by Brian Drake
“The CIA and Kader aren’t us,” Nina said.
Dane grinned. “You always know how to spin it, baby,” he said.
27
Dane, wearing his black suit, white shirt, black tie, gave the cuff of his right sleeve a quick tug as he stood in line with Nina beside him. She wore a red mini-dress, strapless, with matching stilettos.
“A Russian wearing red, how original,” Dane cracked.
“My underwear is white and blue,” she said.
“In that order?”
She jabbed him in the belly.
“I’ll find out later.” He winked at her.
They waited in line to enter the reception hall where there would be drinks and appetizers prior to a four-course dinner.
They examined the faces around them, mostly couples but some lone stragglers as well. Nobody tripped their mental mug files, but the night was young.
Presently they filed into the wide reception room. Large open floor, domed ceiling, tall tables and stools lining the walls. The diamond chandeliers looked more expensive than Dane’s entire Savile Row wardrobe. Waiters and waitresses wandered with trays of champagne but Dane and Nina headed for the bar instead. The bartender mixed a pair of martinis to their specifications. Regular dirty martini for Nina. Dane specified a vodka/gin mix with a splash of vermouth and a dash of water after the pour. The bartender raised an eyebrow. Dane explained the water leveled out the rubbing alcohol smell of the combined vodka and gin.
“You can drink it like water,” Dane said as he accepted the glass. “Problem is, after three or four you suddenly remember it isn’t water.”
The bartender grinned and moved down the bar to help another customer.
“I’m bored,” Nina said as they watched faces. She finished most of the martini and ate the olives.
“You’re not the only one,” Dane said. Most of his drink remained. He took another sip. “Look over there.”
He gestured with the rim of his glass. Nina looked in the indicated direction.
A short woman with glasses and red hair, tied back in a ponytail, occupied a spot along the opposite wall. No companion. She wore a blue strapless dress with a V-neck.
“What is she doing here?” Nina said.
“Well she is with Interpol. She is probably here for the same reason we are.”
“She tried to arrest us once, remember?”
“Admit it, we probably deserved it.”
Rachael Satastini turned her head to examine the other side of the room. She raised her glass to Dane and Nina; Dane saluted back.
“Put your arm down before I snap it off at the elbow.”
Dane laughed. He took a drink and set down the martini. He said, “Let’s flip for who has to talk to her.”
“I’ll do it. After dinner.”
“Fair enough.”
She swallowed her martini in one throw. “I need another drink.” Nina asked for a refill.
Dane glanced at the entryway as a gray-haired man with a cane entered. He held the cane in his right hand but didn’t lean on it too heavily and he kept his back straight. Dane wasn’t the only one to notice him. Right away guests came over to say hello, forcing Donovan Black to shake awkwardly with his left hand. He muttered, “Pardon my hip,” to several well-wishers. Nobody seemed to mind. Faces lit up around him.
Dane drank his martini and watched the man work the room. Was he really connected with Graypoole? He didn’t seem bad on the surface and even the best chameleons had a tell somewhere. Dane hadn’t seen one when he worked for the man, and he didn’t see one now.
Maybe Black was simply very good at concealing his true nature.
Most monsters were.
“Mr. Dane, what a pleasure! Ms. Talikova, you look stunning.”
Dane and Nina exchanged pleasantries with Black. He’d made the rounds and saved them for last.
“When I saw your names on the guest list, I admit it was a surprise.”
Black spoke with a very deep, soothing voice. The kind you want your doctor to use when he tells you your heart needs a new canooter valve.
“We’re between jobs,” Dane said, “and who doesn’t like a good cause?”
“There are some wonderful paintings up for auction, including a few surprises not in the catalogue.” Black grinned. “It’s a tradition. Surprise finale, if you will.”
Nina said, “What’s for dinner?”
Black let out a bellow of a laugh. “Never change, Ms. Talikova. The world will be worse off if you do. We have a very good menu tonight, you won’t be disappointed. Now please excuse me. I came in here to announce it’s time for the first course.”
Black stepped away, quieted the guests and made his announcement. He showed everyone into the dining hall, which resembled the reception room with long tables lined down the center of the floor. Everybody found a place setting. Dane noticed Rachael Satastini sat one table over.
What was she doing here?
He looked around some more.
“What?” Nina said.
“Black isn’t here.”
Nobody noticed Donovan Black slip away.
He stood by the doors of the dining room as his guests filed in, exchanging smiles and nods and wishing all a good meal. Then he left for his private elevator down a nearby hallway. He exited on the second floor and cursed the cane and his hip as he made for his office. He couldn’t move like he used to. Age and injury. The bane of mankind, specifically a man like him. There was still so much he wanted to accomplish. He needed his body on board with his goals.
Black entered his office. A large fish tank covered one wall, the fish inside swimming lazily around castles and other structures.
Near Black’s desk, in front of a computer and a set of monitors, sat a younger man with blonde hair, slicked back. He wore a dark suit.
“Any problems, Sean?” Black said as he made his way to the younger man.
Sean O’Malley shook his head. “Nobody here who wasn’t invited, but two people did raise an alert.”
O’Malley wound back footage on one of the monitors. A facial recognition program boxed each face; the computer showed the rapid change of pictures and ID information of each guest. O’Malley froze the process when Dane and Nina appeared on the monitor.
Black said, “Yes, I know them. They’ve worked for me in the past.”
“Shall I check them out? They’re known to work for the CIA.”
“I know what they’re doing here. I’d like to give them a length of rope to hang themselves with.” Black made for his desk and sat down with a wince. He rubbed his right leg.
“Getting old is an awful thing, Sean.”
“Yes, sir.”
28
Dinner did not disappoint, from the first course, a tomato soup, to dessert, a chocolate mousse, all delightful and Nina said so.
The reception hall re-opened once again with a jazz band playing on a small stage.
“Care to dance?” Dane said.
“Not in these shoes.”
“You’ll live, come on.”
They cut the floor to an up-tempo number, dodging other couples in some cases, spinning around to see where their friend from Interpol was hiding.
“In the corner, talking to a Hispanic chap,” Nina said. “And he’s wearing white.”
When the song ended, they headed for the bar. Fresh drinks in hand, they found another table. Some guests were heading for Black’s auction display and his personal museum, so there was an ebb-and-flow to the number of guests drinking and dancing.
“Look at her body language,” Dane said. “She isn’t happy with her friend.”
“Why are you looking at her body?”
“Not tonight, honey.”
Nina let out a sigh. “I suppose this is one of those times where the sisterhood takes precedence over shoving her off a cliff,” she said. “Pardon me while I do a bit of rescuing.”
“Don’t hit her till you know why she’s here,” Dane said.
“I know that.”
“Just reminding you.” He winked.
She glared and headed for Rachael Satastini, Interpol agent.
When Nina neared, the Hispanic in white was leaning close to Rachael, who put a hand out to halt him. As she started to speak, Nina jumped in.
“Is he bothering you, Rachael?”
“A little.”
“Who is your friend?” said the man in white with a gleam in his eye.
“I don’t know what name she’s using tonight. What’s your name tonight, lady in red?”
“My real name.”
“Oh. Then this is Nina. Nina, meet Paco.”
“How lovely to--ahhhhhhhhhh!”
As Paco reached for Nina’s hand, presumably to kiss it, she grabbed his wrist and twisted, forcing the man to turn and arch his back.
“Leave us. Now.”
“Sorry, Paco,” the Interpol lady said, “she was raped in a porta potty once.”
Nina let go and the man departed unsteadily, trying to straighten his outfit as he walked.
Nina put her hands on her hips. “That was really, really gross, and uncalled for.”
“You’d have said it too.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I should ask you.” Rachael peeked around Nina. “Steve is looking hunky tonight.”
“He goes home with me, tart.”
Rachael laughed. Sipped her wine. “You never let me down. Sit. Come on, sit.”
“I like standing.”
“Suit yourself. I’m here on business.”
“So are we.”
“To steal something? All the paintings have electronic tabs so forget it. They’re bugged, too. All the schleps going to ogle them are telling Black how much they’ll pay without knowing it.”
“All for a good cause.”
Another sip of wine. “That’s the rumor.”
“So why does your agency care?”
“Why does the CIA care?”
Nina narrowed her eyes.
“This room might be wired.”
“There’s a reason I’m close to the stage.”
Nina finally sat down.
“Good girl.”
“Shut up.” She leaned closer to Rachael. “We need to work together, not play antagonist.”
“You still mad about Jamaica?”
“Yes.”
“Then why should I bother?”
“I’m willing to forgive and forget.”
“How Christian of you. Oh, wait, was that offensive?”
Nina kept her mouth shut and her eyes locked on the redhead’s. Finally, Rachael Satastini sighed.
“Okay, truce. You’re right. We can probably help each other.”
“You first.”
“Interpol has been tracking a man named Derya Teke. Big gangster in Kabul. Sold a lot of guns to insurgents who killed a lot of coalition troops. Now he has somehow acquired a bomb and Black is writing a check.”
“Why does Black--”
“No idea. We intercepted calls between Teke and Black and a person named Mr. X. Teke will bring the bomb here since Black has the smuggling route worked out. This is also where Teke collects his money.”
“Who is Mr. X?”
“Who do you think?”
“Graypoole?”
“Graypoole is dead.”
“His son isn’t.”
“How juicy.”
“Where’s Black’s office?”
“Second floor, end of the hall. See that hallway over there? Private elevator. Or use the stairs at the front door. But be careful. Black’s number two is a man named Sean O’Malley. He doesn’t mess around.”
“There isn’t a man I can’t handle,” Nina said, slipping off the stool. “Keep your head down.”
“Oh, I will,” Rachael said. She winked. Nina shook her head and returned to Dane after a stop at the bar for another refill.
Later, the wait staff opened some side doors to let guests mingle on the outdoor patio. Dane and Nina migrated there. Dane lit a cigar and added to the accumulating tobacco smoke already in the air.
Nina provided a rundown on her chat with Rachael, using different words here and there in case of surveillance.
“Is Teke here?” Dane said.
“She didn’t say. If he’s not here now he’ll slip in overnight.”
Dane nodded. He puffed on the cigar. “Auction starts at three tomorrow.”
She leaned close and nuzzled his neck. “We still have a few hours.”
Dane shut the door to their room and turned the lock.
“Boy, sure was a nice dinner,” Nina said, kicking off her heels. She left them on the floor and reached up her dress to peel off her stockings. She wrapped them in a ball and dropped them near her heels.
She continued the senseless dinner chatter as Dane went around the room with the bug sweeper. He paused at the lamp near the bed. The indicator on the shaver glowed red this time.
Nina smiled and took the sweeper from Dane’s hand, and set it down on the nightstand. She stepped in front of him, reached back with both arms and pulled down the zipper on the back of her dress. Dane chuckled and pulled her to him.
She hadn’t been lying about her underwear.
They gave the bug something to transmit the rest of the night.
29
Derya Teke was a little thin but the designer suit fit perfectly, with a little extra breathing space between his neck and collar. He wore no beard and his hair was cut short, his cheek bones and jaw prominent, the only really interesting feature being his hooked nose. It was a normal nose until the tip, which bent at a slight angle. Teke wished he could say it was the result of an injury, but no such luck. He’d been born with it. He had enough money to have it surgically repaired, but the fear of a mistake causing the nose to look worse held him back.
He sat in the rear of the limo with his legs crossed, hands on lap, briefcase on the seat beside him. He stared out at the countryside without really seeing it. He had his mind on the job at hand.
He was attending the auction to collect a payment, deliver a bomb for Donovan Black to ship via his nefarious ways and add a painting to his growing collection. Teke, an Afghan, had flirted with al-Qaeda and as a free-lance terrorist-for-hire, but quickly left when he realized he liked money and high living more than jihad. When Graypoole the Elder had come calling, Teke found somebody of like mind and pledged his allegiance. Now that his son was in charge, Teke was happy to be back in his primary business.
From his base of operations in Goa, India, he used the bottom level of his home to display his many paintings, some of which had gone missing from famous museums many years ago and he had a spot picked out for whatever he received from Donovan Black. He had nothing specific in mind. The auction would reveal something that struck his interest. He’d be given whatever he asked for and nuts to the high bidder. If said bidder had a complaint, Black would deal with him. Teke would remain far away from the transaction, as if he were on the other side of the planet.
The car stopped at the main gate of the Black home, the guard performed his cursory check and the driver continued through.
McConn and Stone hunkered at a hide site about 100 yards from the house. They had found a gully allowing them to set up a small camp to watch the house from the top, where they both lay on their stomachs with binoculars as the new arrival passed through the gates. The soft grass was the only luxury their hiding spot afforded.
But the morning dew had yet to dry and their clothes were wet. The morning chill showed no mercy in its bite.
“That one is late,” Stone said.
“Another fat cat who gets to dine on caviar and stay warm while we’re sleeping in the dirt,” McConn said.
They had a pair of sleeping bags. Couldn’t light a fire at night. Luckily the binoculars had night vision capability and allowed them to continue working well into the night until they absolutely had to sleep. The thermal sleeping bags retain
ed a lot of heat, but, to McConn, not enough. And then they only had cold MREs to eat. Probably the worst insult.
Furthermore, McConn had already gone twenty-four hours without hot coffee.
“I’d like to know why he’s so tardy.”
“Probably couldn’t figure out which Rolex to bring, so he packed them all.”
“Todd.”
“What?”
“You’re being annoying.”
Donovan Black, in a blue suit and tie, entered his office, leaning on his cane as he stopped in front of Sean O’Malley and the surveillance gear.
“Anything?”
“Dane and Talikova have odd ideas about sex.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
O’Malley consulted a sheet of paper. “Some of the guests talked money.” He handed the sheet to his boss, who awkwardly folded it with one hand and placed it in the left side pocket of his suit pants.
“What else?”
“Teke is here. He’s been shown into the dining room.”
“Very good.”
Black departed and made his way down the long hallway to the dining room. The walls were taller than average, decorated with either paintings of tapestries, another artistic design on the ceiling, which nobody ever really noticed. The wood flooring and walls were polished to a high sheen and Black found Teke examining the paintings with admiration. He moved from one to another and let out an audible gasp. The gasp echoed a little.
“I’m surprised,” Black said, “you didn’t notice this piece sooner.”
“You have the Marc Angelo. The Marc Angelo.” Excitement grew in Teke’s voice. “It’s been missing for--”
“Over seventy years.”
Black stopped beside Teke and looked up at the painting, which showed a man in black staring out an open window, a blank wall behind him, bright light shining through the window and leaving a spot on the floor. The man was reportedly the artist himself, the only known self-portrait of Marc Angelo.
“The Nazis were supposed to have destroyed the whole collection when they burned down--”
