Not on His Watch

by Cassie Miles

  “Right here in our own backyard,” Whitney said. “That’s why we’re involved. Several other agencies are working on security and surveillance. We’ll be undercover, as always, trying to prevent another strike.”

  Law asked, “Where did we get this video?”

  “There was a routine surveillance camera across the street.”

  “Digitally enhanced,” Andy said, calling on his expertise. “I’m sure the original wasn’t in color and wasn’t so sharp. If you want, I can run a downgrade to give us the actual picture.”

  “Not necessary,” Vincent said. “But I would like your digital analysis on the incendiary and the trigger mechanism. Your assignment, in addition to the usual telecommunications, is to study the Quantum Building blueprints and pinpoint probable locations for explosives.”

  Andy beamed. Excitedly, he dragged his skinny fingers through the wild mop of blond hair that perched like a bird’s nest atop his narrow forehead. “Oh, man! I love a challenge.”

  The younger man’s enthusiasm brought a smile to Quint’s lips. It had been a very long time since he’d been so eager about anything. “I’m assuming,” he said, “that since both Law and I are in the oil business, we’re going to investigate Quantum.”

  “Correct,” Vincent said. “There’s the possibility that this is an inside job. However, it’s much more likely that we’re looking toward the Middle East.”

  “We’ll start with the nation of Imad.” Whitney tapped another key on her computer. A map displayed on their individual screens. “Imad is on the Arabian Peninsula, bordered by Oman, Anbar and Arabia. This oil-rich emirate is under the thumb of Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed. Though it’s not general knowledge, the sheik is suspected of human rights violations. Imad is on the verge of being sanctioned by the United States.”

  Quint exchanged a glance with Law. Both men nodded. Whitney’s information wasn’t news to them.

  Law said, “Several distributors are already refusing to buy oil from Imad. Quantum is among them.”

  “Correct,” Whitney said. “Quantum was the first distributor to back off from Imad.”

  “Sounds like a motive for terrorism,” Quint said. “Maybe the sheik blew up the Quantum Building in Iceland for revenge.”

  “Revenge doesn’t make sense,” Whitney said. “The sheik wants to be friendly with Quantum, to have them buy his oil reserves. In any case, we have reason to believe Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed has plans to come to Chicago. He has a daughter, Miah, who lives here.”

  “In Chicago?” Quint asked.

  “Yes, and I’ll have more information about her later,” Whitney said. “This is our most recent photograph of Khalaf.”

  Their screens displayed a sharp picture of a trim, older man, dressed in a tailored military uniform. Though his expression was stiff, his dark eyes burned with a sinister inner flame.

  Whitney continued her briefing. “This trip is highly unusual. Sheik Khalaf seldom leaves Imad, especially now when he appears to be building up his military.”

  “What’s the reason for the buildup?” Quint asked.

  “Money,” Whitney answered. “The bottom line is always money. Unless Quantum starts buying oil from him again, the sheik’s regime will go broke. He might attempt to gain leverage by taking over the country to the north of him—Anbar.”

  “We’re friendly with Anbar,” Law said.

  “Yes,” Whitney said. The photograph on the screen changed. “This is Prince Javid Haji Haleem of Anbar. He’s next in the line of succession for the throne of Anbar.”

  With curling black hair and dark piercing eyes, he was a good-looking man. Even Quint would call him handsome, and Quint didn’t generally notice such things about other men. “I’ll bet the ladies are standing in line to join this guy’s harem.”

  “Not funny,” Whitney chastised as she displayed a series of photos of Javid. “The future ruler of Anbar believes in treating women as human beings and not chattel. In many ways, he’s an enlightened leader, promoting literacy and education among his people. He travels all over the world as a goodwill ambassador for Anbar, and he investigates.”

  “Investigates what?” Quint asked.

  “Javid is an expert on terrorism. With his assistance, a lot of tragedy has been averted.”

  The last in the series of pictures showed a subtle difference. Javid’s features were honed by a sharper edge. “Whoa,” Quint said. “Was this picture taken on a bad day?”

  “Very observant.” Whitney sounded impressed. “That photograph is not, in fact, Javid. It’s his identical twin brother, Prince Zahir Haji Haleem. Notorious international playboy.”

  Her information came as a surprise to Quint, who generally kept up on events in oil-rich countries around the world. He knew there were brothers in Anbar, but he didn’t know they were twins.

  “Both Zahir and Javid are half-American and were raised here. Now, they both live in the Middle East. It’s important to keep in mind that Zahir is more than a jet-setter,” Whitney said. “He’s been involved with supposed freedom fighters in the Middle East, most recently with Khalaf when he deposed the government in Nurul. Which brings up another issue.”

  Quint leaned forward, listening carefully to this complex explanation. “Does this have something to do with Khalaf’s daughter?”

  “Good guess. Miah Mohairbi’s lineage links her to the throne of Nurul. If Zahir marries her, his claim is solidified.” Whitney brought up the map again. “Nurul is on the Red Sea by Yemen.”

  Law frowned at the screen. “I’m familiar with Nurul. Quantum isn’t buying oil from them until the political situation settles down. Other distributors, Petrol included, are following their lead.”

  “How does Zahir fit into the picture?” Quint asked.

  “If he’s allied with Imad,” Law said, “his tactics are questionable.”

  “As in terrorism?”

  Law shrugged. “There’s no stated U.S. position as yet.”

  Whitney spoke into the intercom that connected with the front desk. “Kathy, would you please escort our guest into the special-ops room?”

  While waiting for the electronic door to open, Quint scrolled through the data on his screen to a section with information on Quantum Industries. In his dealings with the megapowerful oil distribution giant, he’d met many of the principals, including the CEO, Henry Van Buren. He noticed an unfamiliar face in their briefing notes, a very lovely face. He paused on her photograph. Natalie Van Buren, vice president in charge of public relations. Her soft brown hair fell neatly to her shoulders. Her green-eyed gaze was cool and direct and somehow mysterious, as if she had a secret. Why was the photograph of a public relations vice president included in a briefing about terrorists?

  As soon as the electronic door whooshed open, their screens went blank.

  Whitney stood. “Gentlemen, I’m pleased to introduce Prince Javid Haji Haleem, future ruler of Anbar.”

  In person, Javid was impressive. Though he was probably only in his early thirties, he carried himself gracefully. As he shook Quint’s hand, he said, “I know you.”

  “No, sir, I don’t believe I’ve had the honor.”

  “We have not met. I know your reputation.” His slight accent made his speech seem formal. “You have led wildcat oil crews.”

  “Not for a long time.” In his twenties, Quint built the resources of Crawford Oil by wildcat exploration around the world, usually in Central and South America. He quit traveling when he settled down with Paula, five years ago on his thirtieth birthday.

  “You discovered oil in many nations,” Javid said. “Yet, you never exploited the local population. Instead, you created employment. In some cases, you won freedom for oppressed peoples. I admire you, Quintin Crawford.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Embarrassed by the tribute, Quint got back to the topic at hand. “How can Chicago Confidential be of service to you?”

  Javid strode around the table and sat beside Vincent. “I believe my brother, Zahir, helped
in the overthrow of Nurul by Sheik Khalaf. It is no secret that Khalaf would like to put Zahir on the throne in Nurul. The alliance between these two is perilous for my nation. If Imad and Nurul combine their military resources, they could conquer Anbar.”

  “If they conquer Anbar,” Law said, “they might become the most powerful force in the Middle East.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” Javid frowned. “I have come to you because I am also convinced that Zahir was involved in the Reykjavik bombing.”

  “Do you have proof?” Quint asked.

  “Not direct evidence.” A pained look crossed his face. “It saddens me to think my own brother is linked with terrorists, but I am not naive. Zahir is capable of…anything.”

  Quint said, “We just heard that Sheik Khalaf is coming to Chicago. How about Zahir?”

  “He will be here soon,” Javid said. “There are rumors he is betrothed with the estranged daughter of Khalaf, but his stated purpose in coming to Chicago is to meet with Quantum and to discuss the future sale of oil from Nurul. And possibly to convince them to buy from Imad.”

  “But he supposedly bombed Quantum in Reykjavik,” Andy said.

  “My brother negotiates with one hand,” Javid said. “He plots with the other.”

  Andy nodded, seemingly unconcerned about human treachery. “What can you tell us about the incendiary?”

  “If you’d like,” Whitney said, “we can review the specs right now.”

  Vincent nodded his assent, and the large high-resolution screen lit up with a three-dimensional blueprint for an incendiary.

  Once again, the door from the outer office opened, and Kathy the receptionist stepped inside. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have an urgent phone call for Quint.”

  “I’ll take it out front.” He rose from his seat, glad to be leaving a technical discussion of bombs and bombing.

  In the outer office, he winked at Kathy Renk. “Thank you, ma’am. All those switches and coils are way too much information for me.”

  “Me, too. When Andy explains mechanical stuff, it’s hard for me to stay awake.” A pleasantly plump woman in her late thirties, Kathy couldn’t be considered beautiful. But when she smiled, the world was a friendlier place. She pointed toward Whitney’s office. “You can take the call in there. It’s Daniel Austin.”

  Quint closed the office door behind himself, picked up the phone and said, “If it isn’t Daniel Austin, the head hound dawg at Montana Confidential.”

  “Surprised you can remember with that peanut-size buzzard brain of yours. How the hell are you?”

  “Can’t complain,” Quint said. “I’m in the middle of a briefing, so I got to keep it short. What’s up?”

  “What’s your take on Javid?”

  “He’s not afraid to look me straight in the eye. He seems a mite quick to turn on his brother, but I don’t know the family history. And, I’d have to say, Javid’s a real handsome fellow.”

  “You got that right.” Austin chuckled. “And don’t we sound like a couple of prancin’ Nancy boys?”

  “Don’t know about you,” Quint said. “I happen to be confident enough in my masculinity to notice when another guy is good-looking.”

  “Boy, you’re beginning to sound like Oprah.”

  “Well, perhaps that’s why I was sent to Chicago,” Quint said. “Now, was there a reason for this urgent call?”

  “The CEO at Quantum, Henry Van Buren, is an old friend of mine, and I’m worried about him.” All the joking left Austin’s voice. “I want you to take real good care of him and his family.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Most especially,” Daniel said, “I want you to look out for Henry’s daughter, Natalie. From what I understand, she’s a single woman.”

  “You’re matchmaking,” Quint said. “Now who sounds like Oprah?”

  Austin gave a hoot of laughter. “Seriously, how are things going with the set-up of Chicago Confidential? What do you think of Vincent Romeo?”

  “A good man.” Quint didn’t choose to mention his personal spitting match with Vincent which was a man-to-man private matter. “This is a real high-tech operation, and they’re doing just fine.”

  “Take care of yourself,” Austin said. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “That leaves me a lot of room, sir.”

  After saying goodbye, Quint disconnected the call and returned to the outer office where Kathy Renk was scowling at a half-eaten candy bar.

  “Something wrong?” Quint asked.

  “It’s that new maintenance man, Liam Wallace, who thinks he’s God’s gift. The ego on that man!” She fluttered her hands. “Oh, listen to me. He’s got my feathers all ruffled. It’s not important. You go back to your meeting.”

  Quint smiled at Kathy as he returned to the special-ops room. The discussion with Javid continued, outlining the arcane politics of Imad, Nurul and Anbar. Why had Austin alerted him? What did he suspect about Javid? Quint wondered if the twin brothers really were estranged.

  As Vincent wrapped up the briefing, Lawson Davies was given the assignment of researching other terrorist groups and ferreting out possible traitors inside Quantum Industries. Quint wondered how he was going to be used in this investigation. Infiltrating Quantum was out of the question. Even if he buried his Texan accent, he couldn’t disguise his identity; too many people at the company already knew him. Nor was it likely he could go undercover with the terrorists.

  As the others left the office, Vincent caught his gaze. “Stay behind. We need to talk.”

  Quint returned to his chair. Idly scrolling through the information on his laptop, he paused again on the photograph of Natalie Van Buren, a lady who should be safe at her desk, escorting visiting dignitaries and sending out press releases. What was her connection?

  Vincent returned and took the seat beside Quint. For a moment, they sat quietly, allowing the energy in the room to settle.

  “When I started out,” Vincent said, “I never planned to be the guy behind the desk. The administrator. The boss. It’s harder than I expected.”

  “‘Uneasy is the head that wears the crown,’” Quint quoted.

  “And the butt that sits on the throne.”

  A joke from Vincent Romeo? Quint could hardly believe it.

  “Except,” Vincent said, “I’m not a king. We all work together, and I want you on my team, Quint.”

  “I’m ready to play.” Quint figured this was as close to an apology as he’d get. And it was enough.

  “I’d like to hear your opinion on the briefing information.”

  Quint glanced toward the woman’s face on the screen. It would be her job with Quantum to make sure these Middle Eastern dignitaries were entertained while in Chicago. “From what Javid said, I’m worried about his brother, Zahir. He’s convinced the world that he’s just a playboy, but his plan might be to take over the whole Middle East.”

  “Wish we had solid proof against him.” Vincent sighed. “It’s easier to go after known criminals. We know how they think, how they operate.”

  “Not always.” Paula’s death had been caused by a drug cartel, a viperous nest of professional criminals who had ultimately been stopped by Texas Confidential. Unconsciously, Quint’s gaze wandered toward a mounted set of cow horns over the door in the special-ops room. The horns—an anachronism in this high-tech arena—were a good-luck gift from Daniel Austin. “The only thing to count on is the unexpected. Mitchell Forbes gave me that bit of advice.”

  “Mitchell’s a good man. He told me a lot about you. Information that wasn’t included in your dossier.” Vincent’s voice lowered. “I’m sorry for your loss. Deeply sorry.”

  Quint acknowledged his sentiment with a shrug. Neither of them were men who spent much time expressing their emotions. “What’s my assignment?”

  Vincent pointed toward the computer screen. “You’re looking at her.”

  “Natalie Van Buren?”

  “She and my wife went to boarding school tog
ether, and Whitney is worried about her. It seems that Natalie has been receiving threatening notes.”

  “For how long?” Quint asked.

  “A couple of weeks. They started before the bombing in Reykjavik and might be unconnected threats from a crank, but we need to keep an eye on Natalie.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Quint said. “She’s not hard to look at.”

  “Here’s the complicated part,” Vincent said. “We don’t want to alert the terrorists to our presence. You can’t tell anyone you’re her bodyguard. Not even Natalie herself.”

  “Wait a minute,” Quint said. “Are you saying that she won’t be told that I’m there to protect her?”

  “Exactly.”

  “How am I supposed to shadow her every movement, without letting her know why I’m there?”

  “Turn on that famous Southern charm.” Vincent grinned broadly. “Okay, cowboy?”

  STANDING ALONE at the floor-to-ceiling window in her father’s office on the thirty-first floor of the Quantum Building, Natalie Van Buren stared at the familiar Chicago sky-scape. Tall, solid buildings thrust into the cloudy March day, defying the blistering winds from Lake Michigan with their muscular presence. She loved the character of her big-shouldered city. Chicago had been built from the honest sweat of plain, hard-working Midwesterners. Chicago was a city that got things done.

  Usually, this view comforted and inspired her, but not today. Natalie knew, in her heart, that someone was lying to her. Behind the bland reassurances from the other corporate vice presidents that everything was business as usual, she sensed a thin veil of deception.

  When it came to Quantum business, Natalie trusted her instincts more than she did data, meetings or memorandums. This was her home; she’d grown up here. These corporate offices had been her childhood playground. As the eldest daughter, she’d always aspired to taking over the family business. Her life had been dedicated to proving herself worthy of running the largest oil distributor in the world.