“I think we’ve got our hook,” Justin said, his eyes squinting. The left corner of his lips formed a sly grin.
“Uh-oh,” Carrie said with a headshake. “I know that grin and it usually means trouble, big trouble.”
“Here’s my idea: we find a Bugatti Veyron the Prince wants and offer it to him. He’ll agree to come out and meet—”
“It’s never going to work,” Abdul cried.
“Hear me through.”
“OK, first of all, where are we going to find a Bugatti?”
“I know a friend.”
“Which one?” Carrie peered at Justin over her reading glasses.
“Romanov.”
“I can’t believe you’re calling that Russian son of a bitch a ‘friend.’” She threw her arms in the air.
“He owes me one, Carrie, and I was describing him to Abdul, who doesn’t know him,” Justin said. He continued to Abdul, “He’s not really my friend.”
“So, who is this Romanov?”
“He’s a Russian oil thug who owns half of Moscow.” Carrie snorted. “And who has bribed and killed his way to the top.”
“And this billionaire owes you one because…” Abdul’s bushy eyebrows arched and his forehead wrinkles doubled.
“Regretfully, he saved the thug’s life,” Carrie replied. Noticing Abdul’s awestruck face, she explained, “We were staking out this bar in Nice, a couple of years back, looking for a CIS agent gone rogue. At some point, Romanov pulls in with his bodyguards and that’s when we realize our agent turned sniper was planning the oil thug’s death. Our guy pops two of the bodyguards and wounds Romanov on the shoulder, before Justin could get close enough to our agent. The thug’s alive because of Justin.”
“The whole story it’s a bit more complicated, but, yeah, that’s the gist of it,” Justin said.
Abdul kept shaking his head.
“Even if Romanov agrees to lend you his Bugatti Veyron, which he would be crazy to do, how are we going to tune it up and show it to the Prince, all in less two 48 hours?” Carrie asked.
“Valerie,” Justin replied.
Carrie looked sideways at Justin.
“Let me guess,” Abdul jumped in, “she owes you her life as well?”
“Ha, ha, not funny,” Justin said. “When I used to race, she worked for Joy’s, this hotrod garage in north Montreal.”
“And you dated her for some time,” Carrie added. “Now, I doubt she learned at Joy’s how to fine-tune Bugattis.”
“You’re right. She got out of there about the same time I did, oh, fifteen years ago. Now she works for Monsati, a small Italian car tuner, out of Milan. And she’s already souped-up two Bugatti Veyrons.”
“How come you know so much about this woman?” Abdul asked, his voice implying more than simple curiosity.
“Facebook.”
“Does Anna know you’re tweeting her?” Carrie asked with a wink.
Justin sneered. “I’m not tweeting her; we exchange an e-mail or two now and then. And yes, Anna knows I have friends, like she does, and that occasionally they happen to be of the opposite sex.”
“So, just to clarify, your plan is to borrow Romanov’s Veyron, have Valerie pimp his ride, and then we’ll use it as bait for Al-Farhan?” Carrie asked.
“In a nutshell. Anyone has any better idea?”
Carrie shook her head. Abdul spread his palms.
Justin fell silent for a few seconds.
“Now, what’s wrong?” Carrie asked.
“This… this plan. This crazy plan. I can’t make you follow me into this hell I’m creating.” Justin’s eyes moved from Carrie’s face to the table and then rested on Abdul.
“You’re not making me do anything,” Carrie said. “This is my job, stopping terrorists and their evil plots. This seems the only way to do it.”
“I just feel this time we’re getting very close to the fire, to a large hellish fire.”
“Eh, we play with fire all the time. It’s a professional hazard.” Carrie tried to lighten up the mood.
Justin looked at Abdul, who was staring at them in silence. “What do you say, Abdul?”
“Let’s assume everything goes without a flaw, and we do get to see the Prince face to face,” Abdul said in a dry voice. He coughed a couple of times, before adding, “Then what? We tie him up? Force him to confess? What do we do?”
Justin nodded. “We’ll talk to him. We’ll tell the Prince we know about his plot and demand he calls off his dogs.”
“And point out the obvious, that we’re not the only ones who know,” Carrie said. “It wouldn’t hurt to add that the Prime Minister has a few dozen mukhabarat agents ready to storm the Prince’s mansion if something happens in Tripoli. People dear to his heart, like his son, could get hurt.”
“But there’s no such a thing—”
“Of course not, Abdul,” Carrie said, “but the Prince should believe an assassination attempt against the Libyan Prime Minister will cost him dearly, and he’ll have to pay for it, if not in blood, then in tears.”
Abdul shrugged. “When I joined the Internal Security Service, well, at the time it was called the Internal Security Agency, I vowed to protect my country. Here’s a chance for me to make good on my promise.” His voice, quiet at first, grew stronger and steadier. “If the government is toppled and terrorists come to power, first, they’ll go after mukhabarat members, since we’ve been fighting them for years.”
“Oh, and don’t forget the reward from the Prime Minister,” Justin pointed out.
“Yes, the reward, how can I forget that… If I’m still alive to enjoy it.” Abdul’s voice wavered and he looked out the window. “I don’t want my son to receive a medal of honor for his fallen father.”
Justin nodded. “I’ll understand if you stay behind.”
Abdul shook his head and took in a deep breath. “No, no, no,” he said quickly, “worse than leaving my son as an orphan is to shame him with a coward father.”
Justin laid a reassuring hand on Abdul’s shoulders. “We’ll try to ride this out, my friend, but it won’t be easy.”
“Nothing’s easy. A simple ride through Tripoli can get one killed,” Abdul said. “Let’s get him,” he added strongly. “The Prince tried to kill me.” The thought of revenge had renewed Abdul’s spirit.
Justin nodded. “Well then, I’ll get on the phone with Romanov and convince him to hand us the car keys. If that doesn’t work, then we’re out of luck. If Romanov agrees, I’ll call Valerie and arrange for the Veyron to be flown to Milan. Carrie, if you can find us accommodation in Nice, that would be great. Prince Al-Farhan’s yacht is close by, so it shouldn’t take him long to get there. And we have to look like billionaires if I’m pretending to be a rich Russian who we can afford a Veyron.”
“Russian? Why do you have to be a bloody Russian?” Carrie asked, her voice filled with venom.
“Because besides Saudis, only Russians are snob enough to buy a Bugatti Veyron, and then decide it’s not good enough for them and demand the car be modified to suit their whims. Plus, I speak Russian. The Prince doesn’t. You’ll easily pass for my trophy wife.”
“I hate this part,” Carrie said, “I hate it.”
“I know and I’m sorry, but there’s no other way.”
Carrie clenched her left hand into a fist, and slammed it into her right palm. “We’re running through a minefield here.”
“Yeah, blindfolded,” Justin said.
“What a way to inspire confidence,” Abdul said with a sigh.
“Sorry, never been good at pep talk.”
“We can say we’re selling the Veyron since we lost a fortune in the recession.”
“If Carrie’s going to be your wife, who will I be?” Abdul raised his left hand to rub his chin.
“You’ll be one the bodyguard,” Carrie replied. “We’ll come up with a cover story and stick to it.”
“If God wills,” Abdul whispered with a deep, loud sigh, “if God wills.”
Chapter Twenty-three
United States Embassy, Tripoli, Liby
a
May 15, 9:05 p.m. local time
Romanov, the stories went, never made decisions on the spot, even when he had already made up his mind. The appearance of thorough consideration to every business deal was very important to him, and that is exactly how he was regarding this transaction. A business deal. Borrowing his Veyron may have seemed like repaying an old favor to Justin, but Romanov saw it as an opportunity to get inside the CIS. For men like Romanov, striking a deal with a CIS agent was a precious investment, which would yield a high return. At some point in the future, Romanov would be in need of assistance from Justin.
While waiting for Romanov’s reply, Justin called Valerie. She sounded extremely enthusiastic at the prospect of working on another Veyron, adding her personal touch to a motoring masterpiece. That was, of course, if Romanov agreed for his two-tone, red and orange, two million dollar supercar to be flown from Moscow to Milan.
Romanov’s consent came while Justin was still on the phone with Valerie. Justin placed her on hold and hammered out with Romanov all the details for the Bugatti Veyron to make it to Valerie’s garage in the outskirts of Milan. Underlining the urgency of the favor, arrangements were made for the vehicle to be flown by overnight express delivery. Valerie would pick it up by 7:00 a.m. the next day.
While Justin made no mention of any tune-ups to Romanov, he discussed the proposed modifications to the Bugatti Veyron in great detail with Valerie. He left it to her, the expert, to figure out the exact makeover of the vehicle, provided that all modifications were reversible, and that the overall exterior look of the Veyron remained unchanged. After all, it was a loaner and he would have to return it to the Russian tycoon. Valerie agreed to have all work completed within twenty-four hours of receipt. It meant that Justin could show the car to the Prince two days from now, on the day of the American President visit to Tripoli.
With the largest hassles out of the way, Justin and Carrie focused on sorting out the other elements of the plan. Abdul was charged with processing the necessary paperwork for them to leave Libya without being held at the border. Carrie updated Matthew about their plan and checked on Nour. He was still in a coma, but doctors had greater hopes now that all results had returned negative. The bullet had shattered a couple of ribs but had missed Nour’s lungs. There was no damage to Nour’s spinal cord, and, despite the fact that he had lost a lot of blood, doctors were still hopeful of a speedy recovery. But Nour was still fighting for his life, and he was going to be under round the clock care over the next seventy-two hours.
Justin undertook the most grueling task of requesting the authorization for the operation. He was determined to go ahead with the plan regardless of Johnson’s decision. Still, he preferred the advantages that came with the official approval of his chief.
Johnson approved the operation, but only for reconnaissance purposes. Justin’s report had been quite brief. He informed her that a tip had come in about Prince Al-Farhan possibly stopping in France, looking into purchasing a car for his collection. Justin suggested that surveillance may result in information about the Prince’s associates, without giving Johnson any exact details.
No need to find ourselves in the crosshairs of the Mossad or the CIA,
Justin decided.
After breaking for supper, the team continued thrashing out the remaining parts of their operation. Carrie pulled a few strings with the CIS post in Paris and secured access to a small apartment in Nice. The owner was an old agency contact on business out of town. The apartment was going to be their safe house while in France.
The meeting with the Prince, if it were to happen, was going to take place at Le Bataillon, a belle époque palace, converted into an exquisite hotel shortly after World War II. Le Bataillon’s selective clientele and its secluded location had favored this hotel as the perfect place to meet Prince Al-Farhan. The hotel was situated just half a mile from Route Nationale 98 skirting along the coastline and overlooked the Mediterranean Sea. It was the kind of place where one would meet oil tycoons and media moguls, Hollywood celebrities and Internet entrepreneurs. Besides, it just happened to be one of Prince’s favorite spots in Nice.
Over the next hour, Abdul and Justin spread the word to all the Prince’s associates and their contacts that a modified Bugatti Veyron, almost in mint condition, was being sold by a Russian millionaire. It was a great deal not to be missed. They knew it was a very long shot, and they could only hope and pray it would work.
A providential hand was pulling the invisible strings because an aide of the Prince called Justin’s number at exactly 11:07 p.m. The aide wanted to confirm the rumors he had heard about the sale. Justin fed the aide the information he wanted to hear. The meeting was arranged for two days later in Nice, at 11:00 a.m., at Le Bataillon. Prince Al-Farhan was going to show up in person, in order to inspect the vehicle.
Justin, Carrie, and Abdul simply could not believe this part of the plan had actually worked, at least so far. However, the hardest part, convincing the Prince to abort his assassination attempt, was just about to begin.
Matthew insisted it was too dangerous for the agents and Abdul to venture outside the embassy and offered them three of its guest suites. He sent his men to collect Justin’s belongings from the Four Seasons Hotel and the Corinthia. Around midnight, after placing a call to Anna, Justin laid his head on the soft pillow of his bed.
Chapter Twenty-four
Somewhere over the Mediterranean Sea
May 16, 7:30 a.m. local time
Aboard flight Alitalia 871, Justin gazed through the small window at the ash clouds engulfing the airplane. He wondered whether Anna would receive the bouquet of flowers and the chocolates he sent last night to her apartment, before leaving for her office. He knew he could not buy his way out of the guilt for not being with her on their special day. Still, it would sweeten Anna’s day, even if for only a few moments. His eyes rested on Carrie, dosing on the seat next to him. A second later, she opened her left eye and gave him a curious, sideway glance. “What?”