Violence of Action, page 25
For all the eye candy inside of the club, the air reeked of cigar and shisha tobacco smoke, and he saw Watts crinkle her nose as her gaze settled on three Arab men smoking, laughing, and drinking at a nearby table. The United Arab Emirates was subject to Sharia law, but that strict code of conduct did not apply inside the Cavalli Club or others like it. Dubai was an oasis of Western debauchery where alcohol consumption, cohabitation of unmarried couples, and immodest female attire were permitted. As so often was the case with the world, when dogma and capitalism collided, an uncomfortable and unspoken agreement of cooperation and tolerance was forged . . . an “I’ll scratch your back while you pretend you’re not itchy” arrangement.
Without trying to look like he was surveilling the joint, Chunk methodically scanned the cavernous club for Qasim Nadar. In the middle of his sweep, his gaze crossed Watts’s own scan, two lighthouse searchlights in the night.
“Do you see him?” he asked.
“No,” she replied.
A waiter appeared tableside, interrupting their effort. “Good evening, can I interest you in a cocktail and our Midnight Brunch?”
“What is the Midnight Brunch?” Watts asked, still using her authentic but strangely comical French-accented English.
“It is a three-course meal with drinks included for two hundred and fifty Dirham per person. We start you with an antipasto sulla piramide with thirteen tastes. After that, you choose a main—tonight’s entrées include petto di pollo with olive reduction, salmon over risotto, or beef medallion served with truffle gnocchi. After this, you have a choice of desserts.”
“We will have the Midnight Brunch, and I will have a prosecco,” she said.
“Beer for me,” Chunk said, shifting his weight in the chair.
“Excellent, someone will have your drinks right out to you while I put in your order. Incidentally, is this your first time dining with us?”
Chunk nodded.
“Just so you know how it works, this is the last dinner sitting. At midnight all the tables are cleared away to make room for the dancing. For now, enjoy the show,” the man said, and as if on cue, a trio of scantily clad women stepped out onto a little stage and began performing “All That Jazz” from Chicago.
Chunk watched the lead vocalist sing for a few measures and then looked at Watts, whose attention was fixed on the performance. His gaze swept from her face to the tattoo behind her left ear—a small α symbol inked in black in the tiny patch of skin between the back of her ear and hairline. From there, his gaze drifted to her back where he noticed another tattoo, one he’d not seen before and only visible because of the plunging back of her cocktail dress. The Hebrew characters קבלה were inked in a vertical line along her spine, positioned high on her back between the shoulder blades. He leaned forward and squinted to see if he could make them out.
Just then she turned to catch him looking at her. “Checking out my ink?”
“Yeah.”
“You haven’t seen that one before, have you?” she said.
“Nope, can’t say I have. At work you usually have more clothes on.”
“I know! Stop reminding me.”
“Are those Hebrew characters?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “It spells the word Kabbalah.”
“What is Kabbalah?”
“In early Jewish esotericism, Kabbalah described parallel loops representing the physical and spiritual realms. When the loops are clasped together a nexus is created—a place where knowledge of the metaphysical universe can be received,” she said. “But it also has a gematria, so with this tattoo, I’m celebrating both the mystical and numerical significance of the word.”
“I have absolutely no idea what the hell you’re talking about, Heels. What is a gematria?”
She laughed. “Gematria is the ancient practice of assigning a numerical value to a name, word, or phrase. It’s all about the power of numbers—gematriot are prevalent in mysticism but were also used to create ciphers in the era before digital encryption.”
“Okay, so what’s your Kabba-whatever tattoo’s gematria?”
“One hundred and thirty-seven,” she said, not missing a beat.
“One hundred and thirty-seven,” he echoed, thinking about the seemingly unremarkable number. “Is that a special number or something?”
“Oh yeah,” she said with a laugh as if he’d just asked the dumbest question in the world.
“Fine, I’ll bite. What’s special about it?”
“First of all, it’s a prime number, but not just any old prime. It’s a strong prime, a twin prime, an Einstein prime, a Stern prime, a Pythagorean prime, and a primeval number. In geometry, one hundred and thirty-seven degrees is the golden angle, and the multiplicative inverse of one hundred and thirty-seven is the fine structure constant of the universe.”
Chunk laughed and shook his head. “I have no idea what any of that means. You might as well be speaking Greek.”
“No, this is Greek,” she said with a chuckle and pointed to the α tattoo behind her left ear. “Alpha is the symbol for the fine structure constant. I also have one hundred and thirty-seven tattooed inside a triangle somewhere else. There’s power in threes.”
“Somewhere else, huh?”
“Yeah, somewhere not visible, even with this skimpy dress,” she said, blushing.
“Sounds like you really like that number. Okay, I’ll bite . . . what’s so important about it?”
“Many theoretical physicists and mathematicians believe the fine structure constant is the key to quantum mechanics, string theory, and unraveling the mysteries of the universe itself . . . but other than that, not much.”
“Oh my God, Heels, you’re such a nerd. I thought your fascination with knots was weird but this—” He stopped midsentence as he saw her attention shift. “You see something?”
She laughed theatrically, as if he’d just made a legit joke, and reached out to touch the back of his hand. “Oh stop,” she said, her gaze ticking back to meet his. “Quebec is charming this time of year.”
She’d spoken the assigned code word, Quebec, for their target.
It appeared that Qasim Nadar was officially in the house.
CHAPTER 30
the cavalli club, restaurant, and lounge
sheikh zayed road, trade centre 1
dubai, united arab emirates
2241 local time
“Damn, dude, what does it take to get a beer in this place?” Chunk said loudly. He sat up in his chair and pretended to look around for their server. He swept his gaze across where Watts had been looking and confirmed that, yes, Qasim Nadar had just arrived along with three other men, all white with Anglo-Saxon features. He watched them get seated at a four-top table twenty-five feet away. He scooted his chair back from the table and retrieved his mobile phone from his pocket. “Hey, darling, why don’t you come over here, sit on my lap, and we can take a selfie?”
“Any excuse to get me on your lap, eh cowboy?” she said with a little laugh, playacting perfectly and getting up from her chair.
As she settled onto his lap, he realized just how slender and diminutive she was. His last girlfriend had been super into fitness and had a real density to her, but Watts was like a bird—hollow-boned and featherweight. He raised his phone and lined up the front-facing camera to take a picture of Qasim Nadar’s table with him and Watts squeezed to the very edge of the frame. He pressed and held the shutter button down, forcing the camera into burst mode, and took two dozen pics in rapid-fire succession.
“Would you like me to take your picture?” a voice said in accented English beside them.
Chunk released the shutter button and glanced with annoyance at the server who had just shown up with their drinks. “No, thank you,” he said, with no intention of handing his mobile phone off to anyone regardless of the situation. “We like the selfie look.”
“As you wish,” the waiter said with a nod, placed their drinks on the table, and departed.
“Check the pics before I get up,” Watts said.
He nodded and went to the photo library to review the images. “Not bad,” he said, seeing that he’d caught Nadar in profile, a second dude head-on, and a third in profile. The last guy, with his back to them, was not visible in the picture. Only problem was, they were too far away and the low-level light made it worse.
“Let me take one,” she said and took the phone from him.
She scooted her ass farther up his lap and reclined, draping herself against his chest so that their heads were cheek to cheek. He resisted the urge to look down the front of her dress—which from this angle undoubtedly left zero to the imagination—and kept his eyes on the phone screen. He watched her use her thumb and index finger to zoom to maximum magnification and then snap another burst of pics of the British Aero table.
“That should do it,” she said, lowering the camera for them to look at the new crop of pictures.
“Much better,” he said, as she swiped through the deck of photos.
“I’ll try to get a pic of the guy with his back to us later.” She gave the side of his thigh a friendly pat and returned to her chair.
“Roger that,” he said, keeping his voice below the din as he texted the best photo of the lot to Yi. “Just messaged the pic to your partner in crime.”
She nodded and, without discussing it, they both subtly adjusted their chair positions so neither of them had their back to Nadar’s table. Their first course of appetizers arrived a few minutes later—thirteen distinct small bites served on a metal wire pyramid. Chunk gave Watts first pick which she argued about, only to acquiesce when he refused to move a muscle.
“Oh my God, this is amazing,” she said, forgetting her accent as she took a bite of a tiny pastry shell filled with something. She offered what remained of the morsel to him. “You have to try this.”
“Uh, okay.” He leaned forward and let her pop the other half of whatever it was in his mouth. It tasted salty and rich and had a slight tomato flavor. “What was that by the way?”
“I have absolutely no idea,” she said.
He rolled his eyes and picked a little gem off the stand for himself and popped the whole thing into his mouth. As he chewed, he saw her glaring at him. “What?” he said, still chewing.
“What the hell?” she said. “I don’t get to taste that one?”
“I didn’t realize we were sharing every single one.”
“I don’t see two antipasto pyramids on this table, do you?”
“My bad,” he said with a chuckle, selected another appetizer, extended it to her to take a bite, and then ate the remainder, grinning. And so it went until they’d tried everything and the pyramid was empty.
“Which one was your favorite?” she asked.
“That cracker with the Wagyu beef,” he said. “What about you?”
“I think that was my favorite too. Kinda wish I would have taken a little bigger bite first,” she said which made them both laugh, and for the briefest of respites Chunk lost himself in the moment. Despite his ridiculous outfit and this ridiculous glam club with its jellyfish chandeliers, leopard-print chairs, and food with names he couldn’t pronounce, he was having a great time. And probably it was because of Watts. He’d never seen her so relaxed and funny before. Most of the time she had her guard up around him, even the times when they were alone. Probably because he kidded her incessantly, all the while making sure to reinforce that he was her boss and she his subordinate. In their NOCs tonight, however, she’d somehow managed to turn the tables. For this operation, they were equals . . . partners even . . . and that felt okay. Maybe even better than okay.
“I’m going to make a trip to the ladies’ room,” she said, slipping her tiny handbag over her shoulder. “See if I can get a good look at Nadar and snap a selfie with the guy we can’t see in the background.”
“Be careful,” he said and she disappeared into the crowd.
While she was gone, the waiter delivered Chunk a fresh beer along with their dinner entrées. Assuming she’d want to split these too, he pulled her plate over to his side and divided both meals. While he waited for her to return, he checked his phone for any text messages from Yi.
There were three.
Confirmed identities of three persons in pic. Nadar and two British nationals.
What’s going on?
Sitrep?
He snapped a picture of one of the female aerial acrobats and texted it to Yi. Then he typed an accompanying message.
Watts is a little drunk and showing off. Did you know she could do this shit?
Chuckling at his cleverness, he waited for Yi’s reply. A laughing emoji with tears came back seconds later. He typed another string, this one serious.
Nothing new to report. Position watchdogs per plan.
A thumbs-up emoji came back.
Watts returned a few minutes later wearing a look of accomplishment.
“Did you get him?” Chunk asked.
“Oui,” she said with a little grin, her French accent returning. “I took a panorama of the club, pretending I was trying to document the whole spectacle.”
“Nice.”
“Hey, look, they split our entrées for us,” she said, smiling and pleased. “Unless . . . Did you do that?”
He shrugged. “I figured it was the only way to make sure the portions were fair. I couldn’t let you do it after the Wagyu beef incident and all.”
This earned him a flirty slap on the arm and a smile. While they ate and talked, they worked in tandem to continuously scan the club and kept a close eye on the British Aero table. No surprise, Nadar and his colleagues were doing pretty much the same thing everyone else in the club was doing—eating, drinking, and gawking at the spectacle of it all. Ever since Watts’s bathroom trip, however, Chunk noticed periodic glances at their table from Nadar’s table. Not so much from Nadar, but from the dude sitting on the left. All his looks were at Watts, and Chunk recognized this as carnal as opposed to tactical surveillance. Half the club had undoubtedly noticed her during her last flyby, putting her on plenty of single guys’ radars now.
Probably not a bad thing, Chunk thought. If they’re looking at her, then they won’t be looking at me.
They finished their entrées—the salmon and beef selections—and moved on to desserts, which they also split. Chunk didn’t catch the Italian names, but one was chocolate cake and the other was some kind of mousse with hard biscuit-like cookies. A few minutes to midnight, their server asked them to clear their table in preparation for clubbing time. A small army of staff quickly transformed the Cavalli Club from a dining room into a dance floor, removing the tables and pushing the chairs to the perimeter.
“Time to up our game,” Chunk said, putting his arm around Watts’s waist and pulling her close to him. “It’s about to get loud and crowded.”
“Should we move closer to Nadar?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he said, keeping their target in his peripheral vision.
Five minutes later the bouncers opened the main doors and a crowd of people flooded in, quadrupling the number of patrons and filling the club close to capacity.
“Let’s reposition,” he said and, like a blocking fullback moving in slow motion, methodically cleared a path toward the lounge area where the British Aero guys were hanging out and sipping cocktails.
He found a patch of unoccupied standing room only fifteen feet from Nadar. He brought his half-drank, gone-warm beer, and she her prosecco, so they’d have something to sip on. They pretended to have an engaging conversation while they surveilled Nadar. To Chunk’s bewilderment, multiple dudes came up to hit on Watts while they were together. What’s more, they were utterly shameless, persistent, and unintimidated by both his presence and his bulk. He could have dropped every one of them with a single punch, but Watts dismissed them like spam callers, callously and bluntly, and he never once had to intervene.
Some “big deal” DJ and entourage entered the club to a raucous cheer and took the stage. The crowd swooned for the guy, but Chunk couldn’t give a shit. He understood why actors and singers garnered fame and followers, but why the hell anybody gave a damn about a DJ was beyond him. The music changed, became instantly ten decibels louder, and a light show commenced. The dance floor transformed into a living, undulating organism of gyrating bodies. Sexy female dancers climbed into gilded cages that seemed to appear from nowhere, and the acrobat from earlier in the night now glided overhead, sitting on a trapeze swing. Despite the noise, the eye candy, and aerial distractions, Chunk stayed on mission and kept his attention focused on Nadar. He was just about to suggest to Watts that they relocate closer when Nadar walked away from his three colleagues.
“The package is on the move,” he whispered in Watts’s ear. “Looks like he might be headed to the bar.”
“Check,” she said and then loudly announced, “I’m going to the bar to get another drink.”
Chunk grabbed her arm, stopping her. “Hold up . . .”
Something interesting was going on—an Arab dressed in a trendy suit had just bumped into Nadar and the two men were having words. They were too far away for Chunk to make out any of what was being said and he had no training in reading lips, so he focused on facial expressions and body language. The encounter didn’t seem particularly friendly, but not heated either. They’d not greeted the other with a hug or handshake and they parted company the same way after the exchange.
“What do you think that was all about?” he said to Watts.
“Don’t know. Could have just been they ran into each other, apologized, and parted company,” she said. “Or it could have been something more.”
“We need to get a picture of that guy, send it to Yi, and see if it gets a hit.”
“Agreed.”
“I’m gonna shadow this guy, see if I can get the pic,” Chunk said. As he spoke the words, in his peripheral vision he saw the handsome Arab turn and look in their direction.
