Say No More Page 6

  “I’m overriding authority by voice command,” Eve said. “No portion of this conversation will be recorded. Send systems check once completed.”

  “Authorizing voice command,” Elaine said. “Approved. Conversation will remain in clandestine mode until otherwise ordered.”

  “What do you know about Shiv Mittal?” Eve asked him.

  Elaine was programmed to follow conversations, and a picture of Mittal appeared on the screen along with pertinent information.

  Dante checked his wineglass for spots, then poured a small amount into it, swirling the wine for a few seconds before taking a sip. Deciding it was just what he needed, he poured more.

  “Not much,” he said. “He’s a billionaire playboy and tech wizard. And he holds the title of sultan, though Najd no longer recognizes itself as a sultanate and has been absorbed into Saudi Arabia. He’s made his home in Dubai, I believe, though his family is still in possession of the sultan’s palace and other properties. His ties and loyalties are unknown, as he tends to stay out of politics. He’s young for someone of his position and power, maybe forty at the most. He’s well educated, holding multiple degrees, but his father is the real bastard. He’s been linked to murders, terror attacks, and human trafficking.”

  “That is correct,” Elaine said, pulling up a picture of the father. “He has more than a hundred wives, and he buys them as young as age thirteen. Shiv is the only son of his first wife. It is unclear whether the son has continued the father’s practices.”

  “We wouldn’t be here if the son wasn’t as corrupt as the father,” Dante said.

  “What if I told you he has nuclear launch codes?” Eve asked.

  “I’d ask what the bloody hell he’s going to do with them without a weapon or a remote detonator,” Dante said. “I’d have heard if the Saudis or UAE had recently acquired either. How did he get the codes?”

  “Won them in a poker game,” she said.

  He put down his wineglass and stared at her. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

  “My bullshit hour is over, so no, I’m not kidding.”

  “Whose codes are they?” he asked.

  “Russia’s,” she said. “They can’t keep a lid on anything these days. They’ve got so many leaks they might as well put everything on a Wikipedia page and save everyone some time.”

  “You’re full of jokes today,” he said. “The situation must be dire if you’ve resorted to humor.”

  “Look, two nights ago, Mittal held an intimate dinner party for two hundred on his yacht. He, the Russian ambassador to Syria, al-Baghdadi—the head of ISIS—and two other unknowns held an impromptu poker game. The intelligence community collects data on players like Mittal, especially when they show no particular allegiance to anyone but themselves. So far he’s kept his nose clean. But now he’s a threat. You can imagine the intelligence community’s response when they found out who was sitting in on that poker game. Every agency in the world is creaming their pants at the opportunity to keep a bead on al-Baghdadi.”

  “I’d think they’d be more interested in how it slipped past their notice that one of them was walking around with nuclear launch codes to begin with.”

  “It’s being dealt with,” she said. “Clearly there’s a weak link somewhere when it comes to international security. What we know at this point is that North Korea was able to steal the launch codes and certain weapon components from Russia. As fucked-up as North Korea is at the moment, it was more of a power-play move than for a strategic purpose. They already have nuclear weapons. What they needed was cash. And Russia is flush with cash at the moment, so North Korea sold the codes back to Russia. And the ambassador was lucky enough to be the one to make the exchange.”

  “I’m sure he’s sorry he was volunteered for the job,” Dante said.

  “I’d say so. His mistake cost him his life. He was found in a cemetery, his grave already dug. He’d been tortured and dismembered. Slowly. Now every unsavory country on the planet has their eye on Shiv Mittal. For a genius, he sure is stupid. Sometimes I wonder why we even bother.”

  “Because the innocent need to be protected,” he said. “A man like Mittal isn’t equipped to deal with the fallout of owning nuclear launch codes. He’s basically a rich nerd. Anyone who wants them is going to be gunning for him. They’ll eat him alive. I can’t imagine why the ambassador would put them up for ante in the first place.”

  “He thought he had a sure win. They both must have had a hell of a hand. Mittal bet his oil reserves, which is more than a billion-dollar pot. The codes were the only thing the ambassador could offer to stay in the game.”

  Dante was speechless. He brought his wine into the living room and took a seat, reading the information that was scrolling on the screen.

  “Did I mention North Korea also managed to steal the remote detonator?” she asked. “It’s still in their possession. They’re waiting for Russia to come up with more cash before they return it, but now that the launch codes are no longer in Russia’s possession, North Korea has decided to open up bidding for the detonator.”

  “Christ,” he said. If the detonator and those codes were put together, the nuclear weapon could be launched from anywhere in the world. Russia would have no control over it without finding someone who could manually deconstruct the weapon. A task not as easy as one would think, as only a handful of people in the world were qualified to know how to construct and deconstruct all the components of a nuclear weapon.

  “It’s a clusterfuck,” she agreed. “We believe Mittal is going to open up bidding for the codes. From what we gather, Mittal is not a terrorist or a criminal. His plan is to force Russia to buy back the codes for an exorbitant amount of money. We believe he knows the danger he’s put himself in. He’s boosted his security. He and al-Baghdadi have been nothing more than acquaintances up to this point. Now they’re enemies. The UN has appealed to him to turn the codes over to them for safekeeping, but he knows that could be just as dangerous. The UN is scheduled to meet tomorrow morning, but the meetings I’ve had today show a disinterest in waiting for the UN to come to an agreement on anything in the next twenty years. I’m uninterested as well. It’s time to take matters into our own hands before this blows up in everyone’s face.”

  “I’m going to assume what you have in mind isn’t a Gravedigger mission,” he said, finishing off the wine and setting the glass on the side table. “Otherwise you’d be addressing all of us instead of interrupting my Saturday night.”

  “Surveillance hasn’t been able to breach Mittal’s palace in Dubai. We’ve got someone integrated with the household and we’ve got aerial shots, but no sound or recording devices. Special guests are brought in armored, tinted vehicles and driven underground to enter the palace. He has a secured vault that can only be reached through his office. The place is a fortress.”

  “Which is where I come in, I presume.” He thought about it for a moment, running the probabilities through his mind. He was definitely tempted. And more than intrigued. “What’s my compensation?”

  Her expression didn’t change, and he knew she’d been expecting the question. For a job of this magnitude, he needed something more than just the thrill.

  “It’s my understanding that Mittal is in possession of a J. M. W. Turner painting. I believe he’s one of your personal favorites, yes? The last Turner brought more than thirty million pounds at auction. This one is worth quite a bit more, but it can never go on the auction block.”

  He read between the lines easily and his brow arched in surprise. “It’s the one that was stolen from the Hermitage a dozen years ago?”

  “I don’t suppose you know anything about that?” she asked.

  “I don’t suppose I do,” he said. That was one of the last jobs he and Simon had worked together. Dante had never agreed with stealing from museums, but even he had to admit there wasn’t another rush quite like it. This job would come close.

  “How much time do we have?”

  “
You need to leave in twenty-four hours,” she said. “You’ll have a week to prepare.”

  “If you’re only giving me a week, there had best be something at the end of this besides a Turner. Cash always works.”

  He’d normally need a month for a job like this. He needed time to observe the staff and anyone else who came in and out of the palace on a regular basis. He wanted to watch security and see if there were any weaknesses. And he needed space to run simulations.

  “Half the amount of the painting’s worth has already been deposited in your account. The other half will be deposited when you return with the codes. Don’t let them out of your hands. If you’re captured, destroy them.”

  “Elaine,” he said, “please gather all information on Shiv Mittal’s palace in Dubai. I want blueprints and any additional changes he’s made. I want aerial and ground-penetrating radar. I need a penthouse suite where I can see the grounds through a long-range scope. Arrange transportation for tomorrow. I need to get a feel for the area. I’ll have a list of equipment I need in the next two hours.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Elaine said flirtatiously. “I’ve anticipated your needs, and I’ve found we own a property in Dubai that will meet your criteria. It has a private, secured elevator, and I’m built into the server, so you won’t have to use portable me. You’ll be able to use me to my full potential.”

  Dante couldn’t help but grin. “Elaine, my love, that’s the best news I’ve heard all day.” He checked his watch and looked at Eve. “I’m not due for vacation anytime soon. The others aren’t going to be happy if I request it. And I believe the last time you sent me off solo, I had to call in with the flu. Which was quite embarrassing, by the way. I’ve never been sick a day in my life.”

  “There are other ways to get rid of you for a while,” she said. “Agent Malcolm, you’ve officially been suspended for insubordination until further notice.”

  “Lovely,” he said, and meant it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The pavement went from smooth to potholed in a matter of seconds. Dante took his foot off the gas of his Porsche Carrera as he entered Last Stop the next morning—the sleepy town that housed Gravedigger headquarters—knowing there was a speed trap a couple of miles down the road. The best thing he could say about Last Stop was that it was quaint. After that, he ran out of compliments.

  It was a long stretch that led to the town center, and on either side there were wide fields marked by wire fences and lazy cattle trying to find shade under a few scrawny trees.

  He turned the air conditioner on high, hoping it would overpower the smell of manure, and debated whether it was worth the speeding ticket just to get past it all and be able to breathe again. It was going to be a hellaciously hot day—he still hadn’t gotten used to Texas summers—but he was about to go out of the frying pan and into the fryer. He’d heard that saying once during a viewing at the funeral home, and immediately liked it.

  The current temperature in Dubai was into the triple digits, which was one reason he would be arriving in the middle of the night. The other reason was so that he could get settled in without curious observers wondering who he was.

  There was a billboard up ahead that sat low to the ground, advertising the fresh sausage, deer jerky, and farm-raised beef offered at the town’s meat market. A deputy’s cruiser sat just in front of the billboard, and Dante pressed down a little harder on the accelerator, noting that the deputy had his hat low over his eyes and his boots propped on the dashboard.

  The scenery didn’t get much better as he approached downtown—and he used the term downtown loosely. The streets turned to brown cobblestone, and there were still hitching posts along the sidewalks in front of the brown brick buildings. A Gothic courthouse loomed above the square at one end of Main Street, complete with dark gray menacing stone and turrets and gargoyles.

  At the other end of Main Street, on another square, was the Last Stop Funeral Home. It was a big white elephant of a Queen Anne Victorian with two floors of wraparound porches, a portico to the side where the Suburban parked to transport bodies in and out, and a carriage house at the back that had been remodeled and expanded before Dante had been recruited.

  To say that living in small town USA had been a culture shock would’ve been an understatement. In his former life, Dante had never shopped for groceries, made small talk at a gas station, or been asked twenty questions about his family by a complete stranger while he was trying to eat dinner. That wasn’t done in British society—though gossip, it seemed, transcended all cultures and countries.

  There were no social boundaries in Last Stop. At least, none that he’d observed. The citizens there were just as curious today about the five men who worked at the funeral home as they were when Dante and his companions had first appeared a couple of years before.

  He’d gotten used to the accent—for the most part—but he’d never adjusted to small-town living. When he’d first been reborn as a Gravedigger, he’d lived in one of the suites in the carriage house. That had lasted a matter of weeks before he’d found a high-rise condo in the city that met his needs. The most pressing ones being that he needed civilization from time to time, and his secret was much easier to keep with distance between them.

  He took a side street to avoid Saturday morning traffic and wound his way around to the funeral home. The black Suburban was there, along with a black Hummer, a black truck, and a black Harley. He’d hoped to avoid running into everyone, but it didn’t look like luck was on his side for that one.

  He stepped out of the Porsche and pocketed the keys, adjusting the cuffs of his dark blue dress shirt, then made his way through the English garden that had been planted between the funeral home and the carriage house.

  Through the floor-to-ceiling kitchen windows that overlooked the garden, he saw Deacon and Elias inside, along with their wives. He didn’t see Levi, the newest member of the Gravediggers, but that was expected since it was Shabbat and Levi was most likely at the synagogue.

  Also absent from the domestic scene was Axel, who tended to take advantage of the opportunity to sleep late on Saturday mornings.

  Dante didn’t bother knocking—they’d already seen him walk up—and as soon as he opened the kitchen door he smelled bacon. He had to hand it to the Americans: he enjoyed their food immensely.

  Deacon was their team leader—he’d been the first of them, more of a government experiment as the powers-that-be piloted the program—and all reporting was done directly to him. He was going to be pissed as hell to be blindsided that he was about to be a man down, and Dante almost wished he could watch the confrontation between him and Eve.

  “Look at you,” Miller Darling said, arching a brow. “She must have been terrible for you to be up and out this early.”

  Miller was a new permanent addition to their growing group. She and Elias were engaged, but still couldn’t figure out how and where they wanted to get married.

  “He does look a bit tense,” Tess said, nibbling on a piece of fruit from the platter on the table.

  Tess was Deacon’s wife of almost a year, and she and Miller had been best friends since childhood. It was rare that the two went more than a couple of days without seeing each other. Tess was just pregnant enough for her belly to show beneath the oversize button-down shirt she wore. Her red hair was piled on top of her head in a bun that managed to look neat and messy at the same time. Deacon stood at the stove, wearing an old gray T-shirt, jeans, and a half apron as he tended the bacon with expert precision.

  Everyone knew it was best for Tess to stay out of the kitchen. She could burn water if she put her mind to it, so Deacon had taken over those duties when they’d married. Dante noticed he couldn’t quite hide his smile as the two women gave him hell.

  “I don’t know what you think I do on the weekends,” Dante said to Miller, “but I doubt it’s nearly as exciting as you imagine in that fascinating brain of yours.”

  Miller was a romance novelist, and sh
e had a tendency to make even the simplest thing complicated by expounding on the situation in her mind. Her short hair had been platinum blond a couple of months ago, but it was back to the black she usually favored. She was dressed in running shorts, a sports bra, and a tank top, and Elias was also in athletic gear, so Dante assumed they’d stopped by the funeral home after their morning run.

  Elias had moved from his tiny apartment to Miller’s creepy house about three blocks from the funeral home. The house had been beautifully restored, but it looked like a cross between Tales from the Crypt and The Addams Family—two shows he’d been introduced to on late-night television since he’d become a Gravedigger. Insomnia was often a pain in the ass, even more so when he was missing out on so many opportunities in the darkest times of the night.

  Miller wagged her brows and said, “I bet it is that exciting. You’re like James Bond with the accent and all. I keep imagining women with names like Honey Ryder and Pussy Galore swimming naked in that weird fish tank you have. If this was a couple of centuries ago, they’d have called you a cad and a rake, deflowering virgins wherever you go and gambling with your inheritance. I bet you’re an excellent dancer.”

  “I never deflower virgins,” he said, measuring tea leaves and then pouring hot water over them. “There’s nothing fun about that. And I am an excellent dancer. I’m happy to instruct the Bigfoot you’re marrying so he knows how to lead during the wedding dance.”

  “Hold on a second,” Elias said, leaning back on only two legs of his chair. “I can dance.”

  “Ehh,” Miller said, tilting her head apologetically. “Don’t get me wrong. You can do the Sprinkler and Shop for Groceries with the best of them, but I think he means real dances. Like the waltz and all that other old-people stuff.”

  “Etiquette has nothing to do with being old, and everything to do with being well brought up,” Dante said. “And what in God’s name do shopping for groceries and sprinklers have to do with anything?”

  “Did you know you resort to snobbishness whenever you get irritated?” Miller asked. “It’s an interesting personality trait. You’d make a great hero in one of my books—or at least parts of you. I’d leave out the snobbish womanizing parts.”