“You were?” She said without looking at him.
“Yes, unless you are here with someone?”
“Would that matter to you?” She said, finally locking eyes with him.
“It would be a pre-condition of which I was not aware and therefore acceptable to me as your preference.”
“I don’t understand a word you just said. What are you some kind of word nerd?” She turned her attention back to the dancers on the floor.
“No, I assure you, words are not my craft.”
“No kidding.”
“I am more of a theoretical physicist.”
“If I dance with you, will you talk like a normal person?”
“Most assuredly — eh, yeah. Sure.”
“You’re learning,” she said as she offered her hand.
She sounded like she was from the U.S., but there was something else, something Germanic mixed in. Raffey couldn’t discern it over the throbbing bass of the music.
They hit the floor as the DJ changed to a popular house music cut that any American would have known was five years old, but the crowd let out a collective “whoo” as the first slamming drum beats were instantly recognized. Hanna’s hand flew from Raffey’s fingers as she became a writhing, flame-like entity, wavering to the seductive beat. Raffey maintained his two-step, stiffly choreographed routine, one that most girls let pass for some kind of dance. In her throbbing bass-induced dance trance, Hanna was in a world of her own. Raffey was drawn to her indifference, as if she were beckoning him to her boudoir with a come-hither finger gesture. He was hooked.
“The report you requested is in from the Navy.”
“Are they still at four hundred million for the recovery?”
“Here’s where you got to love the government, even though I was at the meeting. See here where it says, Ultra Secret Eyes Only. That’s the part that says, not for me to know and for you to find out,” Joey said as he spun the thirty-two-page finding across Hiccock’s desk.
“Raise your right hand.”
“What?”
“Raise — your — right — hand!”
Joey did.
“Repeat after me, ‘I am a big jerk.’”
“I am just like you. So help me God,” Joey ad-libbed.
“Good! You’re cleared to see this — go to the summary page and tell me the number.”
“Recovering crucibles from the bottom of the Indian Ocean…deep sea trials…target acquisition and plotting soundings and imaging…here it is, total estimated costs four hundred two million dollars. Wait. Didn’t they say three hundred eight-five at the meeting? Now it’s four hundred and two? What did they do, add tax?”
“Sounds cheap at half the price,” Bill noted sarcastically as he reached to take the page back.
“Wait, you agreed to this number or something close. You having buyer’s remorse?”
“I don’t know,” Bill said flipping through the report.
“So what’s wrong? They’re not making you pay for this personally are they?”
“Nah, but a funny thing happened at Mimmo’s the other night.”
“Indigestion?”
“A guy cornered me in the men’s room.”
“I don’t want to hear the rest of this. Maybe you should take it up with the White House shrink.”
“Listen, shit for brains, the guy was an ex-spook. Somehow, he knew all about the meeting I had with the Navy brass. He said some things that were, at best, disturbing.”
“Now that I am cleared for this restaurant review, you gonna tell me the rest of the story?” Joey plopped down into one of the two tufted, plush leather chairs in front of Bill’s desk.
Hiccock wrote down the man’s name, rank and the notation ‘Nav Intel,’ then tore off the page from the pad and handed it to Joey. “Read the Navy’s report, then see what you can dig up on this guy.”
“If he is an ex-spook the shovel will have to go pretty deep,” Joey said, tapping the report.
“Keep it tight, but use sources we can trust. Don’t tell them why or who wants to know in case you are on a two-way street.”
“Got it. People we can trust but only one way — that’s going to bruise a few egos.”
Hanna’s gyrations weren’t attracting Raffey’s eyes alone. Prince El-Habry Salaam, nephew of the Saudi King, was unwinding in the VIP section of the club. His father had sent him to study banking in Switzerland so he could better administer the Royal Family’s billions. Across the velvet ropes, Hanna’s undulations made him don his hated glasses, which he never wore in public, in order to see if she was the vision she appeared to be. Upon more focused inspection, he nodded to Abrim, his head of security. Abrim knew the drill.
As Raffey and Hanna were in the middle of their fifth dance, the six-foot-three-inch guard of the Prince appeared and, in English with a hint of Arabic accent, asked for forgiveness. “Pardon the intrusion, but my employer wishes for you to join him.” He pointed in the direction of the roped off area.
Hanna shot a quick glance at the thin, dark-skinned man wearing dark glasses in a dimly lit corner of the club. “No, thank you.”
Abrim pushed, “He is a prince of the Royal Family Saud. His intentions, I assure you, are the most honorable.”
“Not interested.” Then she turned away and danced even more seductively.
Raffey moved in close, “Who was he?”
“An errand boy. Want to get a drink?”
Raffey smiled and led her to the bar. It being three deep, he decided to get the drinks while Hanna found a small table. She removed her right shoe and rubbed a complaining instep. When she sat back up, Abrim was there.
“You again?”
“With apologies.”
“Look, why doesn’t he just come over here himself?”
“He is a Prince. He could not be seen making an overture to a… a… “
“Commoner? Is that the term you are looking for?”
Abrim just half smiled.
“Well, my father always called me Princess when I was a little girl, so what’s he so high and mighty about?”
“The Prince has a great interest in you and would be happy to pay you for your time.”
“Oh he would, would he?”
“Yes. Ten thousand dollars, U.S.?”
“Fuck off!”
Abrim imperceptibly twitched his hand, the result of the conflicting instinct to strike this infidel bitch, and the training that the social dictates of these Western countries demanded, which immediately stopped him. He just nodded and walked away.
“What did she say, Abrim?” the Prince asked.
“She declined your offer.”
“No, I mean what exactly did she say?”
“A crude woman, I’d rather not repeat it.”
“What did she say exactly?”
“She said, “Fuck off!”
He turned to admire his new interest, “Brilliant. She is full of spirit. One to be tamed.”
Abrim just rolled his eyes.
Raffey came back with the drinks. “I saw him from the bar; he came over again. What did he want this time?”
“He didn’t want anything, he was sent by someone with no balls. At least you had the courage to approach me yourself. Let’s get out of here.”
“But our drinks…”
Hanna reached down and grabbed Raffey between the legs, “You’d better have a set.” Then she walked off. Raffey followed like an obedient dog.
Brooke was finishing her room-service breakfast while reviewing her notes and trying to find patterns in the international web of petty crime even the local police didn’t pay much attention to, and only then for insurance requirements. Yet, something was in there she couldn’t quite see as yet. She had taken statements from Disney employees at both the Long Island and French facilities — managers, artists, engineers. She checked past employee histories, even janitorial staff. Like this one, Davis Honsberry, a Nigerian who had locked up the night of the break-in in Easthampton. Wait a minute. She put down her coffee cup. The janitor on duty the night of the French break-in was…was… She rifled through her notes and circled the name Jean Claude Vastow — a Nigerian.