Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) by Deborah Shlian, Linda Reid Page A
Authors: Deborah Shlian, Linda Reid
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convenient. Kaye wasn’t about to take any chances. Like a Mafia don whose turf had been invaded, she decided to send her enforcer Yevgeny to the pier that afternoon. He could handle Ana easily, get Sylvie’s information and kill, literally, two birds with one stone.
At half past seven, Fahim and Miller were the only guests having breakfast on the oceanside patio. Just as well, Fahim thought. Forced to rush to the meeting, he’d had to wear the wrinkled suit from last night. Miller, on the other hand, appeared crisp in pressed tan slacks and a blue blazer over an open-collared cotton dress shirt.
“I can never get enough of this view,” Miller said as he sipped champagne and gazed at the blue Pacific whose waves crashed rhythmically against the shoreline less than twenty yards from their table. This morning a cool ocean breeze kept the smoke and dust of the Santa Anas at bay. “An American Eden, don’t you think?”
Fahim had to agree. Open only six months, the Montagne Olympus already rivaled the finest five-star luxury hotels from London to Dubai. But he wasn’t here to admire the view or make small talk. For half an hour, he’d been anxiously waiting to hear about Miller’s change of plans.
What had he gotten himself into? After years of small-time arms dealing, Fahim thought he’d finally found in Miller the right partner to impress his contacts in the royal family. One suitcase nuke delivered to the prince’s man al-Salid by the New Year, and his Vegas debts would disappear. That’s all he’d wanted in the beginning.
And then he’d seen in Miller an irresistible opportunity. Intensity reflected in the man’s cold blue eyes no different from that of the fanatics within his own country who talked of annihilating infidels. Miller’s “us-versus-them” oligarchic worldview was as obsessive and misguided as that of any jihadist.
Less motivated by politics than practicality, Fahim had hoped to play both sides and stay neutral. Feeding Miller manufactured news of impending terrorist threats had placed the Saudi on the unofficial CIA payroll. “Consultant” certainly sounded better than “arms dealer.” It also paid a whole lot better. And allowed him to indulge his yen for hot women and cool deals.
But now it seemed he was being drawn further and further into some high-level secret plot that Miller promised would ensure the election of a president who favored a much more aggressive approach against the enemies of America and her Saudi brothers. Despite the cool breeze, Fahim felt sweat drip from his collar. With a sweep of his linen napkin, he wiped an errant piece of omelet from his lips. “So you have a surprise?” he asked, feigning nonchalance.
“That I do.” Miller grabbed his Macbook from the empty seat beside him and opened it on the table where they could both watch the screen. With a few keystrokes, he summoned a photo of an abandoned fifteen-story building standing squarely in the middle of a dirt parcel filled with overgrown weeds and trash. “Voila, Eden 1.0.”
Fahim raised an eyebrow.
“That ramshackle tenement was the Palacio Real Hotel—the vacation spot for Hollywood’s biggest stars of the ninteen thirties.”
Up went the other eyebrow.
“Needed a little face-lift, wouldn’t you say?” Miller sipped his champagne. “A real estate partnership bought the place planning to do major surgery. Unfortunately, the Orange County commissioners declared it a historic landmark and Jeffrey Greene, the principal investor, was left holding the bag. All they’d let him do was a seismic retrofit, but, hell, you’d need Atlas himself to keep that Tinkertoy up in an earthquake. As it turns out, Neil Prescott had some of his own money in the deal and you know Neil,” Miller said. “He hates to lose anything.”
Fahim nodded, though he wondered where this story was going
“Watch this.” Miller pressed a few more keys and in seconds, the QuickTime program played a video with
At half past seven, Fahim and Miller were the only guests having breakfast on the oceanside patio. Just as well, Fahim thought. Forced to rush to the meeting, he’d had to wear the wrinkled suit from last night. Miller, on the other hand, appeared crisp in pressed tan slacks and a blue blazer over an open-collared cotton dress shirt.
“I can never get enough of this view,” Miller said as he sipped champagne and gazed at the blue Pacific whose waves crashed rhythmically against the shoreline less than twenty yards from their table. This morning a cool ocean breeze kept the smoke and dust of the Santa Anas at bay. “An American Eden, don’t you think?”
Fahim had to agree. Open only six months, the Montagne Olympus already rivaled the finest five-star luxury hotels from London to Dubai. But he wasn’t here to admire the view or make small talk. For half an hour, he’d been anxiously waiting to hear about Miller’s change of plans.
What had he gotten himself into? After years of small-time arms dealing, Fahim thought he’d finally found in Miller the right partner to impress his contacts in the royal family. One suitcase nuke delivered to the prince’s man al-Salid by the New Year, and his Vegas debts would disappear. That’s all he’d wanted in the beginning.
And then he’d seen in Miller an irresistible opportunity. Intensity reflected in the man’s cold blue eyes no different from that of the fanatics within his own country who talked of annihilating infidels. Miller’s “us-versus-them” oligarchic worldview was as obsessive and misguided as that of any jihadist.
Less motivated by politics than practicality, Fahim had hoped to play both sides and stay neutral. Feeding Miller manufactured news of impending terrorist threats had placed the Saudi on the unofficial CIA payroll. “Consultant” certainly sounded better than “arms dealer.” It also paid a whole lot better. And allowed him to indulge his yen for hot women and cool deals.
But now it seemed he was being drawn further and further into some high-level secret plot that Miller promised would ensure the election of a president who favored a much more aggressive approach against the enemies of America and her Saudi brothers. Despite the cool breeze, Fahim felt sweat drip from his collar. With a sweep of his linen napkin, he wiped an errant piece of omelet from his lips. “So you have a surprise?” he asked, feigning nonchalance.
“That I do.” Miller grabbed his Macbook from the empty seat beside him and opened it on the table where they could both watch the screen. With a few keystrokes, he summoned a photo of an abandoned fifteen-story building standing squarely in the middle of a dirt parcel filled with overgrown weeds and trash. “Voila, Eden 1.0.”
Fahim raised an eyebrow.
“That ramshackle tenement was the Palacio Real Hotel—the vacation spot for Hollywood’s biggest stars of the ninteen thirties.”
Up went the other eyebrow.
“Needed a little face-lift, wouldn’t you say?” Miller sipped his champagne. “A real estate partnership bought the place planning to do major surgery. Unfortunately, the Orange County commissioners declared it a historic landmark and Jeffrey Greene, the principal investor, was left holding the bag. All they’d let him do was a seismic retrofit, but, hell, you’d need Atlas himself to keep that Tinkertoy up in an earthquake. As it turns out, Neil Prescott had some of his own money in the deal and you know Neil,” Miller said. “He hates to lose anything.”
Fahim nodded, though he wondered where this story was going
“Watch this.” Miller pressed a few more keys and in seconds, the QuickTime program played a video with
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