Page 92 of Gone Before Goodbye
“Okay, fair enough. Several reasons, but I’ll start with the main one. Oleg Ragoravich’s plane is there. It left four hours after we rescued you. We don’t know who is on it, but Dubai is important to both of them.”
“Both of them?”
“Oleg and Nadia met in Dubai. Nadia was a lead, uh, hostess at Etoile Adiona. It’s an ultra-exclusive nightclub. Oleg frequents a lot of big nightclubs. Anyway, they met there. Fell in, well, whatever you fall into with these kinds of relationships. And here’s the big thing—according to our intel, Nadia was spotted there last night.”
“At Etoile Adiona?”
“Yes. You’ll be able to get in tonight. It’s been arranged. Look, people will know who you are, but in this case, it works for your cover. WorldCures had a footprint in Dubai—I don’t have to tell you that—so your past may help open doors.”
“And that’s reason number two?” Maggie asked. “The WorldCures connection?”
“Yes, but let me be more specific: Dubai was the last place Marc and Trace were seen before they left on that final humanitarian mission. I assume you know this?”
She nodded.
“Not only did they launch their final humanitarian mission from Dubai—Trace Packer went back thereafterMarc died. Did you know that?”
“Yes.”
“Did that surprise you? That Trace didn’t come for the funeral or something?”
There had been no funeral for Marc. Marc hadn’t believed in them. The Serpents and Saints had done a ride in missing man formation—leaving a space for where Marc’s motorcycle would have gone. Porkchop was the lead bike, of course. Maggie was on the back of the bike. She never saw Porkchop cry, not even on that day, but she could feel his shoulders heave as she pulled in close.
“No,” she said. “It didn’t surprise me. If you wanted to honor Marc, the best way would be to get back to work.”
“Okay, yeah, I guess that makes sense. So anyway, all roads lead us to Dubai. That’s why you’re going there. The plan is for you to stir things up so we can find Trace. Go to Etoile Adiona. Talk to Nadia. See if she knows where Oleg Ragoravich is. Everything here is connected. We just don’t know how. We just know there’s a lot of bad people in Dubai doing bad things.” Charles Lockwood hesitated. “Maybe you shouldn’t do this. After all, they just tried to kill you. Maybe it’s too risky—”
“Shh,” Maggie interrupted, raising her palm, “the patronizing is getting on my nerves.”
Bob the driver breaks the spell. “There’s home. Be it ever so humble.”
It does not look humble in any way, shape, or form, but of course, that’s the point. The Bugatti skyscraper looks more like modern sculpture than a residential tower. Everything is dynamic curves and fluid lines, sensual even, as though the building can’t quite stay still. It’s wrapped in a shiny metal facade, and with the desert sun reflecting off it just so, it’s as though the high-rise were both a crashing wave and a rolling sand dune.
“Hang on,” Bob says.
Bob rips up the drive. She expects a valet or maybe just parking in the front. But that’s not what happens. He veers the car down an entry bay into an underground garage. The parking spot, she notices, has glass walls on three sides. Odd. When Bob turns off the engine, Maggie reaches for the door handle, but Bob reaches across her and shakes his head.
“Not yet.”
The car, with them inside of it, starts to rise.
“It’s an elevator,” Bob tells her.
“An elevator for your car?”
He shrugs. “A Bugatti should live in the Bugatti. Every penthouse has a parking spot.”
“For your car?”
“Yes.”
“In the actual apartment?”
“Yep. It’s perfect symmetry. Integrating automotive passion with French Riviera luxury. Merging Bugatti’s automotive-inspired aesthetics with the highest standards of living.”
“You didn’t just make that up,” Maggie says.
“No, you sit around a lot in this job. There’s a brochure.”
