Wild Storm (13 page)

“Vaughn? What are you…what are you—”

Storm sighed impatiently and jammed Rivera’s head under again. Storm counted to ninety this time.

He worried he had perhaps overdone it. The man’s thrashing slowly stilled. When Storm brought Rivera back up, he did not appear to be breathing anymore. Storm was just beginning to consider giving the man’s diaphragm a quick pump when Rivera wretched out a stomach full of salt water, coughed several times, and resumed respiration.

“Please, please,” he said, weakly. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“I’m talking about the promethium laser beam you used to shoot Congressman Erik Vaughn’s plane out of the sky,” Storm said. “You’re going to tell me everything about it. Not only how you did it, but who you worked with and how you got the promethium. You’re also going to tell me where you’re hiding William McRae, the scientist you kidnapped. You’re going to tell me all of this in an impressive level of detail so I know you’re not just making it up, and you’re going to do it right now.”

Rivera just lay there, fighting pathetically for breath. Storm was sure he had broken the man’s spirit. But perhaps a bit more convincing was required. He tilted the board to again submerge Rivera.

“No! No! Please!” the man howled. “I promise you, I know nothing about this. Nothing at—”

Storm put him under, but counted only to sixty this time, if only because he really, really did not want to have to administer mouth-to-mouth on Rivera. Not at any time. And especially not when his face had been covered in fish entrails.

“You seemed pretty happy Vaughn died,” Storm said when he brought Rivera up again. “From what I understand, you’ve been toasting his death with everyone in Panama City.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Rivera said, panting fiercely. “You are right. I was very happy. Congressman Vaughn has been an impediment to getting funding for the canal expansion project. I said some terrible things about him and I’m very, very sorry. But I didn’t have him killed. I swear to you.”

“Then how did you know he was dead before the media announced it?”

“I have a cousin who emigrated to America in the eighties. He is a citizen now. He works for the FAA.”

“Who is he and what’s his date of birth?”

Rivera quickly replied with a name and a date.

“I’m going to have that checked out,” Storm said. “But in the meantime, I’m going to give the eel another chance to find your face.”

Rivera went back under. Pulling out his satellite phone, Storm called the cubby and got one of the nerds to run a quick check on the FAA’s employment records. Sure enough, Rivera’s cousin checked out.

Storm brought Rivera back up. The eel had not yet shown itself. All the movement was probably scaring it, encouraging it to stay hidden. A shame.

“My people say you’re lying,” Storm said.

“No, please, please! I’m telling the truth, I swear it! Listen to me, I had nothing to do with this congressman dying, but I might be able to help you.”

“I’m listening.”

“You said this laser, it was promethium, yes?”

“Yes.”

His voice came fast, and he forced the words out between large breaths. “I was at the locks a little while back, maybe three, four weeks ago, and one of my friends down there was talking. He was saying that a ship had come through that made the sensors go off, the nuclear sensors, what do you call them…?”

“A Geiger counter?”

“Yes, the Geiger counter. This was big news at the locks. Everyone was talking about it. There is always the fear that terrorists will try something at the canal. They pulled the ship aside, searched it, and found the container that was setting off the counter. I don’t know the details, but they tested what was inside and they found out it was promethium.”

“Did they detain it?”

“
Th
ey couldn’t.
Th
at shipment, it was not intended for import into Panama, so there was nothing customs could do.
Th
ey packed it back up, shielded it so the radiation wouldn’t get any of the sailors sick, and sent it on its way.
Th
ere are many hazardous substances we are allowed to detain, but promethium isn’t on the list.”

“So they let it through.”

“Yes.”

“And how are you thinking this is helpful to me?”

“Because I remember the name of the sender. It was printed on the forms and my man at the locks told me what it was. It was a company out of Egypt called Ahmed Trades Metal.
’
”

“
‘Ahmed Trades Metal,
’
” Storm repeated, making sure he had heard it correctly.

“Yes, that’s right. If you find that company, you will find the source of your promethium.”

STORM LEFT THE BEDROOM
without another word. He had no continuing use for Eusebio Rivera, but also no desire to have Rivera slow his exit by calling building security.

Still, Storm didn’t lack compassion. He cut loose Hector, who signaled his profound thanks by slumping onto the floor, letting the drool continue to pour from his mouth and remaining in a deep sleep.

Eventually, Hector would wake up, remember having been tackled and wonder why his boss was perched atop a fish tank. But he would also cut everyone loose and let them go about their business. There was no harm done, except to Rivera’s pride and to the fish Storm had to cut open. Collateral damage.

“Blink once if you want me to change the channel,” Storm said to Cesar, who did not blink in return.

“Enjoy the game.” Cesar acknowledged Storm’s well wishes by smiling with his eyes.

Storm’s exit from the building—which came via the elevator—was substantially faster than his entry into it. Villante was waiting for him in his Cadillac, which was parked on the street outside.

“Jones wants a report,” Villante said as Storm climbed into the car. It was after two o’clock in the morning, which meant it was after three o’clock where Jones was. But, of course, the man would still be awake.

Storm pulled out his satellite phone, and prepared himself to lie. If the promethium had come from Ahmed Trades Metal, then the last thing Storm wanted was for Jones to know it. Whatever he discovered about the company, he would have to do without the help of anyone in the cubby.

“What do you have?” Jones asked.

“It’s a dead end. Rivera knew nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“My methods were effective,” Storm assured him.

“Well, I’ve got another lead for you to follow. You remember I mentioned Ingrid Karlsson?”

“Yes.”

“Her reward offer has apparently netted some significant information,” Jones said.

“What is it?”

“She wouldn’t tell me over the phone. But she said she would share what she knows in person if I would send an agent I trusted.”

“And instead you’re sending me?”

“Exactly,” Jones said. “She’ll pick you up at Slip F-18 at the marina outside Casino de Monte-Carlo two mornings from now. A trip to Monaco won’t trouble you too much, will it?”

“You know I will sacrifice for my craft if I must.”

CHAPTER 15

MONTE CARLO, Monaco

he man who emerged onto the gaming floor at Casino de Monte-Carlo—refreshed, resplendent, and refined—owed a little something to the Boy Scout he had once been.

Derrick Storm’s association with the Boy Scouts of America had resulted in some less-than-desirable outcomes, yes: a brief bout of pyromania around the age of twelve that nearly incinerated his father’s car; a tendency to encourage younger boys to engage in snipe hunts, at least one of which ended with a Cub Scout getting lost in the woods overnight; and, later, during his time with the organization, a fascination with a certain Girl Scout camp across the lake that nearly led to his arrest.

But it had at least one positive result. Storm had been instilled with the virtue of self-reliance, having taken the Boy Scout motto, “Be Prepared,” very much to heart.

And so whereas a lesser man might have foundered when faced with this emergency—a night in Monaco, one of the world’s great human playgrounds, with nothing to do—Storm had found himself equal to the crisis.

Having the right friends helped in this matter. The moment he hung up with Jones, Storm calculated that it was nearing nine o’clock in the morning Monaco time. He deemed that an acceptable time to ring Jean-François Vidal, the chief operating officer of the Société des bains de mer de Monaco, the company founded by the Grimaldis—the ruling family of Monaco—to run the principality’s most important tourist properties.

He was also a man who owed his life—not to mention the non-bomb-marred façade of his most famous hotel—to the resourcefulness of a certain American intelligence operative.

So when Storm announced himself over his satellite phone, what he heard in response was Vidal half-speaking, half-singing, “Derrick, Derrick, Derrick! It is such an exquisite pleasure to receive your call. Please say you are coming to our small jewel of a city.”

“I am.”

“This is most wonderful news. Please say you are staying as my guest, for this will give me great joy.”

“I am.”

“Please say you will accept the services of the limousine I will send to the airport to greet you.”

“I will.”

“Please say I may prepare one of our finest suites at the Hôtel de Paris for you?”

“That would be lovely.”

“Please say you are staying at least a week. A month, perhaps?”

“Alas, only a night.”

“A shame. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I’m currently dressed in a white leisure suit that smells like fear and raw seafood. I suppose I could use an improvement on that.”

“It is done,” Vidal said. He did not ask Storm’s size, what designers he might prefer, or whether he liked starch in his shirts. Vidal was the kind of man who knew such things and took care of them. “Is there anything else?” he asked.

“Nothing at the moment. Except that I hope you will join me for a drink later.”

“It would be my honor and privilege.”

“Oh, and Jean-François?”

“Yes, my dear Derrick?”

“I know you mean well, but no prostitutes.”

Vidal had a tendency to overextend this aspect of his country’s hospitality. It was legal in Monaco, of course. But it was still not Storm’s style. “Of course not,” Vidal assured him, then ended the call laughing about Americans and their prudishness.

Ten and a half hours later, pushed by a brisk tailwind, the same Gulfstream IV that had taken Storm to Panama City landed at Côte d’Azur International Airport in Nice, France. He was then whisked via a stretch Lexus limousine to Monaco and the Hôtel de Paris, where he walked past its low relief sculptures, through its towering colonnades, and into its marble-lined lobby, a bright, airy space that featured an arrangement of fresh flowers in the middle that was nearly as tall as Storm.

He was then shown to the Winston Churchill Diamond Suite, in which the former prime minister himself had stayed many times and was said to have helped furnish and decorate. Two of his prints still hung on the walls.

Once inside, Storm quickly saw Vidal had thought of everything. A Brioni tuxedo, custom-tailored to Storm’s exact measurements, hung in the closet. A pair of a.testoni shoes was underneath. A towering fruit basket—not quite as tall as the lobby flower arrangement, but close—and a chilled bottle of
Goût de Diamants
were set out in the living room. The curtains had been drawn, giving Storm a magnificent, 270-degree view of the lights of the city shining off the cliff and into the darkness of the Mediterranean beyond.

Moments after he entered, a masseuse knocked on his door and insisted on administering a brisk massage to work out the kinks from his long flight. That, followed by a quick jog and a shower, had Storm feeling renewed in body and soul. No longer was he a bedraggled world traveler who wore yesterday’s bad clothes and smelled vaguely of seafood. He was now a suave, assured gentleman, dressed in habiliments that signified to all that he belonged among the professional athletes, celebrities, royalty, and superrich.

It was shortly after ten
P.M.
—a time at which Monaco’s nightlife was just starting to tune itself into a humming harmony—when Storm made his way to the magnificent belle epoque edifice that housed Place du Casino, Monaco’s most famous gaming destination. His appearance on the casino floor was immediately greeted by Vidal, who kissed him on both cheeks.

“You look wonderful as usual, Derrick.”

“Thanks to you.”

“I have extended a two hundred thousand euro line of credit. You need only sign for it at the cashier window. I trust that will be acceptable?”

“That will be fine. You are too kind, Jean-François.”

“Anything for you, Derrick. You know I am indebted—”

“Your debt is nothing. Let’s toast to your health.”

TWO MARTINIS LATER
—enough to lubricate but not inebriate—Storm settled into his first game of blackjack. The first two cards he received were an ace and a queen, which set the tone for the extraordinary run that followed.

For the next hour, Storm could do little wrong. He doubled-down on elevens, tens, nines, even some eights and sevens, all with success. He split sixes and won both hands. He hit on a sixteen against the dealer’s jack and was rewarded with a five. He stood with a thirteen and watched the dealer bust.

His bets had started modest—he had no plan to test the boundaries of his two hundred thousand euro credit limit—but still his pile of chips grew, to the point where he was almost embarrassed by it. He kept changing smaller chips into larger ones to hide his success, not that it did much good. Without even trying to keep count, he knew he was up several hundred thousand euros. His tablemates, two older German gentlemen, actually began applauding his success, punctuating it with the occasional “
Gut, sehr gut!”
or a head-shaking “
Mein Gott, mein Gott
.”

In the meantime, another game—parallel to the one he was playing at the table—had developed. A striking red-haired woman with high cheekbones and an aristocratic air two tables over kept glancing Storm’s way. She wore very little makeup and needed even less. Her hair was up in an exquisitely sculpted twist atop her head. Her slender neck was decorated by a glittering necklace. Her ice-blue dress matched her eyes and plunged low enough that it couldn’t really be said to even have a neckline. More of a navel line. Her body was a tribute to the benefits of plentiful exercise.

She was, in short, stunning.

She kept stealing ganders at her phone, like she was expecting something—a message, a call. But none came. Her brow, which was otherwise smooth and perfect, acquired a small indentation every time she brought it out of the tiny, jeweled purse next to her.

Yet to Storm, there was something else about her that made her seem like she wasn’t comfortable in all of her luscious, pale skin. He sensed indecision in her. Hesitance. And it wasn’t the kind that was calculated to be beguiling. Or was it?

The way the game seemed to be going is that Storm would glance in her direction and catch her staring. She would respond by looking away, as if her eyes had only fallen on him by accident. This happened several times before Storm finally accompanied his glance with a smile. This time, she blushed before turning away.

The pile of chips in front of her, which was small to start with, kept shrinking. She seemed unconcerned with it. Storm decided to ignore her for a time, to see how that would play. When he finally broke down and allowed her to enter his peripheral vision, he saw her gaze had not left him.

Then it returned to her phone. She checked once more for whatever it was she had been checking for this whole time. Once again, the phone seemed disappoint her. She shook her head. She stood. A decision had been made.

Storm returned his attention to his own table.
Th
e dealer had just given him two eights. He split them rather than deal with a sixteen against the dealer’s seven. His eights were covered by a king and a four. He stood on the eighteen and asked for a hit on the twelve, which got a four on it. So much for avoiding a sixteen.

He opted to stand. The dealer flipped over a queen. It was a wash.

Storm was distracted enough by that action that he hadn’t noticed the redhead was now behind him. She was even taller and more lithesome than Storm had first thought. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder. Her pale, pink lips neared his ear.

No words left her mouth. She just passed behind him, leaving a faint smell of lavender in her wake, and walked out to the balcony.

Storm felt an involuntary twitch in his lower body. He signaled to Vidal, who had been nearby talking with one of his floor managers, and had seen the entire exchange. The Frenchman walked smoothly over to Storm’s table. Storm withdrew his bet to signal to the dealer that he was sitting out this hand.

“I thought I told you no prostitutes,” Storm said. Not because he actually thought she was a prostitute, but because Vidal would know for sure.

“She is no prostitute, my friend,” Vidal assured him. “I do not know the woman. But I do know the jewelry she is wearing. That is a piece by one of the Mouawad brothers. Perhaps you have heard of them, yes? They recently sold a necklace called ‘L’Incomparable’ for fifty-five million U.S. dollars. That piece she is wearing is not quite as fine and without a loop I could not say for sure…but it is worth, say, two, three million euros?”

Storm let out a low whistle. Vidal finished: “All I am saying is, she is not a prostitute. She may be many other things, however. And at least one of the things she is, right now, is alone. Which seems a terrible waste.”

Storm shoved a few chips back in front of him, to show the dealer he wanted to resume play. He was rewarded with two jacks. The dealer had an ace showing and asked the players if they wanted insurance. Storm declined as did the Germans. They immediately regretted it when the dealer flipped over a king.

His luck was changing. Or at least it was in the game of blackjack. In the other game, it remained to be seen. He flipped a ten thousand euro chip at the dealer and shoved back from the table.

“Ah, the legendary Derrick Storm never disappoints the fairer sex, does he?” Vidal crooned.

“You don’t mind having these taken care of, do you?” Storm said, gesturing at his chips. “I don’t think I want to be encumbered this evening.”

“Certainly. Would you like it in gold bullion, delivered to your suite? Euros? Dollars? Pounds? You know we aim to please.”

“Just leave it on my account,” Storm said. “You never know when it might come in handy. I like to be prepared.”

“Very well,” Vidal said, then nodded toward the balcony. “I hope you are prepared for that as well.”

“We shall see, my friend,” Storm said. “We shall see.”

He clapped Vidal on the shoulder, and walked out to the balcony.

MONACO WAS THE KIND OF PLACE
that was more likely to have a traffic jam at midnight than at noon, and as that late hour approached, the city was alive. But while the light reached the balcony, the noise did not. Only the music from a string quartet, which had just begun its set, leaked out of the open doors of the casino floor. From the nearby Mediterranean, a warm flow of salt-smelling air washed gently inland.

Storm walked up to the woman in the ice-blue dress, who was alone by the stone railing that looked out on the sea. She turned as he approached. A few stray strands of her red hair had slipped out of the twist and were being moved by the breeze. Up close, she was even more captivating than she had been from across a crowded casino room.

“Was it something on my tux?” Storm asked.

“Excuse me?”

“The way you kept looking at me. I thought perhaps I had spilled something on myself. I’m terribly clumsy that way.”

“Oh. No. No, that wasn’t it at all.”

“Not my tux then. My face. I must have something on my face. You’ll have to show me where.”

He was moving in closer, as if to give her the opportunity to point out whatever flaw she had been staring at.

“No, no,” she said.

He was very close now, close enough that the smell of lavender was again filling his nostrils, mixing with the faint hint of sea salt to form a wonderful fragrance. It was one no one could bottle. It was also one Storm would always associate with this moment, this woman, this place.

People sometimes thought that a man like Derrick Storm had been with so many women that one more was no great event. The opposite was, in fact, true. Each new experience was only heightened by the appreciation of past liaisons and the anticipation of future ones. He found the female side of the species endlessly fascinating, and was forever intrigued by its complexities.

“Well, perhaps if we get to know each other better, you’ll be comfortable enough to tell me what it is. My name is Derrick Storm.”

“I know,” she said. “I saw you talking with the manager and I asked him your name. He said you are…a very generous man.”

“That’s a nice thing for him to say.”

Their faces were inches apart. He could feel his own heart beating a little harder than was necessary for his current level of exertion, and he noticed a flushing under the faint dusting of makeup on her cheeks. Her heart must have been pounding, too.