belt buckle as his eyes went wide, whipped the belt from his trousers, and girded the two chairs together.
“There,” she said. “Now no one would dare!” She unslung her backpack, took out her cell, draped the pack over one shoulder again, and took their elbows. “Onward!”
She guided them through the thumping crowd, pulling them close, letting her hips rub theirs as she felt them stealing glances at her bouncing breasts. They passed fairly close behind Lukacs’s table, where she took a quick glance at the back of his head. Across from him sat a stocky Korean with a flat-top haircut, a forehead scar, cruel black eyes, and a boxer’s nose. That one had to be Lukacs’s contact; the rest looked like hangers-on.
The trio pushed their way to the neon bar on the left. The bartender was a girl with spiked blue hair. Pierre and Antoine ordered martinis. “Amanda?” Pierre inquired.
“Vodka, if you please,” she said.
“With?”
“With vodka.” She smiled and turned her back to the bar, leaning her elbows on the neon tubing as she gripped her cell casually. Lukacs’s table was about seven meters away, appearing, and then blocked again, at intervals, as the crowd ebbed and waved by. She pressed the button and recorded in bursts.
“Okay, I’m getting it,” Linc said in her ear. “Try to hold it steady.”
She did, as Antoine leaned down from her left.
“So, mademoiselle, where are you from?” he asked.
“Your dreams.” She smiled up at him as she dug her nails in his ribs.
“That’s a good one,” said Linc. “You’re from everyone’s dreams. Give me one more burst, and I think I’ve got this.”
She did, but then some instinct caused Lukacs’s Korean contact to swing his head around. His black eyes met hers for a split second before she turned back to the bar. Pierre, to her left, had their drinks and was slapping some cash on the counter. She squeezed his ass cheek and looked up at him.
“Kiss me,” she said. His eyes widened, but he did. He was fairly slimy, but it was not the worst she’d ever suffered.
The three of them pushed back toward their table, and she made sure not to glance at Lukacs again. Antoine recovered his belt as Lily tucked her cell phone away. They sat and drank while she boldly hinted about her most sensitive spots and favorite positions while Pierre and Antoine squeezed their thighs together. It seemed to be taking Linc forever, but at last his voice murmured in her ear.
“Okay,” he said. “The dude across from Lukacs is Colonel Shin Kwan Hyo, North Korean, which means he’s got a big set of balls showing up in Seoul. The other dudes don’t register, except for three of Lukacs’s thugs, who I just matched from Prague. If you’re copying this, give me a cough.”
Lily took a swig of her vodka and ice, coughed once, and played with Pierre’s fingers.
“Received,” Linc said. “You also got a shot under their table. Hyo and Lukacs both have identical briefcases beside their legs. They’re gonna pull a switch. You did good. Now you better hightail it. Copy?”
Lily coughed one more time and finished her drink. She smiled at Pierre and Antoine as she sketched a crimson nail along
