Fucked Stupid Pt. 03

"Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt." - Sun Tzu, The Art of War

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Nigel was following Anna Brightman down the corridor to the boardroom. "Lamb to the slaughter," he thought. "Lamb to the slaughter."

How come he'd not noticed before what fine haunches that little lamb had? She was wiggling her arse in that form-fitting, impeccably tailored Savile Row suit as she walked ahead of him, and his dick was beginning to swell in his trousers at the sight. Try not to think about it. Now was not an appropriate moment for a bulge. It was an increasing problem these days though, ever since his last encounter with the witch bitch Valeria in Moscow. He shivered, and his trousers grew tighter still. He needed to clear his head.

Brightman dropped her pen and bent to pick it up. He nearly rear-ended her and pulled up just short of that tight little arse, now thrust into the air before him. Had she done that intentionally? Surely not.

"Ooh, sorry!" Brightman said, laughing melodiously and turning to peer back at him with the sweetest smile.

"Uh..." he tried, failing to form any meaningful response. She was never friendly, and he didn't know what to make of it. His cheeks flushed.

"It's so good to see you again, Nigel."

"Um, well, yes. And you," he stuttered, thrown by her unexpected warmth. Perhaps she had wind of what was about to happen and was making a last, desperate bid to ingratiate herself with him.

It was two weeks now since he'd returned from Moscow, and the last time he'd been at the head of a board meeting Brian had been at his side, on that fateful day he'd decided the ex-army man should accompany him on the trip as a safeguard. This time, he felt uncharacteristically vulnerable, shorn of his right-hand man and closest ally. Brian had returned a changed man. Gone was the straight-laced, restrained old boy, replaced by a lascivious, alcohol-soaked deviant. His poor wife had phoned Nigel, tearfully hinting at unspeakable behaviour. Knowing the debauchery he'd visited on his own wife after his first encounter with Valeria, he could imagine. That sweet young thing, Loulou, had truly fucked with Brian. He'd been given no choice but to put him on gardening leave, banished to a sanatorium for rest and recuperation.

Now he had to deal with Anna Brightman and put an end to her sly machinations. Once upon a time, the woman had been nothing more than a minor irritation.

How had it come to this? In his salad days, he'd promised himself he'd build a company where every employee felt valued. Bitter experience had shorn him of the delusion. An employee-representative Director on the Board was a last hurrah for that former self. His lifelong friend and coding comrade, Geoff, had taken the post, and life was good. Then came betrayal. Geoff had announced he was stepping away from the company, nominated Brightman to take his place, and Nigel lost his last friend in the world. Before he had awoken to the danger, she was voted on to the Board. Now he couldn't dismiss her without the consent of his fellow directors. She'd grown from an itch to a festering thorn in his side.

But he had a plan.

"First order of business today is a rather sad and troubling matter. As you know, I've only just brought negotiations for the takeover of Osco to a successful conclusion, barring shareholder approval and legal niceties. I..."

"Yes, we know, Haverstone." It was that sour-faced, holier-than-thou Thompson, an old antagonist of Nigel, interrupting him as was his wont. "And, before you take all the credit, a number of our people contributed to the deal. So what's the trouble?"

"I received a letter last week from Dimitry Kuznetsov, Deputy Security Officer at Osco, revealing that somebody from our company has been feeding them confidential information about our financials in an attempt to undermine the takeover." Nigel flourished the letter and placed it on the table before them. "That person is none other than our employee-representative Director, Ms Brightman." The pronouncement brought a collective gasp from the assembled board members.

"Haverstone, this accusation is beyond contemptible."

"He's willing to testify to that effect, I'm afraid. How else would he have obtained these figures?" he asked, jabbing his finger at the letter before him. "In light of that, it gives me no pleasure to ask that we vote immediately on the removal of Anna Brightman from her position on this board." He did his best to affect an expression of benevolent pity as he spoke, barely able to suppress his glee at the look of hurt and confusion written on her face.

"But I've done nothing of the sort! I don't understand," said Brightman.

He'd always had a nose for people's weaknesses and how to exploit them. It was how he'd managed to screw so many young women in his employ, after all. What nobody present knew was that he'd instantly recognized a greedy sleazebag in Kuznetsov, resentful of his lowly position at Osco and only too willing to provide fake testimony in return for a juicy role after the merger and an even juicier bung.

"I'm so sorry, Brightman. Nobody is more enthusiastic about women progressing at my company than me, and I sympathize that you envy my success, but you leave me no choice." He contrived one last charitable look at Brightman, turned to the men around the table and continued. "So, gentlemen, a vote."

"Hold on, Haverstone!" said Thompson. "I've received information from Osco too. Just yesterday, this Kuznetsov fellow dragged a young female employee into a store cupboard and attempted to rape her. He's been arrested and summarily dismissed. I wouldn't trust a word the man wrote."

"Impossible! It's a fraud," Nigel shouted, rising from his seat and clutching the edge of the table.

"We have it on good authority from the Osco Board. In fact, that brings me to the most pressing business of this meeting."

Nigel slumped back down into his chair, his face suddenly drained of colour. When he spoke, his voice was thin and strained. "It can wait."

"No, it can't. It pertains to your competence as CEO of this company, and therefore takes precedence over any other business."

"Thompson, how many times have you tried some trumped-up charge against me? Give it up."

"I've had to question your sordid behaviour towards female employees many times over the years, it's true, but your latest exploit threatens to undermine company business."

"Seriously? She's angling for a pay-off!" Tiresome. Thompson trying to use another disgruntled former assistant he'd fooled with against him. Par for the course.

"Not Miss Jones, though that's serious enough. No, we've had a report from the Osco Board of a most unsavoury incident in Moscow between you, Brian and two young women. They're threatening to withdraw from the deal if we fail to offer sufficient reassurances."

Nigel's heart leapt into his mouth. "I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"I have the evidence here," he said, indicating the folder before him. "I've already shared the gist of it with my fellow board members, but I'll save you the embarrassment of discussing the details if you agree to drop this ridiculous crusade against Ms Brightman and allow me to continue."

Nigel's mouth opened, but no words formed.

Thompson turned his gaze from him and addressed the other directors: "I suggest the seriousness of this misdemeanour means that the Board must vote immediately on whether Mr Haverstone should be removed from his position as CEO of Haverstone Tech."

Brightman! This had to be her doing. Fuck the bitch! Fuck, how he wanted to fuck the bitch too, he realised. What was wrong with him? A moment like this and he was getting the horn for her again.

"All those in favour?"

Five out of the ten raised their hands. Nigel's face blanched as he studied Brightman, waiting for her to raise her hand. Those intense, hazel eyes of hers betrayed no emotion, but he fancied a faint smile flickered across her lips. Her hands remained on the table. What, she wasn't going to plunge the last knife in?

"All those against?"

Four raised their hands. Brightman: nothing. Of course, the skanky bitch was going to abstain. Not even the courage to fight him openly.

"Without Mr Haverstone, we wouldn't have a company," Brightman said, as she raised hers.

He was flummoxed. She'd chickened out, too cowardly to face him off and take her chance. He'd make her regret it.

"Well, I must declare the vote inconclusive. It seems Mr Haverstone has survived once again."

Thompson was droning on, but Nigel barely registered him. A torrent of thoughts was raging, but one shone through: he wanted to tear the clothes off Brightman, mess up that pristine exterior and plunge his now swollen dick into her tight little box.

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He was a hulk of a man. No mistaking him. He had the air of one of those old prison ships Nigel had seen paintings of, anchored off the marshlands of the Kentish coast, faded and forlorn, huge timbers cracking. Brian, in a briefly lucid moment, had given him the man's name, an old acquaintance from his days in the army, former Georgian Special Forces turned security specialist.

"Mr Haverstone?" he asked on seeing Nigel, his voice low and gruff, and held out a huge slab of a hand. "I'm Tomasz." Nigel reached up to grasp it. "And this is Borys." Tomasz indicated the gangling young man beside him. Borys gave a swift nod and bared a grin missing a couple of teeth at the top, shifting restlessly from leg to leg.

The driving rain and late winter's early evening gloom made it hard to discern it fully, but it appeared they stood outside a Victorian municipal building, judging by its Gothic features. Devil and griffin gargoyles peered down at them with malign grins from the smothering dark above.

The rain was beginning to seep down the back of his neck, and Nigel shivered, fidgeting with the collar of his raincoat and darting his eyes from point to point, alighting finally on the sign by the entrance: "Orthodox Seminary of Saint Shushanik." He raised an eyebrow. "A religious school? Why have you brought me here?"

"I didn't bring you here, Mr Haverstone, if you'll forgive my saying. You insisted on coming."

"You said you had an interesting lead on Anna Brightman. I was curious."

"I understand, but it might not be safe for you. That's why you hired us, after all."

"What are you scared of? That I might be proselytized by an irate priest?"

"Saint Shushanik — Saint Susanna to you. Queen of Georgia in the time of the Persians. It's a seminary for young women. If anything, a nun will accost you."

"I wouldn't have taken you for a history buff."

"I might have the appearance of a thug, Mr Haverstone, but I'm an educated man. Besides, the blessed Saint Shushanik is renowned in our home country. She refused to worship the Zoroastrian fire and was cast into it by the hand of her idolatrous husband."

"But what has this to do with Brightman?"

"My sources suggest she runs the charitable foundation that funds it. Something doesn't smell right though."

"She's kept that quiet, but how will revealing to the Board she runs a charity help rid me of her? I want something better than that from you."

"That's why we're here, sir. I need to get inside the place to see what's really going on."

Tomasz scanned the street for prying eyes and, seeing not a soul, leapt up the steps to the grand, arched entrance, cracked the door open to peer in and motioned for them to follow.

They crept through the building's silent corridors and vast, empty rooms, until they found themselves at last in a long, dimly lit hallway, lined on either side by windows into what appeared to be classrooms or studios, all in darkness except for one at the far end. Nigel's nostrils filled with the smell of sweat — not stale body odour, but rather a musky, almost sweet scent that was oddly thrilling. A murmur of girls' voices burbled across the hall from the room.

Tomasz motioned them forward silently until they were standing by the room's windows, the relative dark of the hall obscuring them from its occupants. And what occupants they were. Nigel's groin tingled unexpectedly. Maybe twenty young women, all in their early twenties at a guess, sat cross-legged in tight, concentric circles on the polished wood floor. Each was Lycra-clad with bare midriffs, every part of their anatomy clearly outlined by the thin, form-hugging fabric. Their bodies glistened with sweat and their skin was flushed as if they had been exercising vigorously. All were gorgeous.

At the centre sat a man in a black robe. A priest and their teacher, Nigel thought. He seemed deep in meditation.

The girls were reciting a prayer, or so he surmised, for the words were indistinct. There was a rhythm to them though that was oddly distracting. As the sound flowed over him, his dick rose and throbbed slowly at its root, his mind awash with impressions of their breasts and nipples, their thighs and outline of their labia. He fought a sudden urge to dash in, rip their flimsy clothes off and drown in their firm, young flesh.

Something snapped him out of his trance, and he glanced over at Tomasz and Borys to see they were staring glassy-eyed at the scene. It was the sound of light footsteps behind him that had disturbed him, and he turned around as a young woman approached from the way they had come. She seemed not the least perturbed by their presence.

"Have you come to join us?" she asked with a mellifluous voice, smiling sweetly at them as she passed.

"Borys, stop that!" Tomasz said under his breath. Behind her, the young man was leering at her arse and thrusting his hips back and forth.

"Sorry, boss!" he replied with a wide grin. As Tomasz turned away again, he gave another thrust for good measure and waggled his tongue between v-shaped fingers at her, hopping up and down on one foot with obvious pleasure at his antics.

Tomasz caught sight of him in the reflection of the glass and rolled his eyes. "Borys, we're with a client. Please, stop clowning!" he hissed, turning back to Nigel with raised eyebrows. "I'm sorry, sir. Girls... Everything's about girls with him. Sometimes I think I should keep him on a leash."

The girl who had passed them had sat with the others and was whispering in the ear of her neighbour, as she peered out of the room with curious delight. Tomasz frowned. "I think we'd better leave."

The sound of prayer had stopped abruptly, and Nigel noticed the girls were rising from the floor. Peering back, he thought he glimpsed the man at their centre looking wild-eyed as they began to fall on him and tear his clothing off, but Tomasz had already taken hold of his arm and was dragging him away.

"Come on!"

Tomasz led them back through the labyrinthine corridors of the old building, urging them to keep moving, as Nigel mulled over what he had seen. The hard-on he'd acquired subsided after a few minutes, but those beautiful girls were still burnt into his vision and wouldn't fade. Maybe that was what happens at a religious college, but it was curious. Orthodox it wasn't, he thought, chuckling to himself at the pun.

"Well, we've seen nothing that will help me bring down Brightman. We need to explore further," he whispered, as they neared the entrance hallway.

"No, it's too dangerous. We're done here."

"But I need something on her — some way to get rid of her."

"Maybe she could disappear."

"What? No!" Nigel laughed nervously. "I'm not going to be an accessory to murder! Dial it back a bit. If half the rumours I've heard are true about her sexual exploits, there has to be some dirt on her somewhere."

"Ah, yes. Kompromat, as our Russian cousins like to call it."

"Exactly. Wait... Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"I thought I heard a man calling for help. Down there." He dashed off down a short flight of stairs to the side, Tomasz chasing after him.

"Sir, sir..."

They pulled up at the end of a corridor, confronted by a row of doors labelled "Exam Room 1", "Exam Room 2" and so on.

"Here," Nigel said in a hushed voice as he leaned against the second door and pressed his ear to it. "Did you hear that?"

A man began to moan on the other side of the door, but now it had the unmistakable sound of sexual abandon to it. It was interspersed by the animated voices of at least two young women, the timbre and melody betraying their age.

"I need to find out what's going on," he said as he gingerly turned the door handle.

"I think it's pretty clear what's going on. Let's go."

"He doesn't sound right." There was something disturbingly familiar to Nigel's ear about the man's groans. "The door's locked too."

At that moment, an alarm began to ring in the distance.

"We need to go!" said Tomasz, tugging at him. "Come on, there's..." He trailed off and held his huge arm out to halt Nigel and Borys. In front of them, and blocking their exit, stood four burly men. They fanned out silently, chests out, arms set, drawing closer.

"You shouldn't be here," said the foremost of them. He didn't wait for a response, but lunged at Tomasz, only to be felled by a thudding blow to the chin from the big man's fist. A second had followed in, but Tomasz side-stepped him with a grace that belied his bulk and threw him over his shoulder and into the stonework beside them, drawing a grunt from the man as his bones cracked against it.

Nigel shrank back as the third man came at him, but Borys slid in between them, and, with a whirl of wiry limbs, swiftly despatched him. The fourth, seeing his fallen colleagues, stepped back, eyes darting between Tomasz and Borys.

Tomasz turned to Nigel. "Let's get out of here!"

And with that, they fled into the night.

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A day later, and Nigel paced the lobby of his London pied-à-terre, grinding his teeth as he scanned the darkened street outside. He didn't appreciate being dragged away from his home comforts unexpectedly, particularly on such a miserable winter's evening like this.

He loved his flat here on the top floor of one of the converted wharf buildings by the Tower of London, a short trip through the former red-light and Jack the Ripper territory of Whitechapel to his headquarters at Silicon Roundabout. From his lounge windows, he could survey the river towards Westminster, HMS Belfast moored on the other bank and The Shard slicing into the night sky near it, and in the other direction to where the Thames began to spread out into its estuary. He would look out over the heart of the former City of London port, where ships had plied their trade to and from the old Empire, and feel like the king of the world.

He looked forward to the nights he could spend here, rid of his wife and children. Sometimes he yearned for his younger days, free of responsibility and the burden of command. His wife had fallen in love with that eager idealist, her quixotic knight. Nobody would fall in love with the man he had become, he thought with a sigh. He wouldn't go back though; he loved the rewards too much. He checked his crisp white cuffs and diamond cufflinks as he thought it and glanced over at the doorman, who smiled back deferentially. And the girls too: assistants to be suckered, escorts delivered to his room. Sex whenever he wanted it, with whomever he wanted. Until that sorceress from Russia had defiled it — infecting his urges, tormenting his thoughts.

Awoken from his reverie, he caught sight of the black saloon as it waited to cross the traffic into the building's entrance and dashed out into the rain that beat the pavement outside. It swung into the approach from the wrong direction and pulled up recklessly beside him, spraying a sheet of grey, icy-cold water over his trouser legs. The driver's side window wound down, and a grinning Borys leaned his head out.