The bass from the club's main floor was a distant thump, muffled behind layers of soundproofing.
In the VIP suite upstairs, the air was thick with perfume, champagne, and low laughter. Velvet drapes shut out the London night, and soft amber lighting gave everything the sheen of a decadent dream.
John Osemwingie sat back on the leather banquette, a glass of Krug in one hand, his tie loosened, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. Around him, Eastern European models lounged like jungle cats—legs draped over armrests, bare shoulders catching the light, eyes heavy with wine and something darker.
One of them leaned close, her accent curling around each word. "You never smile, John. Not even now?"
He let the corner of his mouth turn up, just slightly. "I smile when it matters."
She laughed, pressing her lips to his ear before whispering something in a language most men in the room wouldn't have understood. He answered without hesitation—in her own tongue. Her eyes widened, and she slid into his lap with deliberate slowness.
Across the room, another pair were tangled together on the velvet chaise, their silhouettes moving lazily to the pulse of the music. Laughter spilled like champagne bubbles. The mirrored walls caught fragments of movement—bare limbs, soft curves, the glint of jewelry.
---
The suite's heavy door opened briefly, letting in a flicker of hallway light. A man in a fitted suit stepped inside, moving with the easy confidence of someone used to crossing borders without stamps. He was in his fifties, his hair steel grey, his eyes unreadable.
"Mr. Osemwingie," he said, his voice barely carrying over the music.
John didn't move from his seat. "You're late, Andrew."
The man smiled faintly. "Your friends downstairs are generous with champagne."
John motioned to the models to give them a moment, though two lingered within arm's reach, their curiosity piqued. Andrew sat opposite him, sliding a small envelope across the low table. The wax seal was unmarked.
"That's the file on your man in Khartoum," Andrew said. "Also… our friends in the Gulf may be reaching too far into East Africa. There's chatter about Eritrea."
John took the envelope, slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket without looking inside. "If they're reaching into Eritrea, they're not stopping there. Watch Djibouti."
Andrew's gaze flicked briefly to the brunette curled against John's side. "Always working, even here?"
John smiled faintly. "The world doesn't stop because the music's good."
---
The brunette with eyes the color of old whiskey set her glass down and crossed to him, the slit in her dress parting with each step. She leaned over, her perfume mingling with the champagne on his breath, and whispered, "You're too dressed for this party."
John chuckled, letting her unbutton the rest of his shirt. "Then undress me."
The night blurred into a haze of movement—silk against skin, laughter like smoke, the pop of another bottle opening. In the corner, the models were dancing now, slow and close, their shadows stretching long on the walls.
John closed his eyes and let it all wash over him. Even in this haze, the weight of the envelope in his pocket reminded him — tomorrow, the work would begin again.