But Vikram’s attention was focused on the tuxedoed man, a rather beefy fellow with a blond pompadour and a suspicious smile, who now sat behind the desk and played with a Bowie knife, sliding its shimmering blade between his well-manicured fingers.
Stanley MossWhere was he travelling to this week?
India? Yes, India. She suspected he had a mistress in Brussels, but they never spoke about that. For years she had detected the scents of miscellaneous perfumes on his shirts following his business trips.
Instantly Vikram froze in pain, shook like a break-dancer and then dropped to the floor, dazed. Jaitendra got up, dragged him to the centre of the room and shut the door.
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