That was where Prince Timgad had planned to take the submarine and the weapon he’d intended to mount on it. She’d hoped that stealing the submarine and killing the prince would stop him from starting a war. But he was still alive. He couldn’t use the submarine now, but he still had the weapon, and he would be looking for other ways to deliver it.
“Where will the vote take place?”
Aunt Bibi watched the stars.
“Aunt Bibi?”
Her aunt sighed, then spoke in a voice so quiet Laila could barely hear her. “On Prince Timgad’s yacht, the Roc.”
“The Roc?”
“It’s the largest superyacht in the world, one hundred and eighty meters long. Commissioned five years ago and launched on Tuesday.”
“The largest yacht named after the largest bird,” Laila said. “Not a subtle man, the prince.”
Aunt Bibi smiled.
“When do the men gather together for the vote?” Laila asked.
“I don’t know when they come together, or where they leave from.”
“When do they arrive in New York?”
“On March 22. Their arrival is timed to coincide with an Israeli vessel full of protesters against American policy.”
The yacht and the scapegoat would arrive at the same time.
That was her timeline, too. She had twelve days.
Chapter 11
Joe closed the iron scrollwork door and lifted the elevator’s lever. The elevator shuddered into life. He’d looked into replacing the outdated thing, but had come up against a wall of bureaucracy so high even Mr. Rossi had given up and told him to learn to love the elevator he had. Serviceable. It had been for more than a century. Even attractive, with a square Persian rug on the floor, a small chandelier in the ceiling, and elaborately worked scrollwork sides and door. It was also open beyond the scrollwork so he could see raw stone sliding by as the elevator creaked up over one hundred (cyan, black, black) feet from the formal entrance to his house. The elevator felt rickety and unsafe, no matter how many city elevator inspectors certified otherwise.
The elevator stopped, and he hurried out. Edison followed at a more leisurely pace. The dog wasn’t afraid of elevators. A quick trip up the spiral staircase and Joe and Edison stood inside the information booth at the center of Grand Central, under the famous four-faced clock.
“Good morning, Mr. Tesla,” said Evaline. She worked the information booth and was probably the only person in the world who knew as much about train schedules as Joe.
“Morning, Miss Evaline,” he said. “Are the trains running on time today?”
“Always, Mr. Tesla,” she said. “Except the Harlem Line. It’s about two minutes late.”
“They’ll catch it up,” he said.
She bent to pet Edison, and he gave her a tail wag. He didn’t respond to most people petting him while he had on his vest, but he made an exception for her.
“You’re looking fine this morning,” she told the dog, like she did every morning, and Edison wagged his tail.
Joe had missed work yesterday because of his hangover after the accident, and he was glad to get back to his routine. He opened the brass door, whistled for Edison to come to heel, smiled at Miss Evaline, and stepped out into the bustle of Grand Central on an ordinary workday.
“Mr. Tesla?” A man in a business suit thrust a microphone in front of his face. “How do you respond to allegations you were playing chicken with Prince Timgad? And that led to the death of his bodyguard?”
Joe stumbled back against the door. Miss Evaline reached to open it for him, but he wasn’t going to turn tail and run. He was going to work.
“No comment.” He pushed past the reporter.
A woman in a white power suit kept pace on his left. “You didn’t mean for him to die, did you?”
He walked forward. He wasn’t even going to dignify that question with a ‘no comment.’ Edison stuck close to his heels.
Mr. Suit closed in on his right. “How long had you and the prince been feuding?”
A crowd of people in neon green T-shirts milled around in front of Joe. Their shirts proclaimed Proud to be a Minnesotan. He wished they said Proud to Know Where the Hell I’m Going So I Can Get Out of the Way. But they didn’t.
Miss White Suit crowded so close he felt her breath on his cheek. Her cameraman jockeyed behind her. “What does this mean for your security clearance?”
He hadn’t thought about that. If he lost his security clearance, he might have to step down from Lucid, his first company, and the one that had brought in most of his fortune. He pressed his lips together and plowed through the Minnesotans.
The reporters and cameramen were better at moving through crowds, and they kept pace. He thought about an owl he’d once seen out during the day and how it had been mobbed by crows, hectoring and yelling, knocking feathers off the poor bird as it searched for cover.
“So, you’re saying you did mean for the bodyguard to die?” White Suit said. “Are you being charged with murder?”
He walked on.
“Did you know the royal family is demanding your head?”
He didn’t turn to see who was yelling what questions. He wanted to get inside his office. Behind him, Edison yelped.
He whirled to face the person who had hurt his dog.
“Sorry,” mumbled Mr. Suit’s cameraman. “I didn’t see him there.”
Edison leaned back against Joe’s leg. He scooped the dog up in his arms and hugged him against his shoulder.
He glared at the cameraman. “Don’t touch him. Not ever. Is that clear?”
The cameraman stepped back a pace and kept filming.
Edison nuzzled Joe’s cheek, reminding him to stay calm and focused. His first priority was to get the dog somewhere safe. He hefted Edison so the dog looked over his left shoulder like the world’s furriest baby and strode forward. He was in a crowd of New Yorker businessmen, and the reporters lost ground. The businessmen didn’t give way like the polite Minnesotans. He slowed. He didn’t want to be filmed sprinting away.
“It’s OK,” he whispered to Edison.
The dog swiveled his head back to look at him and let out an encouraging bark.
Joe didn’t look back. He marched up the stairs, ignoring the questions shouted from behind. It sounded as if a third reporter had joined the fray, but he didn’t look.
The woman in the white power suit somehow caught up and was at his elbow as he reached the office doors. She was thin and small, adept at cutting through crowds, although how she kept pace in her high heels he couldn’t imagine.
“Were you piloting the sub at the time of the accident?” she asked. “Or was it your lover, Vivian Torres?”
He was so taken aback by both assumptions that he almost answered, at least to deny he was sleeping with Vivian. He was sure she wouldn’t want that lie out there. But he was afraid that anything he said would make things worse for her.
He slid sideways through Pellucid’s front doors without a word.
“Close and lock!” he yelled.
“Ahead of you.” Marnie was next to him and already locking the door.
The woman in white knocked on the glass like she actually expected them to let her in. A sprightly little tattoo of denial. He turned his back on her.
“They’ve been calling all morning,” Marnie said. “You might want to get ahead of this. Draft a statement, run it by Mr. Rossi, and give it to one of those sharks.”
He lowered Edison to the ground, and the dog shook himself.
“You OK, boy?” he asked.
Edison wagged his tail to say he was, but Joe checked each leg to make sure. That cameraman had big feet.