“Sure.”
Justin poured Abdul a tall paper cup.
“Here you go. Now, the Prince having no Bugattis is like a Catholic church without a cross. It can’t be, and we need to find out why.”
“Is the reason really that important?” Carrie asked.
“It could be.” Justin pointed at the laptop’s screen. “I mean, Al-Farhan has ninety-nine cars. Maybe he’s waiting for a special limited edition Bugatti to top up his collection.”
“Didn’t they make a special edition for their hundredth anniversary?” Abdul said, “What was its name?”
“Bleu Centenaire,” Justin replied.
“Yes, that one.”
“Oh, they make new editions all the time. Same car, if you ask me,” Carrie said.
“Maybe he just doesn’t like Bugattis,” Abdul suggested, “I mean, there are other supercars missing here.” Abdul picked up one of the documents listing the Prince’s automobile collection. “I see no Porches, no Lamborghinis, no Bentleys.”
“One can do without those,” Justin replied, “trust me, Abdul, I know cars. And I know car collectors. You can’t have a one hundred racecar collection without a Bugatti. You just can’t.”
Abdul shrugged.
“Fine,” Carrie said.
“I’m gonna have Chris find out if the Prince is still in the market for a Bugatti,” Justin said, referring to one of the analysts with the CIS Dubai office.
“Why? You’ve got one for sale?” Carrie asked.
“No, but it may give us the hook we need. We’ll figure out our next step if the Prince is still game.”
“I’m not going to argue with you.” Carrie turned her chair around and sat in it with a loud thump. “At this point, everything is worth a shot. I’ll trace back the Prince’s last few days in the French Riviera. Again.”
It took Chris and his team in Dubai less than an hour to come back with an answer. Indeed, Prince Al-Farhan was still looking for a Bugatti, but not any Bugatti. Justin could hardly believe his eyes when reading the note Chris has drafted. The Prince was not satisfied with more than a thousand brake horsepower of the 8.0 liter W16 engine in the Bugatti Veyron, which reached a top speed of more than 235 miles per hour. He had also shrugged aside the more exclusive, limited production of Bleu Centenaire, or even the most recent and the fastest model of the supercar, the Super Sport. Instead, the Prince had insisted the Bugatti manufacturing plant roll out a tuned-up car to his own liking, boasting around 2000 brake horsepower. The Prince wanted his car to beat all other souped-up supercars of the uber-rich. He had to own the ultimate machine in power, speed and, of course, price. Still, he had not succeeded in convincing the Bugatti plant executives. Lately, the Prince had begun looking for a modified Bugatti, one with a considerable aftermarket upgrade.
“I think we’ve got our hook,” Justin said, his eyes squinting. The left corner of his lips formed a sly grin.
“Uh-oh,” Carrie said with a headshake. “I know that grin and it usually means trouble, big trouble.”
“Here’s my idea: we find a Bugatti Veyron the Prince wants and offer it to him. He’ll agree to come out and meet—”
“It’s never going to work,” Abdul cried.
“Hear me through.”
“OK, first of all, where are we going to find a Bugatti?”
“I know a friend.”
“Which one?” Carrie peered at Justin over her reading glasses.
“Romanov.”
“I can’t believe you’re calling that Russian son of a bitch a ‘friend.’” She threw her arms in the air.
“He owes me one, Carrie, and I was describing him to Abdul, who doesn’t know him,” Justin said. He continued to Abdul, “He’s not really my friend.”
“So, who is this Romanov?”
“He’s a Russian oil thug who owns half of Moscow.” Carrie snorted. “And who has bribed and killed his way to the top.”
“And this billionaire owes you one because…” Abdul’s bushy eyebrows arched and his forehead wrinkles doubled.
“Regretfully, he saved the thug’s life,” Carrie replied. Noticing Abdul’s awestruck face, she explained, “We were staking out this bar in Nice, a couple of years back, looking for a CIS agent gone rogue. At some point, Romanov pulls in with his bodyguards and that’s when we realize our agent turned sniper was planning the oil thug’s death. Our guy pops two of the bodyguards and wounds Romanov on the shoulder, before Justin could get close enough to our agent. The thug’s alive because of Justin.”
“The whole story it’s a bit more complicated, but, yeah, that’s the gist of it,” Justin said.
Abdul kept shaking his head.
“Even if Romanov agrees to lend you his Bugatti Veyron, which he would be crazy to do, how are we going to tune it up and show it to the Prince, all in less two 48 hours?” Carrie asked.
“Valerie,” Justin replied.
Carrie looked sideways at Justin.
“Let me guess,” Abdul jumped in, “she owes you her life as well?”
“Ha, ha, not funny,” Justin said. “When I used to race, she worked for Joy’s, this hotrod garage in north Montreal.”
“And you dated her for some time,” Carrie added. “Now, I doubt she learned at Joy’s how to fine-tune Bugattis.”
“You’re right. She got out of there about the same time I did, oh, fifteen years ago. Now she works for Monsati, a small Italian car tuner, out of Milan. And she’s already souped-up two Bugatti Veyrons.”
“How come you know so much about this woman?” Abdul asked, his voice implying more than simple curiosity.
“Facebook.”
“Does Anna know you’re tweeting her?” Carrie asked with a wink.
Justin sneered. “I’m not tweeting her; we exchange an e-mail or two now and then. And yes, Anna knows I have friends, like she does, and that occasionally they happen to be of the opposite sex.”
“So, just to clarify, your plan is to borrow Romanov’s Veyron, have Valerie pimp his ride, and then we’ll use it as bait for Al-Farhan?” Carrie asked.
“In a nutshell. Anyone has any better idea?”
Carrie shook her head. Abdul spread his palms.
Justin fell silent for a few seconds.
“Now, what’s wrong?” Carrie asked.
“This… this plan. This crazy plan. I can’t make you follow me into this hell I’m creating.” Justin’s eyes moved from Carrie’s face to the table and then rested on Abdul.
“You’re not making me do anything,” Carrie said. “This is my job, stopping terrorists and their evil plots. This seems the only way to do it.”
“I just feel this time we’re getting very close to the fire, to a large hellish fire.”
“Eh, we play with fire all the time. It’s a professional hazard.” Carrie tried to lighten up the mood.
Justin looked at Abdul, who was staring at them in silence. “What do you say, Abdul?”
“Let’s assume everything goes without a flaw, and we do get to see the Prince face to face,” Abdul said in a dry voice. He coughed a couple of times, before adding, “Then what? We tie him up? Force him to confess? What do we do?”
Justin nodded. “We’ll talk to him. We’ll tell the Prince we know about his plot and demand he calls off his dogs.”
“And point out the obvious, that we’re not the only ones who know,” Carrie said. “It wouldn’t hurt to add that the Prime Minister has a few dozen mukhabarat agents ready to storm the Prince’s mansion if something happens in Tripoli. People dear to his heart, like his son, could get hurt.”
“But there’s no such a thing—”
“Of course not, Abdul,” Carrie said, “but the Prince should believe an assassination attempt against the Libyan Prime Minister will cost him dearly, and he’ll have to pay for it, if not in blood, then in tears.”