Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) (31 page)

“Relax, Justin. We got it all under control.” Carrie held his right arm as Abdul stopped in front of a discrete, low, iron gate. A video intercom box with a black buzzer was attached to the white wall on the left. On the right side of the gate, small blue letters announced the visitors had arrived at Le Bataillon.

Justin nodded, as Abdul rolled down the window and pressed the buzzer. He smiled at the tiny camera mounted on top of the intercom box monitoring the entrance gate. Two seconds later, the gate swung open without a sound. Abdul pressed on the gas pedal and the Mercedes slid forward, beginning the uphill climb along the private driveway leading to the hotel.

“Let’s see if the welcome team is still at two o’clock,” Abdul said.

Yesterday, he had spotted two security guards hiding behind the perfectly trimmed hedges and tall cedars along the narrow road. They were stationed about a hundred feet from the gate.

Justin glanced casually at the expected guard post but did not see anyone.

“Maybe they change positions daily,” Carrie said.

“I guess so,” Abdul said.

Justin slid his hand over his right thigh, at the place where usually rested his Browning 9mm.

“I feel naked without my gun,” he whispered in Carrie’s ear.

Abdul, their bodyguard, was the only one carrying a pistol.

“Hopefully, this will be peaceful,” Carrie said.

Justin snorted. “You wish. Abdul, stay close to us.”

“Of course, boss. I’m your bodyguard, remember?”

The car rounded a corner and a wide vista of the Mediterranean Sea opened up in front of them. Justin caught a glimpse of the turquoise waters and the red-roofed houses along the coast, before the lush shrubs closed the view. Then, he looked straight ahead and saw a black Rolls Royce Ghost coming from the other direction.

“Don’t stare,” Carrie said, “You’re a Russian oil thug. You can have any car in the world. In fact, you’re dumping the most powerful car ever built.”

“I know, I know, but the Ghost is just… it’s a work of art.”

The road curved downward and Abdul slowed to take the sharp turn.

“Watch the tree.” Justin glanced at an overhanging branch of an old mulberry tree. “Don’t scratch the car.”

“Boss, you need to relax.” Abdul gazed at Justin in the rear-view mirror.

“My darling, you should try to loosen up, seriously,” Carrie said in a flirty voice with a fake Russian accent.

“You know you can do better than that,” Justin replied, unamused by Carrie’s half-hearted effort.

Carrie shrugged and offered no reply.

Abdul turned another corner and the splendor of Le Bataillon appeared in front of their eyes. Built in a style blending late Gothic, early Renaissance and Belle Époque architectures, the palace was a miniature castle. Grayish-white stone walls with small balconies and arched windows were arranged in perfect symmetry. Green-roofed turrets and a great dome rose above the main entrance. No signs advertised the purpose of the building. One could easily mistake the palace for the residence of a French tycoon or a celebrity.

“Hey, check this out.” Abdul pointed to his right.

His remark was unnecessary, for Justin had already seen the blue transport truck. Prestige Transport was written in large white letters on its side. A man dressed in a blue uniform was resting against the truck door, a clipboard in his hand. Behind the truck, Justin saw the taillights of Romanov’s supercar.

“The Veyron’s here,” Justin said, trying to suppress the alarm in his voice.

“Our Prince is here too.” Carrie nodded toward one of the hotel windows. “First floor, fourth window. Three o’clock.”

Justin first glanced to the other side and slowly moved his eyes to the fourth window. A man in a red-and-white checkered headdress and a white robe, sitting on a couch, was looking at them behind dark sunglasses. He was flanked by two tall, thick men, in black suits. A second later, the man stood up, turned around and disappeared inside the room.

“Park there, at the corner,” Justin said.

Abdul followed the driveway, which encircled a tall, marble fountain depicting a woman taking a bath from a jar on her shoulder.

“Let’s do this.” Justin opened the door.

He marched in long, hasty strides toward the truck. Abdul hunched his back and followed him closely, wearing a menacing look on his face. Carrie stood by the Mercedes, deciding to apply some lipstick and fix a few hairs that had escaped her pinned up bun. She lifted up her sunglasses and used her mirror to check the treed area along the parking lot and across the driveway.

“You’re early, very early,” Justin shouted at the delivery man in Russian, waving his arms wildly in the air, pointing at the Bugatti Veyron and making a phoning gesture. “You should have called, you useless man.”

Justin’s outburst caught the attention of a couple entering the hotel. The man, perhaps in his late forties, was dressed in a gray, pinstriped suit. The blonde-haired, long-legged model in a white and blue dress hooked onto his arm was twenty years his senior. She gave Justin a smile, which was cut short by Carrie’s arrival. The man simply nodded at the two of them.

“
Dobry den,
” Justin greeted the couple. Then, he returned his attention to the delivery man, who was staring blankly into Justin’s fuming face. “You should have called in advance,” Justin barked at the man in heavily accented English.

“Eh, yes, we should have,” the bearded redhead replied. “I couldn’t find your phone number.”

The calmness in his voice surprised Justin.
He must be used to rich pricks yelling at him all the time.

“I assume you’re Mr. Arkady Alexandrov,” the delivery man said.

“Yes, of course, I am.” Justin kept up the arrogance in his voice. A moment later, he resented it and decided to cool off his pretense. “Abdul, take care of the paperwork.”

Abdul showed the delivery man Justin’s Russian passport and signed the necessary documents for the delivery, while Justin walked to the Bugatti Veyron Super Sport. Carrie was ignoring the supercar and was typing on her BlackBerry, standing at a distance of a few feet. Justin caught himself gawking at the supercar. He slid his hand over the sleek carbon fiber body and rested it over the driver’s door handle.

“Can we get in now?” Carrie asked in a boring tone, playing her part.

“Hey,” Justin called to his bodyguard in a snappy voice, “the keys. Now.”

Before Abdul could fetch him the keys, Justin noticed two tall, thick men, in black suits coming out of the wide doors of Le Bataillon’s entrance. Two feet behind, the man in the headdress walked with purpose, followed by another two bodyguards, a perfect copy of the first pair.

“They’re headed this way.” Justin whispered to Carrie.

“We’re unprepared,” she replied.

“We’ll improvise.”

Abdul stepped in front of Justin, as the group crossed the fifty feet distance between them and the team. Carrie stood to the side, blinking nervously.

“Arms up,” one of the bodyguards ordered Abdul.

Justin nodded to Abdul and he raised his arms for the obligatory search. One of the bodyguards removed Abdul’s Glock 19, unloaded it, and gave both the empty gun and the magazine to the second bodyguard. Then, he found Justin’s passport in one of Abdul’s pockets, inspected it for a few seconds and then handed it back to Abdul.

“I don’t carry a gun. Neither does she,” Justin said.

The bodyguard was unimpressed and proceeded to search him anyway. Before it came Carrie’s turn, the man in the headdress spoke in Arabic, “That’s good enough.”

Justin straightened the collar of his shirt and the buckle of his belt. He removed his sunglasses.

“I am Prince Husayn bin Al-Farhan,” the man in the headdress said in English, extending his hand toward Justin.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Highness.” Justin shook the Prince’s hand. “My name’s Arkady Alexandrov. I see you have arrived early.”

“Yes, I have to attend to some urgent business, so let us close our deal right away.”

“Eh, yes, by all means.”

Justin turned on his heel and pointed at the Bugatti Veyron. “This is the merchandise, Your Highness.”

Prince Al-Farhan shot a glance at the supercar, unimpressed by its glamour. Justin swallowed before proceeding with his spiel.

“Zero to sixty in 2.5 seconds. An unbelievable 1500 brake horsepower, for a top speed of 267 miles an hour, the world record of land speed. This is number three of only five World Record Editions of the Super Sport ever built. I’ve had it modified, adding 300 brake horsepower to the original 1200. I’ve raised the chassis and reinforced the shock absorbers for rough roads.” Justin was repeating the words Valerie had written in a text message.

He observed the unexpressive face of the Prince, before continuing with, “Top speed is unlocked, since the racetrack tires are virtually indestructible. Other modifications are too complicated for me to understand, but this I know: This is not only the fastest Bugatti Veyron out there, but also the fastest and the most powerful car in the whole world.”

The Prince’s face remained calm, but Justin thought he saw a barely noticeable nod. A second later, he said, “Let’s take it for a test drive,” and began walking toward the Veyron.

Justin glanced at Abdul, who swiftly handed him the keys. Justin gave them to Prince Al-Farhan with a polite nod. The Prince opened the door but stopped before getting inside the supercar.

“There’s a scratch mark here,” he said.

Justin hastened around the Veyron and looked at the Prince’s pointed finger. He squinted and barely noticed a hairline mark by the door handle. Then, Justin’s eyes met the Prince’s curious glare.

“Hmm, oh, yeah, my fiancée scratched it with her diamond ring,” Justin said, improvising.

Prince Al-Farhan stared at Carrie, who shrugged and raised her left hand. A solitaire diamond ring sparkled on her fourth finger.

The Prince nodded and got inside the supercar. Justin glanced at Carrie and Abdul, giving them a reassuring nod. Carrie blinked at him twice, their signal that she and Abdul were going to follow them in the Mercedes. Abdul stood motionless. Justin threw a quick gaze at Prince Al-Farhan bodyguards, walked behind the Veyron, and slid into the passenger’s seat.

He caught himself gawking again, this time at the exquisite details of the cockpit. Black leather and aluminum finish surrounded him on all sides. The sport seats, the steering wheel, the dashboard, the armrest, the gearbox, everything was created with pure perfection in mind.
Focus, Justin,
he said to himself,
you own this Veyron, you’ve been inside it many, many times.

The Prince did not seem to notice Justin’s lack of concentration, as he was starting up the Veyron. Justin had done this so many times in his mind and had seen it in so many videos. Still, it was fascinating to experience it in person. The Prince folded the edges of his robe, so it would not interfere with his driving, and pressed the start button, located below the speed stick shift. The gadgets on the dashboard lit up with bright red and orange colors. Once the Prince turned the key, the engine roared and the rear spoiler began to retract. This was the standard driving mode of the Veyron for up to 130 miles per hour, and Justin had no plans of getting anywhere close to that speed. He pulled the seatbelt over his shoulder and felt like a rocket man, with sixteen cylinders and four turbochargers of the monstrous engine strapped to his back.

“Are you ready, Mr. Alexandrov?” the Prince asked, pronouncing Justin’s fake name in a slightly different tone.

Is he suspecting something? Does he know who we are?

It was too late to back out now, even if the Prince was aware of their ploy.

“I’m ready,” Justin replied.

The Prince steered to the left and the Veyron rolled down the driveway. Justin threw a quick glance to Carrie and Abdul but was able to spot only their silhouettes as they headed back toward the Mercedes.

“There’s a side road behind the hotel,” the Prince said, as they took a downhill turn. Le Bataillon disappeared from their view, hidden behind a tall hedge of pine trees. “It’s almost a closed course and there we can test this Veyron beauty.”

The Prince’s voice rang with excitement, and his Arab accent became thicker. Justin’s mind raced to the aerial photos of the hotel and its surrounding area. He remembered a thin line of a road, but none of its details, since he had never considered it as part of their getaway.
Where is the Prince taking me?

“How’s your business doing?” the Prince asked, driving with both hands on the steering wheel.

“Has gotten worse over the last year. Too much competition in the oil business, as you know very well. Now that prices have returned to their usual levels, there’s less money to go around.”

“Is that why you’re selling
your
Veyron?”

Justin noticed again the change in the Prince’s voice.

“Yes. I don’t need it anymore.”

The Prince slowed down as they turned a sharp corner. The side road snaked downhill through a valley carved out between rows of twin hills. To the left, Justin saw the glimmering reflection of the sun on the Mediterranean still waters. To the right, a series of mansions with stonewall fences were nestled among small olive and orange groves.

“Let’s see how it handles the curves.” The Prince stepped on the gas pedal.

The Veyron raced downhill with a loud vroom. The punch of the swift acceleration threw Justin against the seat. He clenched his fingers on the door armrest, praying the sides of the supercar did not scrape against any of the orange branches. The Prince steered sharply to the left and the Veyron responded with a drift, tires squealing on the asphalt.

“Quite balanced. I’m impressed,” the Prince said.

Justin glanced at him then at a speed sign as it flashed passed them. It was too blurry for Justin to read it, but he thought he saw a five in there.
Fifty kilometers an hour?
His eyes fell on the Veyron’s speedometer, already registering seventy-five kilometers. The red pointer of the instrument jumped to eighty, as the Prince kept going faster and faster. Justin coughed to get the attention of the Prince, but he kept his gaze on the road. Trees, electric poles and streetlights all became a big blur.