Deception by John Altman Page B

neck, and walked her to her car, naked. He kissed her again and watched as the Audi rolled away down the long driveway.
    He stood alone in the cool twilight, trying to keep the nipping depression at bay.
    The mistral, he noticed, was gaining force.
    This surprised him. During summers, the cool north wind was usually manageable. It was during the winters that it escorted ice-cold air down from the Rhône, blasting across southern France with a vengeance. But in the winters, of course, Henri was not here to see it. In the winters he went to Aspen, or the Ivory Coast, or South Beach. He had never owned a house in his life—but he had many friends who owned houses in the best locations, who were always eager to offer them for Henri Jansen’s use.
    Patrons , he thought. By making their fancy houses available to him, the friends were supporting his career as a photographer … although nearly a full year had passed since he had last put film in his camera, let alone snapped a picture. Yes; in the old days, they would have been called patrons.
    The depression stirred again.
    Before going back inside, he took a short stroll around the grounds. The sun was purpling, sinking toward the horizon. The vineyards were never more lovely than at sunset, Henri thought. He took his time on the walk, waiting for his mood to lighten. At one point the neighbor’s dog—a terrier mutt named Sylvie—fell into step beside him. For about ten minutes, they walked together. Then Sylvie caught sight of a butterfly and charged off into the fields, leaving Henri alone.
    By the time he returned to the house, full dark was falling.
    He showered. Madeleine’s scent was still on him, in his hair and on his fingers, giving him a pleasurable tingle. They had been getting along well lately, he and Madeleine. Perhaps they had been getting along a bit too well.
    Madeleine’s husband, Vladimir, was a high-ranking Russian politician who once had been intimately involved with the KGB and now was intimately involved with the ongoing reform of the Russian court system. The Russian court system, Madeleine reported, was rife with corruption. And her husband, she reported, was growing filthy rich off said corruption. Lately, they spent more and more time here in Provence, squandering his ever-increasing fortune with the elite club that populated southern France during the dog days of summer: wealthy industrialists, movie stars, royalty, politicians, and socialites.
    Henri was glad to have Madeleine around more often. They enjoyed each other; they had fun together. And yet her husband would not be a good man to have as an enemy. He was known in certain circles as the vulture—only in part because of his hawklike mien. The nickname also came from the man’s predatory habits, and his lack of hesitancy in pursuing them. If Henri and Madeleine grew too close, Ismayalov might take notice. And that could become a problem.
    But no: It was just a fling. A summer thing. Henri knew it, and he was fairly sure that Madeleine knew it, too.
    After the shower, he made a quick circuit through the house, shuttering windows in case a storm came while he was out for dinner. In the sunken living room, he knelt before the fireplace to make certain the flue was closed. When he stood, he found himself looking at the room’s tremendous picture windows. A lot of good shuttering the small panes all through the house would do, with these sheets of glass still open to the elements. Yet he was only following orders.
    Officially, Henri was here as a house-sitter. It was his responsibility to make sure the pipes didn’t burst, the scorpions didn’t run wild, the refrigerator and the wine cellar didn’t become empty. In reality, of course, he was here to be available to the lady of the house—an American whom he jokingly called Princess—whenever the mood took her. But Princess was in Rome, at least through the end of the month, with her