Say No More

by Liliana Hart

  “When was this built?” Dante asked.

  “Construction began in 1723, but it wasn’t completed until 1745.”

  “Send me whatever you find for the earliest drawings as well,” he said. “We’ll see what the later generations changed and what’s still in use. There’s nothing like getting stuck in a pipe system that you didn’t know had been updated.”

  “Stand by,” she said.

  While he waited, he pulled a panel from beneath the table in from of him—another flat screen, this one about a foot square. He moved his fingers across the slick surface and clicked on the list of permanent residents in the palace. Intelligence communities kept files on the palace in Dubai because of Mittal’s father, but the son’s stunt with the launch codes would make sure he was scrutinized with a lot more intensity. Dante needed to know everything about every member of the household.

  He was fortunate in his ability to commit anything to memory the first time he saw it. Shiv Mittal’s father, Raj, the last sultan of Najd, had used the palace in Saudi Arabia as his main residence, but he’d still spent plenty of time in Dubai. There’d been whispers of his involvement in human trafficking for more than four decades, but nothing had ever been substantiated. But proof or not, Raj Mittal had never made a secret of what he thought of women.

  He’d had more than a hundred wives, and encouraged female genital mutilation among his people, using his oldest wives as examples once he no longer considered them sexual creatures. His youngest wives were in their early teens, and many had disappeared without questions asked. He lived in complete confidence that there were no consequences. He was a vile and dangerous man who preyed on innocent people.

  It took Dante more than an hour to go through the list and use the 3-D renderings to mark who was in residence or away during the coming week, who liked to sneak midnight snacks from the kitchen, and who was playing bedroom musical chairs and trying to keep it a secret. His curiosity piqued at what came on the screen when he clicked the last name on the list.

  There was nothing. No name, birthdate, passport information—all it said was Unknown.

  He clicked the tab at the side of the page to see if there were any images. And felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

  “Bloody hell,” he said.

  There was no mistaking her. The white-blond hair, the face as exquisite as it had been the last time he’d seen her.

  “Liv,” he said. “What the hell is Interpol doing in Dubai?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Liv laid in her bed, the glass doors of her penthouse apartment pushed wide open, and listened to the traffic on Bond Street below as it sang its own special lullaby. Looking at the lights from the other buildings and the city traffic had always soothed her, but sleep hadn’t come tonight.

  She was fortunate in her circumstances. Most agents would’ve been ruined financially if they’d been suspended without pay for the months that she had, pending the investigation of her involvement with Simon Locke. But she’d been the only heir to inherit after her father had died of a massive heart attack at the age of fifty-three. And her mother, who’d moved to New York during Liv’s first year of university, hadn’t felt she’d gotten the attention she’d deserved after becoming a widow at such a young age, and she’d overdosed on her anxiety pills the day after his funeral.

  Margaret Rothschild’s death had almost been a relief. She’d never hidden her disdain for the daughter she’d been left with—the one who was never quite good enough. Liv had welcomed each and every school term, knowing for a short time, she’d be living in another dorm with other girls her age, and she could pretend she had a mother who sent her letters and care packages. When, in reality, the school term was a welcome break from the constant criticism and accusations. There was no doubt in Margaret’s mind who was at fault when Elizabeth went missing.

  She tried not to spend time dwelling on the sad state of her family and that she was the only one left. The financial gain didn’t quench the loneliness. But it gave her options. She didn’t have to work, but she looked at what she did as more than work. It was her purpose and her passion. She’d have done it for free.

  Exhaustion should’ve taken over her body after the day she’d had. It had been a week of little sleep and long hours, followed by the adrenaline rush of the raid that afternoon, making sure the girls had gotten settled with the social workers who had started the process of reuniting them with their families, and waiting anxiously while Donner was in surgery.

  He was resting comfortably, and he’d called and reassured his wife, Karen, and daughters that he was fine and that the doctor told him to eat lots of carbohydrates and sodium to regain his strength. Karen had bought a plane ticket to London before he’d been able to finish telling the lie, and interrupted to tell him her mother would keep their girls. Donner had looked relieved, though he’d asked Liv for a double cheeseburger and salty fries before she left, because he knew once his wife got there he’d be eating cardboard and egg whites.

  He’d made her laugh, which was what he intended, but she’d barely been able to keep her eyes open and had wished him a quick recovery before making her way out and to her car. She’d dozed off at a stoplight, only to be rudely woken from the blare of a horn behind her. But the minute she’d shed her weapon and clothes and fallen into the bed, she’d found herself unable to fall asleep, her mind occupied with the words of the little girl. The Sultan.

  Who was he?

  She’d tried willing herself to sleep for a couple of hours, but it was no use. She had to find out who he was. Where he was. And then she had to keep her promise to those little girls and make sure he was never able to hurt them again.

  It was half past four in the morning, so she tossed the covers back and headed into the shower. It didn’t take her long to get ready for the day—black trousers, a black-and-white pinstriped sleeveless blouse, sensible black shoes, and her sidearm. It was too hot for a jacket, but she wore one anyway because it was policy to cover her weapon. She pulled her hair back and pinned it in a bun at the nape of her neck. She put on tinted moisturizer, mascara, and lip gloss and was out the door to her car within half an hour.

  She lived ten minutes from Interpol. It was four towering glass buildings that were all connected by crosswalks. There were divisions of Scotland Yard in the other buildings, since they worked in tandem so often.

  She found parking easily in the garage and grabbed her identification badge, heading straight to the elevators and the twelfth floor where her division was located. It was empty for the most part, but there were a few of the guys hunched over their desks, absorbed in endless paperwork.

  She bypassed the bad coffee and went directly to her cubicle and the machine she’d brought from home, brewing a fresh cup as she sat behind her desk and logged in to her computer. Bixler was behind bars for the moment, and he’d been questioned briefly by Jonas Beck, the head agent for their division at Interpol.

  Liv had wanted to be included in the interrogation, but her orders had been to go home and get some sleep and that she would get her chance with Bixler the following day. She saw the report of Beck’s questioning of Bixler in her email and clicked the link. Bixler hadn’t given Beck names. She hadn’t expected him to. But it would’ve given her somewhere to start on hunting down The Sultan.

  But what knotted her stomach was that Bixler said he’d bought the girls at a private auction in Agra, India. They’d been lined up in the middle of a ring like horses for him to see. They’d been dressed up and scrubbed clean, and the girls had ranged in age from six to twelve, and Bixler had disliked the fact that he hadn’t gotten to select the ones he was paying for.

  He complained about it to Beck as if he were discussing produce at the market instead of children, and she hoped, not for the first time, that there was a special place in hell for men like Bixler.

  The auction had been closed door, and there were only two other bidders, but Bixler and the two others were in their own private b
ooths, so he never saw the other bidders’ faces. He’d needed a dozen girls to fill the orders he’d collected, so that’s what he’d put in his bid for. But the auctioneer selected the girls at random, not letting him choose, even though he’d had special requests from clients.

  The other two bidders had specific buyer requests too, and they both ended up not purchasing that day. There had been twenty-two girls, and once Bixler had paid for his twelve, transport was arranged, and that’s the last he saw of the auctioneer or the other girls.

  “Twenty-two girls,” she said softly. But they’d only recovered Bixler’s twelve. The auctioneer had to be The Sultan the girls had told her about. If she could find The Sultan, then she had a chance of finding the girls and getting them back home.

  The floor was still empty for the most part, and she took her coffee cup from the maker behind her and put it on the desk. She didn’t want anyone to know what she was doing. Not until she had all her facts together to present her case. Whether she had approval or not, she was going after The Sultan one way or another.

  She pulled her monitor closer and moved the picture frame on her desk slightly, so she could see the reflection of anyone coming up behind her. And then she logged in to Interpol’s database and typed in keywords.

  Sultan

  Human Trafficking

  Auction

  It didn’t take long for information to come up. A lot of information. Raj Mittal had been under Interpol’s watch for more than forty years for suspected human trafficking. He’d never been caught. And in Liv’s experience, that just meant that Mittal more than likely had enough money to buy his way out of any troubled situation. It was hard for anyone to go on that long without slipping up.

  She did another search on Mittal and printed out a report tracking his passport and recent travels. In the last six months, he’d made trips to Thailand, Malaysia, Sweden, Portugal, Russia, and India. Not to mention the numerous trips he made between Saudi Arabia and Dubai. Mittal was able to cover for his extracurricular activities because of his legitimate businesses, all of which had holdings located in the countries he’d visited. They also happened to be countries that had an unusually high human trafficking problem. Girls went missing in those countries every day.

  Mittal was The Sultan. He was the head. But he’d have a global network to do the dirty work—from the lowliest of the low who kidnapped the girls, to the middlemen who arranged transportation and secured safe houses to keep them hidden until it was time to move them again. Then there’d be the groomers—the monsters disguised as nice, gentle men, who made the girls feel relieved that they were no longer in the hands of those who’d taken them and, in some cases, beaten them, only to abuse them sexually in preparation for auction.

  It wasn’t until the auction that Mittal came into play. There were so many steps before that had to go just right, and if things went wrong, he didn’t want to have his name associated. But the auctions were invite only, from buyers that Mittal personally knew had a taste for young girls or who had buyers of their own to sell them to. There were millions at stake at the auctions, and Mittal would be there to collect and make sure his clients were happy.

  Then there was what to do if all the girls weren’t sold at auction. If it were only a couple of girls, they’d more than likely kill them and dump the bodies. But with twelve girls it wasn’t that simple. Mittal would have to set up another auction in another country with new buyers. But he’d need a place to hold the girls until then.

  Eight days before, Mittal boarded his private jet in Agra, India, and flew the short distance to his son’s home in Dubai. Shiv Mittal was in Switzerland at a tech summit, and wasn’t there to greet his father, which seemed to be how Shiv preferred it. Even more interesting was the cargo crates that had been loaded onto Raj Mittal’s plane.They’d passed inspection, but bribes were second nature in that part of the world, and she knew it had been the girls who’d been shoved into those crates like cattle.

  Liv spent another two hours researching, finding out everything she could about Mittal’s son and the palace where he lived. Mittal’s passport hadn’t made any more trips. He was still in Dubai. And so were the girls. But his son was due back in a couple of days. What she needed was proof the girls were there. Or at least probable cause like they’d had in Bixler’s case.

  She took a card out of her wallet and dialed the number that was on the back.

  “Jane Brubaker,” the voice on the other end answered. Jane was the social worker who’d taken over the care of the girls and who would work tirelessly to get them back to their families as soon as possible.

  “Jane, this is Agent Liv Rothschild,” she said. “We met yesterday on the Bixler case.”

  “Yes, of course. How can I help you?”

  “How are the girls doing?”

  “They’re traumatized, as expected. Several of them have been admitted to the hospital for dehydration. A counselor will visit with each of them today, and we’re busy matching fingerprints and photographs to the missing persons reports. With any luck, we’ll be notifying parents within the next forty-eight hours.”

  “That’s fantastic,” Liv said. “Sometimes I wish I could see them through to the end. To know that there will eventually be happiness back in their lives.”

  “They have a long road ahead of them. It’ll be a daily struggle for them the rest of their lives, and their families will face challenges as well.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said. “It’s something that will always be in the back of their mind, even on the days where things feel normal.”

  “It sounds as if you know from experience,” Jane said.

  “Yes, except my experience is knowing what it’s like when they aren’t ever found. My sister was taken when we were six.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jane said, the sincerity in her voice making Liv’s eyes sting. She was overly tired. It had been a long week.

  “My window of hunting down the man who did this to them is short,” Liv said. “There are ten other girls who were originally grouped with the ones we rescued yesterday, and you know as well as I do that they’re moved around frequently until buyers are found for them. I believe I have them locked down in Dubai, for now, and I believe I know who the man behind this trafficking ring is. I need to send you a picture to show to the girls. They saw his face. It’s all I need for probable cause to make an arrest.”

  “You know I can’t do that to those girls,” she said. “They’ve been through enough. Bringing the pain back to them when we’ve promised them they’re in a safe place is not what we do.”

  “It’s not about can’t,” Liv said. “It’s about won’t. This man has terrorized girls for more than forty years. I’m asking for you or one of the counselors to do this because of that safe space. But you know I have the authority to come myself and question them. I don’t want to do that.”

  “And you know I can put up enough blocks to give you a headache. The girls will be back with their families by the time you get authorization to see them.”

  The anger that swept over her was comfortable, like a warm wind. If Jane Brubaker had been standing in front of her, she would’ve realized her mistake.

  “Really, Jane?” she asked. “Is that the kind of woman you are? Because if you keep me from finding those girls before their little bodies are broken and they experience the kind of torment you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, then you can bet your life it’ll be you I hunt down next.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Agent Rothschild,” Jane said.

  “And don’t fuck with me,” Liv said. “I won’t harm a hair on your head. But everyone will know your name. And I’ll make sure you see each and every one of their faces and what was done to them. I can promise you’ll never close your eyes at night without seeing them in your head. How long can you last without a decent night’s sleep? Without losing your mind?”

  “I’m not a monster,” Jane said stiffly. “It’s my duty to protect these girls who are
under my care.”

  “It’s your duty to protect all of them,” Liv said hotly. “Time’s ticking. Which direction do you want to go?”

  “Fine,” Jane said, her voice cold and all business. “But I won’t force them. And if I see that it’s doing harm I’ll make you go through every legal hoop possible before you’re able to continue to question them. To hell with sleeping at night. I haven’t slept well for twenty years.”

  “The goal is to put this monster away,” Liv said. “These girls are safe, and they’ll be with their families soon. If you hold up the investigation and these other ten girls aren’t rescued, then that will be on you.”

  “Where’s your compassion, Agent Rothschild? I’d expect more after knowing about your sister.”

  “My compassion comes from giving these girls the justice they deserve. Your compassion shouldn’t replace our conviction to see justice served. It’s a disservice to those who need protection. I’ll email the photograph to your account.”

  Liv disconnected and hit Send on the email to Jane, and then she refilled her coffee cup. Her instincts were humming. She was on the right track. She knew it. If she had her way, she’d be in Dubai as soon as possible to hunt that bastard down once and for all. Once she gathered her proof, all she had to do was present it to Agent Beck and get permission to go.

  Jane made her wait several hours before she replied, but the timing was perfect, because Jonas Beck got off the elevator shortly after and made his way to his office. She grabbed her file and followed right behind him, because she knew if she waited he’d be tied up in meetings and she’d never find a time to slip in.

  He had a big corner office, and his steely-eyed secretary sat out front, guarding his inner sanctum. Louise Farthing had thirty-years under her belt and had been through numerous head agents, and Beck wouldn’t be her last. She was big-boned and had short, steel-gray hair that was cut in a no-nonsense style. Her black framed rectangular glasses hung from a chain around her neck, and she was typing reports and talking on the phone at the same time.