Triple Team: A Military Reverse Harem Romance, page 10
“Very good,” Monostov said. I cringed as he turned to face us because his jacket was so tight over his girth I was certain one of the buttons would explode. “In what industry are you involved?”
Michael shook his hand and said, “A little of this. A little of that.”
“Come now, we are all friends here! Narcotics? Weapons? Wait! I’ve got it. If my ear correctly discerns your accent, you are a real estate developer involved in the West Bank! Tell me I am wrong.”
Michael only smiled. “I have sought the services of our dear Bezos precisely to avoid answering such questions.”
Monostov laughed and pointed a finger. “You cannot blame me for trying! I will find out by the end of the night, I promise you I will.”
“I wish you luck,” he said.
“Be prepared to answer that question often,” Accola said. Then he waved at someone behind us. “I must entertain Dimitri. Please enjoy my party and make yourselves at home.”
He gave me one final lingering smile before leaving with Monostov. “Dimitri! Back from Ciudad Bolívar so soon?”
“I am a saint,” I whispered as we made our way toward the bar. “Ask me why I’m a saint.”
“Why are you a saint?”
“Because I haven’t punched Accola in the face yet.”
“The night is young.”
The bar was fully stocked but Michael ordered us two glasses of Merlot. I wasn’t much of a wine drinker, but the drink was so rich and flavorful that I wondered if I should rethink that stance.
“Are they that open about things here?” I asked. “Just tossing around their illegal shit like they’re discussing card games?”
“Men like Accola are accustomed to being untouchable,” Michael said. “Especially in their own estate.”
I followed his gaze to the second floor of the house, where the balcony overlooked the patio area. Men with guns on their hips patrolled the balcony, watching the guests below. Getting access to Accola’s computer system might be tougher than we expected.
A waiter came around with plates of food. There were thin pieces of pork in a fruit sauce, and biscuits the size of my thumb filled with garlic and cream cheese. I wolfed down my first plate, then grabbed a second as soon as the waiter wandered by again.
“Stop me before I pop out of this dress,” I said.
“It is not my job to babysit your meals.” Michael elbowed me. “Look. The bedroom and office are dark.”
I looked beyond the guards on the balcony to the windows. I pictured the schematics I’d memorized. Those should be the bedroom and office, and sure enough the lights were off.
“Think I should make my move?”
“Not yet. Let us wander inside and gather information.”
We drifted through the crowd, nodding and smiling at the other guests we saw but without making any real conversation. We entered from the patio into a library where men—only men—were drinking liquor and discussing triple-leveraged short funds, whatever that meant.
From there we moved into the grand entranceway. The front door was wooden and large enough to allow a car to drive through. Two staircases curved around the outer walls to the second floor, and a gigantic crystal chandelier hung so low Michael could almost touch it. Velvet ropes were strewn across the staircases to block anyone from wandering upstairs.
“Should I hop it?” I asked.
“I cannot imagine you hopping anything in that dress.”
“It’s a figure of speech.”
“Too many windows,” Michael said. “You would be visible to everyone by the valet station outside. Let us check the other staircase.”
There was more food in the parlor, though not as appetizing for my simple palette: slivers of chicken liver in brown gravy. We came to another bar and refilled our wine glasses.
Michael began making conversation with people as we drifted through the house. It was the same conversation repeated again and again. How do you know Bezos Accola? In what industry do you operate? Michael simply said, “Commodities,” which always seemed to placate the questioner.
The kitchen was stunning. All the appliances were Viking brand with computer displays on the front. Three ovens were stacked in the wall, each with timers on the computer screen counting down as additional hors d’oeuvres cooked. Two men were examining the display on the refrigerator, which took up the entire front surface.
“I could die in this kitchen,” I said loudly enough for anyone listening to hear. I marveled at the swirls in the marble countertops. “I’ve decided I want my casket made from this marble. I don’t care how much it costs. Bury me in style.”
“Of course, my dear,” Michael replied placidly.
The next hallway was long and led to another parlor-style room where music drifted serenely through the air. The second staircase was here on the right—something servants might use to stay out of sight while moving food from the kitchen to the bedrooms upstairs. They were right where Donovan’s schematics said they would be. We approached casually, just a couple of guests wandering around with no destination in mind. Another velvet rope blocked this staircase as well.
“We will make a pass and come back,” Michael whispered.
The parlor room at the end of the hall was more like a ballroom filled with bright light and shiny marble floors. A dozen couples were dancing in the middle of the room while a violin trio played a waltz in the corner.
“Shall we dance, Jessica?” Michael said, extending his hand.
I took it. “I would love to.”
He guided me toward the other dancers then turned to address me. He cut a handsome figure as he held my hand high in the air and placed his other hand on my waist, the fingers curling around to my lower back. Then he smoothly lead me in a waltz step, one-two-three, one-two-three in time with the violins.
“I didn’t take you for a dancer,” I whispered in his ear when I got close enough.
His voice was quiet. “I am not. But we can see the stairs down the hall from here.”
“Ah,” I said as the hallway came into my view. We had a line of sight down the hall so long as we stayed in the middle of the room.
“I would like to monitor before you make your move,” Michael whispered. “See if any patrols come or go.”
“Makes sense.”
As we danced I felt the tension in my body disappear. The nervousness was there, but it was deep down where I could ignore it for awhile. It was amazing what a few minutes in a handsome man’s arms could do.
I glanced around to make sure no one was paying us any undue attention. “So you were Israeli special ops?” I whispered, turning back.
“Not so loud.” He pulled me closer, so his lips were next to my ear. “Sayeret Matkal.”
“When I was in the Army we met a few guys who were Sayeret Maglan,” I whispered. “What’s the difference?”
“Sayeret Maglan are combat-oriented. Like your Navy Seals or Army Rangers. Sayeret Matkal are used more for covert reconnaissance, counter-terrorism, hostage rescue. Missions where finesse is required. Like the British SAS. I was a scout-sniper.”
“My father was a scout-sniper,” I said. “For the Army. Never saw any real action, though.”
“Then your father is lucky. May all soldiers know peace in their time.”
If anyone else had called my father lucky I would have bitten their heads off. But I knew what Michael meant. “How long were you a scout-sniper?”
“12 years.”
“Why’d you leave?”
He tensed. “My time there had run its course.”
Interesting reaction. Maybe he had an unusual discharge like me. Now wasn’t the best time to push the issue, though.
His wedding ring was pressing into my right hand. It probably wasn’t the best time to bring that up either, but the question felt acceptable in our intimate dance.
“I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” I said. “In the car. About your ring. I didn’t realize it was a sensitive subject.”
“It is fine.”
“Are you married?”
He hesitated before saying, “No.”
“Were you married?”
There was a long silence as if he had not heard me. The bright room spun as we moved around with the other dancers, a school of fish feeding off one another’s movements.
“Her name was Adele,” he finally said. His voice was monotone, like he was discussing the weather. “She was serving the mandatory two years in the IDF—Israeli Defense Force—when her unit was sent into the West Bank. She was killed when Hezbollah fired a rocket-propelled grenade at her vehicle.”
I sucked in my breath. “Michael! I’m so sorry.”
“As am I.”
“How long ago did that happen?”
“It has been seven years.”
That long and he still wore the ring. And here I thought the four years since my father had been painful.
“Does it still hurt?” I asked.
“Every morning, when I wake up, there is a brief window of forgetfulness—a tiny, momentary instant in which I do not remember. Then it comes back, and the pain is fresh every time.” Michael gave a small start, as if suddenly remembering where he was. His voice dropped back to a whisper. “The pain is greater in this house.” Fire twinkled in his grey eyes.
“Why?”
“Bezos Accola,” Michael replied, “helps funnel money to Hezbollah. Perhaps not the specific ones who killed my Adele, but…” He shrugged as if it could not be helped.
“It must be eating away at you to be here!” I whispered fiercely. “You must want to kill him where he stands.”
“I do not.”
“It’s okay to want revenge…”
“I do not blame Accola.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“I blame him as much as the commanding officer who sent Adele on her patrol. Or the politicians whose policies made it necessary. Indeed, I blame them even more than Hezbollah or Accola.”
“How can you say that?”
He looked down at me. “You have never been displeased with the actions of your American politicians?”
I thought about my father’s death and the sham of an investigation the government had held.
“Life is complex,” Michael whispered. “Accola is but one gear in the machine that killed my Adele.”
I could feel the grief in his voice now, as if our physical touch made it transfer like heat. “I’m sorry that happened.”
He smiled sadly. “As am I.”
His perspective made me think more about my own situation. Senator Williamson bore much of the blame for his stupid trip to Colombia in the first place, yet I had not blamed him. Maybe it was because he was dead too. Someone who was alive made for a better focus of anger than someone who had suffered the same fate as my father.
Or maybe it was because JGB’s men were the ones who pulled the trigger. There was a difference between someone indirectly involved and those who were directly responsible.
Michael’s philosophy suited him, but it didn’t apply to my situation. It only made me angrier.
As we danced around the room, Accola himself came into view outside the window. He was shaking a Saudi man’s hand and smiling his skeletal smile. What percentage of blame for my father’s death did he bear?
“I think we can assume the stairs are clear,” Michael whispered. “Let us get another drink and then you may make your move.”
“Wait,” I said.
“Yes?”
“I need to know something first. How long has Accola worked for Blanco?”
Michael gave me a guarded look. “What does this matter?”
“Tell me.”
“Juliana…”
“Tell me. I have to know.”
Michael gazed around the room as if searching for the answer. Finally he said, “Six years.”
Six years. Accola hadn’t come along recently. He was helping JGB when my father was killed. He may not have been there that day, but some of the blame was his.
“I’m ready,” I said. Michael smoothly danced us over to the door, then bowed and kissed my hand as we returned to the hall. “It might take me a few minutes to get the data. Give me a signal if I need to get out of there.”
“What kind of signal?”
“I don’t know. Jump in the pool or something.”
We walked down the hall—past the stairs—until we reached the bar set up in the kitchen. We fetched two new glasses of wine then backtracked toward the stairs. I looked over my shoulder. The coast was mostly clear.
“Ready…” Michael said. He stood in front of the stairs to block the view from the dancing room and unhooked the velvet rope. I slipped by and went upstairs alone.
The stairs were narrow and oppressive, designed with servants in mind rather than guests. The soft carpet muted my heels as I climbed. The stairs ended at an open doorway and I paused. The second floor was mostly dark, only partially illuminated from the patio lights shining through the windows. I waited in the doorway, cocking my head to listen. It was silent except for the soft music downstairs.
I peered out into the hall. A guard stood at the end of the hall to the right, back turned while he looked out the window at the patio. The way to the bedroom was clear, but I would need to turn down another hall before reaching it. A guard might be there and I wouldn’t know until I was exposed.
I wished I could wait until I felt comfortable, but the clock was ticking. The longer I was up here, the higher the risk of being noticed. I needed to just do it.
I carried my wine glass high like the Statue of Liberty carried her torch as I walked out into the hall. The white carpet masked my footsteps as I found a gait somewhere between drunk and rushed. I reached the corner and stopped to look. Nobody to the left. Nobody to the right.
I turned left without anyone shouting at me.
The bedroom was at the end of the hall, the door closed. I walked as fast as I dared, hoping a guard would not appear behind me. I just needed to get to the door and everything would be okay.
I was halfway there when another door opened up ahead. Voices drifted into the hall and half a figure came into view.
I slipped into an alcove to my left before they saw me. It was a square reading nook with a leather chair and three bookcases around the outer walls. I wedged myself in the corner between two bookcases.
The moment my body was against the wall two figures came into view in the hall. A man and a woman wearing matching caterer uniforms. The man was buttoning up his shirt while the woman giggled.
“Desole c’etait si rapide,” the man whispered.
The woman replied, “Tu es toujours rapide!”
He pinched her butt, and then pulled her into an embrace.
I held my breath and tried to remain motionless. If they glanced this way they would see half my body sticking out from the bookcase. I tried to think of a quick excuse in case they did.
Fortunately they were busy focusing on each other’s lips. I was beginning to think they might go for a second round here in the reading nook when a guard shouted.
Both of them whirled. “Pardon?”
“Was zur Holle?” the guard shouted in German.
The two caterers began arguing with him and disappeared from my vantage. Their voices grew distant as they went back downstairs. Then the guard walked by my little reading nook, shaking his head and laughing to himself.
The sound of my own heartbeat thumped in my ear long after he was gone. I waited until I could hear myself think before leaving my hiding place and checking the hall. Empty again.
I rushed the rest of the way to the bedroom door and twisted the knob. If it was locked I might have to go outside to the balcony and then through a window to access the bedroom, but I’m sure there were more guards out there…
The door was unlocked.
I opened it wide enough to slip inside, then closed it without making a sound.
My eyes didn’t need to adjust because of the same semi-light coming through the windows from the party. The master bedroom occupied one corner of the estate, with windows and the wrap-around balcony on the left and far walls. There was an old-style four-post bed with curtains against the wall to the right, and a small space with a wet bar beyond that. My eyes skipped straight to the anteroom off to the side, right where Donovan’s schematics said it would be. The original purpose was probably a sitting area where a woman could apply makeup, but it had now been turned into a high-tech computer desk. Six computer monitors were mounted on the walls in a three-by-two grid. The desk itself held only a mouse and a fancy mechanical keyboard with blue LED lights under the keys.
“Jackpot,” I said.
I took one final moment to listen for any guards before sitting down to work.
16
Michael
I watched Juliana’s hourglass figure climb the steps and disappear. As I casually wandered down the hall I made sure to check in both directions for anyone who had spotted us. It looked like we were in the clear.
For now.
I had never talked about Adele to anyone but my closest friends. It took years of working with Donovan and Gregor before I could confide in them. Even then the admission was painful. Like tearing off a scab and squeezing lemon juice on the exposed wound.
Yet with Juliana the story came without resistance. Being vulnerable with her was shockingly comfortable. I wanted to tell her personal things about myself even though I had known her for scarcely a few days.
I sipped on my wine, got a refill in the dining room, and then went outside. The party was now full of men and women who used Bezos Accola’s dirty accounting tricks to hide money from their home governments, or from law enforcement. It made my skin crawl to be surrounded by such people. I hoped Juliana was able to keep a level head.
My eyes eventually found their way to Accola himself. It was easy, thanks to his ivory suit. It was an ironic fashion choice: a man whose entire profession involved hiding money stuck out at his own party like a tracer round in a magazine full of normal bullets. Perhaps that was why he dressed this way now. Because it was the only time he could draw attention to himself.
