Introduction:
It was not his fault that Mr and Mrs Stanley landed their firstborn with the handle 'Morton Henry'. 'Henry Morton' possibly seemed to them pretentious, suggestive that the famous explorer was an ancestor. On the other hand, they could not resist the allusion. They did not think ahead, to schooldays and the viciousness his fellows could have wrought on one with the handle 'Morton'. Whoever was called that?
As it turned out, Morton's handle caused him no grief. He could not care less what he was called. At boarding school, he excelled in every respect except in sports, and this was the reason he was set apart from his fellows. They mocked him, of course, as a swot, not one of the crowd, but Morton did not care. He also did not care that half his teachers were morons. He learned anyway, and by the time he was sixteen decided that his school had nothing more to teach him -- nothing at least that he was interested in learning.
Morton Henry ran away. He just disappeared one day, and that was the last his school or his family ever heard of him. His mother, naturally, was distraught, but had her hands full with the twins and gradually accommodated to the mysterious disappearance of her son. They registered Morton as a 'missing person' with the police, placed ads in the local papers. But this was to no avail since Morton was not in the vicinity. He went to London.
How he acquired his first job at the famous investment house Peachman- Lowell is not recorded. Also not recorded is his departure at age 18, and the founding of his own investment company, Morton and Associates, though the curious will search in vain for any record of the company, or, indeed, any Associates. Morton's company was run from a flat in South London which, while unpretentious, was spacious, kitted out with the latest technology and very well connected to the stock markets of the world.
By the age of 22, Morton Henry, already a multi-millionaire, did acquire an Associate of sorts, one Russell Draper, an expert in all things electronic, but lacking the entrepreneurial talent of Morton himself. They were a perfect combination. As the company's assets grew to gargantuan proportions, Russell became bound to Morton at the hip. The man was a financial genius. Russell worked regular hours, but Morton did not. In fact, Russell had never caught him asleep, or even daydreaming, lest this be about an investment that was not doing as well as expected. Morton rarely left the modest accommodations and, curiously, his motivation seemed to have little to do with the vast fortune he had accumulated. His work was art, and this he lived for. The fortune he accumulated was a mere by-product.
When Morton was approaching 40, Morton and Associates' tentacles stretched across the globe and occasionally, though never with a good grace, he was moved to leave his lair and visit one or other of the recipients of his largesse. Motivate them to do better, or call them to task if they'd failed to meet financial projections.
One day in late summer, Morton made such a visit, to a capital in Eastern Europe, where he had, pretty much, a stranglehold on the entire economy. It would be a visit that changed his life.
Naturally, his business partners received Morton with the greatest respect and with much pomp, though no ceremony, which Morton expressly forbad. He detested the limelight and the faintest hint of a reporter or a camera in his vicinity sent him scuttling for cover. His business partners knew this, and sought innovative ways to impress, if not ingratiate. This was especially important if the balance sheet was less impressive than they would have wished and it seemed vital to maintain Morton's ongoing approval by other means.
After a hard day's work poring over the books, businessmen are not unknown to enjoy a night on the town, and while Morton was certainly no ordinary businessman, neither was a visit to 'Club Venus' an 'ordinary night on the town'.
*
Chapter 1
'Club Venus' was as exclusive as it was reclusive. Money alone was not enough, money and influence a pre-requisite, but still not enough. Entry to the Club, whose existence was known only to the staff, the employees, and the members -- all of whom were required to sign an oath of secrecy so sacred no-one had dared ever breach it --- was strictly 'invitation only'. Members were allowed to join only after a thorough background check by the Elders, a select group whose longevity of membership gave them leverage. In short, Club Venus was more exclusive than any golf club, any country club and if there were other clubs of equal exclusivity around the world, how would one know about them?
When Esterhazy proposed an evening's entertainment, Morton declined. He wanted just to be left alone with his laptop and a hard-wired, secure link so he could check what had happened to the markets while he had been busy grilling Esterhazy and his team. The Eastern European market had performed very well, but Morton was suspicious. It seemed fragile. This Esterhazy knew, which is why he persisted, impressing on Morton the exclusiveness of the venue, the presence of persons of much influence. The markets were indeed fragile. Ergo, a vital investor should be provided with an incentive to remain invested --- so he could visit and re-visit the region. Club Venus had never failed. So far.
As an Elder himself, Esterhazy had the right to one guest, and he used all means of persuasion to ensure that his guest that night would be Morton.
In the end, Morton gave way. He'd left Russell with precise instructions. What was the point of having an Associate if one did not allow him from time to time to take care of business? Morton had no wish to accept Esterhazy's invitation, but the man was so persistent, it was not easy to refuse. Morton Henry Stanley was a courteous man.
The limousine drew up at the door to what appeared to be a derelict building. Esterhazy threw Morton a glance of reassurance. The building appeared still derelict when they gained entry. Esterhazy had muttered something into a hidden intercom. When they passed through the second door, though, they entered a world so far removed from the outward appearances of the building it took Morton a while to adjust. Damask covered the walls, elegant items of furniture threw shadows cast by candles in alcoves. It was like entering the Casino in Monte Carlo from a barren warehouse.
Two young girls appeared, scantily clad. One girl took Esterhazy's coat, the other Morton's. They disappeared. A woman stood before them. She wore a black dress that more than adequately emphasized her contours, and her hair up, which gave her a slightly severe appearance. She said something to Esterhazy, obviously a greeting. Her manner was regal, but just slightly deferential. Esterhazy, evidently, was a valued personage. The woman nodded at Morton, pleasantly. A brief conversation took place in a tongue Morton did not understand. The woman nodded.
"Welcome to our club," she said to Morton, in accented English, extending an elegant hand. Which Morton took.
"Morton," he said.
"Sharapova," the woman replied, bowing her head slightly. "I hope you will enjoy yourself."
"We'll take the mezzanine," Esterhazy whispered to Morton. "Maximum privacy. Please remember, you are my guest. Everything is on the house. And I do mean 'everything'."
He nodded significantly. Why, Morton had no idea. He just followed along, more than a tad bewildered, as they mounted a thickly carpeted stairwell and entered a corridor that curved around. On one side of the corridor were doors with names on them and at one of these, the apex of the curve, they paused.
"This is the 'Scheherazade Suite'," Esterhazy said. "Nothing but the very best for our distinguished guest."
Esterhazy knocked gently. The door opened, seemingly of its own accord.
Esterhazy gestured, Morton hesitated.
"I'm right next door", he said, indicating. "Here."
"You mean....?"
"In case you need me," Esterhazy said. "Though I don't think you will. Maybe later."
"You mean...?" Morton stammered, indicating the door that had opened.
"Your suite. Absolutely private. You'll find the service here exemplary. Only the finest -- of everything."
Morton was way out of his element, but he saw little alternative than to comply. His inclination -- to turn his back and retreat the way they'd come --- seemed too inappropriate. He entered the booth, his eyes adjusting gradually to the dim light from the candles. In front of him was a small sofa, of extraordinary elegance, opulently upholstered. The sofa faced out on a picture window that encompassed the entire frontage of the booth. As he advanced towards the sofa, Morton became aware that the window looked down on a stage. And on that stage were --- girls?
Oh my goodness!
At that moment he also became aware that he was not alone in the booth. Who was this? A waitress? That she was extraordinarily beautiful Morton did not immediately realize. His exposure to members of a sex other than his own had been restricted to the odd female executive, whose body language was quite different from that of the apparition, who now suggested with a slight movement of her arm that Morton may wish to occupy the sofa. Which Morton did.
"May I bring you a drink, Mr Morton," 'Scheherazade' said, standing at his side. Morton noticed, not without alarm, that beneath her thin blouse, low cut, the contours of her breasts were clearly visible. Firm nipples strained against the cotton. He noticed also, that her legs not only went all the way to the ground, but almost all the way up as well. Only the briefest of skirts, slung elegantly from her hips, hid their fulcrum.
Morton was confused. Where could he look? He fought for utterance.
"How d'you know my name?" he said, suspiciously, not looking.
