Chapter 1
Gordon Phillips dreamed of Stockholm. He dreamed of the curves in the river, of the water’s ebb and flow as it moved in, out, and around the structures of the city. He dreamed of the darkness and of the nooks and crannies where murderers hid, where violent crimes were perpetrated. He’d been reading too much Scandinavian crime fiction, he knew. Stockholm did not have high crime rates, especially comparatively, but since when did dreams ever follow reality?
He dreamed of one night in particular, when a lavish party was thrown in his honor. Beautiful men and women drape themselves on the tuxedos and dresses of the super-rich and the well-connected. Gordon didn’t have time for politicians, though. He drifted away, coolly drinking glass after glass of champagne. Nothing said that night was to have any consequence, so he let himself go.
Often, key business decisions were made in the bar after the meeting, but that particular meeting on that particular day had gone exactly as planned. He’d negotiated pay cuts for the middle management, higher production requirements from the lowest rung up, and cut a couple of millions off of bonuses to make the board look like they were for the people. Two million U.S. dollars sounded like a lot of money, but it really wasn’t. There was nothing big on the horizon, and this was a time for business consolidation, not investment. This was easy going. Gordon would remember for next time that he didn’t need to show up at these meetings. If needed, he could pretend he was listening in on speakerphone, but since the terms of the meeting were already laid out and every member of the board had been prepped out beforehand, the meeting was only a formality—which is to say, it was not actually necessary.
Gordon would worry about how business meetings were feeding into his subconscious later. He wouldn’t remember the details of how drunk the women draped over his arm at the party were, or how a particularly muscular man, who had not gotten the memo about bow ties, had also draped himself off Gordon’s arm, causing Gordon to admire the man’s lithe form over the woman’s cleavage. It usually wasn’t Gordon’s cup of tea, but he was too drunk to care. How many women had he slept with that night? He dreamed of enormous orgies, of naked people standing on enormous staircases that twisted and turned like an Escher painting into infinite heights.
Ah, yes, the subconscious was at work again. Gordon forced his perception to a more reasonable rendition of a townhouse—he had that power over his dreams. Unfortunately, however much water he drank, he could not stop himself feeling thirsty. He lifted a bucket of water from the floor—why was there a bucket of water on the floor?—and drank the whole thing. He felt a little sick but still felt thirsty.
It was then that Gordon jerked himself awake. His body was twisted uncomfortably around the seatbelt, his arms and legs flailing in the back seat of the limousine. His tongue was even hanging out of his mouth. He must have looked like a recently deceased dog.
“Where’s Jerry?” he asked the driver, a young black man that Gordon didn’t recognize, which gave him even greater concern about how he had looked having lost control and fallen asleep in the back seat.
“Jerry’s sick, boss. I’m Tom,” the driver replied.
“Is it bad?” Gordon responded.
“You know Jerry. He doesn’t take sick days unless he’s at death’s door. But, no, the doc said a couple of days of bed rest would do the trick.”
“Got it.” Gordon didn’t really care. He turned off the speaker connecting him to the driver.
He leaned his head back against the plush headrest, still dizzy from the flight. He hated flying, even though his first-class tickets enabled him to lie flat on his back the whole time. Being in a plane wasn’t much different to lying in bed, or, if the mood took him, sitting at a desk. Time. That was the problem. Time changed when you were on a plane. He often went to sleep in one time zone and woke in another vastly different one. He supposed if he disciplined himself, he could train his body to maintain one consistent internal clock. Or he could drink coffee, but he was getting past the age when mere doses of caffeine would work. He was in his thirties now. Now, he would far prefer having someone else make the flight and move through the time zones.
Yes, next time, he would realize that he had nailed the meeting before it had ever started. A teleconference would have been more than sufficient, overdoing it even, but you gotta keep the board happy.
He nodded off again, and his neck jerked slightly when the seatbelt didn’t allow him to fall onto the seat. He unclipped himself and let his body slip into a more comfortable reclined position. Maybe a short nap would let him clear his head. Who had he slept with last night? Had he slept with anyone? He could scarcely remember.
An hour later, Gordon forced his eyes open as he sat through another meeting. Why had he let two meetings be scheduled in two days? He’d need to have a word with his secretary, make sure that it didn’t happen again.
Somehow, thinking about his secretary jogged his memory. He remembered her face, the woman he’d slept with last night. Yes, he had slept with a woman last night. He leaned back in the chair—somebody was talking, but he wasn’t listening—and remembered her. He remembered her smell, her long, golden curls, her large brown eyes, and the motion of her body against his. The memory lingered. She had really been something.
“Gordon!”
“Yes, sorry, what?” He broke free of the daydream, still working to keep the daydreams from turning into sleep.
“Production. We want to move production outside of Sweden. We think we can get a better price if we move to Vietnam.”
Hell, he and the woman had even gone out to breakfast the next day. On the cobbled streets and eighteenth-century palatial buildings of the Gamla Stan. He had a great cup of fresh coffee and had allowed himself to eat the layered prinsesstårta with its stiffly-whipped cream for breakfast. He remembered how well he had enjoyed their time together, doing everything they did without complaint. She allowed herself to be hypnotized by his every wish. Or was his personality that hypnotic? It seemed as though people were always waiting for his command, always malleable when he made suggestions. Yes, that woman was very susceptible to suggestion, and very flexible, too. She seemed ready for anything.
“Gordon!”
“Right, no. You’re all wrong. Production stays in Sweden. It might be cheaper to move to Vietnam, but Sweden is crucial to the branding of the product. It’s a classy place. It’s a classy product. We will raise prices if we’re not making the necessary money.”
Multitasking was natural for him. It was part of the skill set that had gotten him this far in business, and yet, these thoughts of her were so enamoring. He was so engrossed in the thought of her that he was struggling to stay present in his current conversation.
“Look at this, sir.” A man with a brown suit and handlebar mustache reached down to a switch and brought up a chart on the giant screen on the wall. “The product isn’t earning nearly enough to raise prices. If we do that, with the projected loss in customers—”
Gordon interrupted him.”I don’t care, Paul. Just do it. Get it done. Make it work.” Gordon stood up. “Gentlemen, we’re staying in Sweden, and that’s final. Decision made. I’m going home and going to bed.”