Not on His Watch

by Cassie Miles

  “It will.”

  Her unexpected action had thrown him off-kilter. He had underestimated her—a mistake he wouldn’t make again. Natalie Van Buren was a woman who needed to be in charge and liked to have the last word.

  IN THE EMPLOYEE’S PARKING LOT outside the private plane hangars at Midway Airport, Nicco waited patiently in his rented van. Ten miles from downtown Chicago, he watched the corporate jets take off, soaring like sleek javelins hurled by the gods. The spectacle of flight never ceased to amaze him, even with his practical experience as a pilot.

  The cell phone in the pocket of his ground crew jumpsuit trilled and he answered, “Speak.”

  “Daughter has left home base. A man in a cowboy hat is with her.”

  “Follow them.”

  He disconnected with a scowl. Who was this cowboy accompanying Daughter? Not a lover. According to their research, Natalie Van Buren had no special male companions. Perhaps the cowboy was a client of Quantum Industries. Perhaps a media representative.

  Thoughtfully, Nicco stroked his clean-shaven chin, glad to be rid of his beard. He was tempted to call the communications man who had bugged Natalie’s office, but he generally avoided using the unsecured cell phone. Anyone might be listening.

  On the passenger seat beside him, a black-and-white dog thumped his tail against the door and stared up at his master. The canine expression seemed expectant and wise—far more intelligent than many of Nicco’s companions. At least Scout knew how to obey simple commands.

  Nicco scratched the soft fur between the dog’s ears and checked his wristwatch. His contact was eight minutes late. Such carelessness was to be expected from a low-level baggage handler. Americans had no work ethic. In Nicco’s experience, most Americans tried to do the least effort for the most reward. Their only ethic was greed as they stormed through the world leaving devastation in their wake.

  Through the windshield, Nicco saw the contact approaching the van. He was a square-shouldered man wearing a jumpsuit. An unfiltered cigarette dangled from his thick lips. In his right hand, he carried a black metal lunch pail.

  Nicco nodded to Scout, and the three-legged Border collie maneuvered agilely into the rear of the van.

  The contact opened the passenger-side door and climbed inside. “How you doing?”

  There was no need to exchange pleasantries. Nicco acknowledged the contact with a nod, started the engine and drove toward the exit from the parking lot. They never conducted business at the airport where too many security men might notice. On South Cicero, Nicco headed toward a tavern beside a vacant lot.

  After he parked, he asked, “Have you placed the parcels?”

  “All three in the Quantum hangar beyond Security. Just like you told me.” The contact lit another cigarette. The offensive stink poisoned the air in the van. “But there’s a change in plans. I want more money.”

  Nicco said nothing. He was amused that this pitiful underling would attempt to dictate terms, especially since he had already served his usefulness.

  “Five thousand,” the contact said. “Or else I give my boss those packages and you’re out of luck.”

  “Do you enjoy smoking?” Nicco asked.

  “Yeah.” The man took a long drag on his cigarette. It would be his last earthly breath.

  WITH A RIGID GRIN pasted on her face, Natalie listened to Quint finish placing his luncheon order at the Hamilton House on Wacker Drive.

  “…and I want my filet cooked so rare that I can hear it say moo…”

  Could he be any more cornball? Every other word he drawled was some kind of down-home expression. She twisted the napkin on her lap into a knot. In public relations, she frequently socialized with oddballs, and she was able to cope with them. But Quint had gotten under her skin. More than once, she’d had the distinct impression that he was being annoying on purpose, playing up his cowboy act to irritate her.

  As the waitress departed, he asked, “Something wrong, Miss Natalie? You look like you got a burr under your saddle.”

  “I’m fine.” She peered across the table at her old friend, Whitney MacNair Romeo, and said, “I should visit the ladies’ room.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Whitney said.

  Politely, Quint stood while the two women left their seats and moved through a maze of rose-colored linen tablecloths in the elegant dining room. Inside the rest room, Natalie rolled her eyes and exhaled a loud groan.

  “Whitney, I’m so sorry I had to drag him along.”

  “No problem.” Whitney looked in the mirror and pushed her thick red-gold hair into place. “As I said before, he’s a client of Solutions, Inc., and I like Quint. He’s kind of cute.”

  “Or not!” she said, more loudly than she intended.

  Even more exasperating than his hee-haw commentary was the effect he seemed to have on women. Maria Luisa, her secretary who was usually utterly aloof when it came to men, allowed Quint to call her Mary Lou. She’d practically propositioned him. Mary Lou?

  “Really,” Whitney said. “It’s endearing the way his hair falls across his forehead. Incredible blue eyes. And he’s got a great body.”

  “Hadn’t noticed. I was blinded by the dinner platter he wears for a belt buckle.”

  “If you really didn’t notice, Natalie, you ought to start taking hormones. There’s no harm in spending a couple of days with a handsome cowboy.”

  “Quint? Hah!”

  “Why not? You’re an eligible thirty-year-old woman.”

  “So what?” Natalie said. “Quint is obviously not eligible. His gold-and-silver wedding band is almost as big as the buckle.”

  An odd little frown turned down the corners of Whitney’s mouth. “I happen to know he’s not married. His wife died over two years ago in an accident.”

  “Then, why is he wearing a ring?”

  “Possibly, he hasn’t gotten over her death.”

  Natalie confronted her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were more flushed than usual. The green in her eyes seemed murky and confused. She didn’t want to think of Quint as a tragically wounded figure—a man who was sensitive and caring. How could he be? He’d grabbed her in the office, manhandled her.

  She touched her wrist where his masterful grip had closed like a vise. He was rude and crude. But he’d thought he was protecting her, which made his quick action seem somehow gallant. Stupid, but gallant.

  She sighed. “He’s not my type.”

  WHEN THEY RETURNED to the table, Quint was staring at the note that had been inside the “Personal” package. After it had been x-rayed in the mail room, he insisted on taking the note and padded envelope with them.

  Natalie eased into her chair. “Put that away. Please.”

  “Your fan mail is interesting,” he said as he passed the paper to Whitney. “Natalie got this delivered to her office by messenger.”

  All the notes contained stick-figure pictures and typed messages. This one showed a person being hanged—a drawing that was chilling in its simplicity. It read, “Here’s how we shut your big mouth.”

  Natalie felt embarrassed to be worried by a threat that seemed as childish as that of a bully on a grade-school playground. Yet, there was something primal about the purposeful lack of sophistication. The threat was direct, uncluttered by logic or reasoning.

  Yet, the message didn’t make sense. She wasn’t supposed to talk. To whom? About what?

  Whitney’s brow furrowed as she gazed down at the sheet. “Do you have any idea who might be sending these notes?”

  “Since almost all of them refer to my big mouth, I assume the reference is to something I’ve said in a press release or a media interview.” Natalie reached for the single glass of white wine she allowed herself at lunch. “Let’s talk about something else, shall we?”

  “No,” Whitney said firmly. “I want to know who’s threatening my friend.”

  She’d always been bossy. When they were in boarding school together, Whitney generally led the charge, and Natalie o
rganized the necessary elements to implement their projects, ranging from later curfews to a vegetarian menu in the school cafeteria. Early in their relationship, the two women decided never to compete against each other because neither one of them could stand losing.

  Natalie sipped her wine and glanced toward Quint. “Surely you don’t want to hear more about this nonsense.”

  “Surely, I do.” His gaze was calm, steady and reassuring.

  For a moment, she thought he might reach across the table and pat her hand. “All right,” Natalie said. “I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking about these notes. Then, we change the subject. Agreed?”

  They both nodded.

  “Because Quantum Industries is the largest distributor of oil in the world, we’re a target for all kinds of hate groups. First, there are the environmentalists.”

  “I don’t much care for the tree huggers,” Quint said. “But I thought they were peaceable.”

  “Not all of them. There’s one group in particular. An eco-cult based somewhere in southern Illinois. Their leader is a guy named Hutch Greely, and they call themselves the Solar Sons.” She looked toward Whitney. “My sister thinks they’re heroes. You remember my sister, Caroline?”

  “The research genius? Isn’t she inventing alternative fuel or something?”

  “She’s close to a breakthrough on a hydrogen-combustion engine,” Natalie said. “Last week, she e-mailed me that she’s taking some time off, which isn’t like her at all. I’m afraid she might have joined this Solar Sons cult.”

  “Then, they can’t be threatening you,” Whitney said. “Caroline wouldn’t let them.”

  “Probably not.” But she wasn’t sure. She and her younger sister had gone through some stormy times.

  “How dangerous are the Solar Sons?” Whitney asked.

  “They do protests. And they’ve been linked to acts of civil disobedience like spiking trees.” She and Caroline had argued about their tactics. No matter how pure the motivation, the Solar Sons had no right to physically interfere with legitimate businesses. “Of course, they hate Quantum, the big bad oil distributor.”

  “Anybody else who hates Quantum?” Whitney asked.

  “Several nations in the Middle East who we’re not buying from. And then, there are the U.S. politicians. We’re not real popular with them.”

  “But I thought you were flying to Washington on Monday,” Quint said.

  “It’s not a friendly visit,” Natalie said. “My trip to D.C. is to address an energy consortium and to dispute some unfounded concerns about Quantum’s operating as a monopoly. Which reminds me, I wanted to talk to you about your contracts.”

  “Maybe later,” Quint said. “When did you start getting these notes? Before or after your trip to D.C. was scheduled?”

  She thought for a moment. “After. Possibly, somebody doesn’t want me to meet with the politicians.”

  “Why not?”

  She said the first word that popped into her head. “Imad.”

  “Ruled by Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed,” Quint said. “You think he’s behind these threats?”

  Quint’s quick grasp of the international situation surprised her. Few people had even heard of Imad. “How do you know about Khalaf?”

  “I generally try to keep current with world events in the oil business. Have you met this sheik?”

  “No.”

  “What made you think of him?” Quint asked.

  “Quantum refuses to buy from him. I’ve done several press releases stating that fact.” If half of the suspected corruption in Imad was true, Sheik Khalaf was a monster. “But I’ve always been careful to avoid accusations about his government.”

  “Could it be,” Whitney suggested, “that the sheik doesn’t want you talking to someone in Washington?”

  “It’s kind of obscure. A direct threat would be more effective. You know the kind of thing—‘Don’t go to D.C. or else!’” She nearly laughed out loud. What a melodrama! Nasty notes with stick figures and obscure threats. “How can I possibly meet a demand when I don’t know what’s being asked of me? The whole thing is ridiculous.”

  “I wouldn’t laugh it off,” Quint said. “Most people are frightened by anonymous threats.”

  “Not me. I don’t get scared. I get mad.”

  “Amen to that,” Whitney said. Turning to Quint, she added, “I’ve never seen Natalie back away from a fight.”

  “There’s always a first time,” he said.

  He caught Natalie’s gaze. His breathtaking blue eyes held her attention. There was nothing hokey about his manner when he said, “The first rule of self-defense is avoid danger.”

  Their salads were served, and Natalie took the opportunity to slide into a different topic. “So, Whitney. How’s married life? Are you learning how to cook?”

  “Vincent didn’t marry me for my culinary skills,” she replied with a grin and a wink. “And I don’t have a single complaint about him.”

  “I can’t believe you married a man named Romeo. I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it to the wedding. Tell me about it.”

  While Whitney described her gown and the flowers and the ornate service, Natalie picked at her romaine lettuce and croutons. She didn’t have much of an appetite. Her thoughts kept drifting back to the stick-figure notes. Should she be more concerned? The vague malaise she’d felt about deception at Quantum returned tenfold. Was there real danger? The explosion in Reykjavik worried her. What if it had been a bomb? Why was her father beefing up security?

  Earlier, Quint had mentioned hiring a bodyguard. Should she consider that precaution before going to Washington? In some of the South American countries where she traveled for Quantum, she had been assigned a full-time guard. In the Middle East, she had an interpreter and a bodyguard, which meant she had absolutely no privacy. She hated being shadowed every waking hour. No bodyguard! Not in the United States. Unless there was obvious cause, she refused to believe she needed such extreme caution.

  When the entrées arrived, Quint took one bite of the slab of beef on his plate and proclaimed it the “second-best steak he’d ever had.” He informed them that number one was beef slaughtered on his own ranch and cooked up by his grandma from Alabama. “But Grandma’s true specialty is barbecue. Melts in your mouth and sets your tongue on fire at the same time.”

  “Of course,” Natalie said. Her own lemon-grass chicken seemed dry and unappealing.

  “Are you a good cook, Miss Natalie?”

  “I’m not half bad.”

  “She’s brilliant,” Whitney said. “When we were in boarding school, she used to make pizza from scratch with fresh mozzarella. Any project that Natalie undertakes, she does well.”

  “Cooking is no big deal. It’s just following a recipe.” She sliced her buttered asparagus. “I was wondering about Sheik Khalaf. If he has a bone to pick with Quantum, why wouldn’t he send the nasty little notes to my father?”

  “Because,” Whitney said, “your father is an incredibly principled man who would walk into fire rather than back down to a threat.”

  “An incredibly stubborn man,” Natalie agreed.

  “On the other hand, your father would do anything to protect his family. A threat to you would make him sit up and take notice.”

  Though Natalie hated to think of her presence at Quantum causing a weak link in the company’s moral armor, she had to admit that Whitney had a point. “Why would Sheik Khalaf warn me to keep my mouth shut in Washington? What could I say that would damage him?”

  “You’re the spokesperson for Quantum,” Whitney said. “Which makes it look like you’re advocating sanctions against Imad.”

  “Also Nurul,” Natalie said. Nurul was where Prince Zahir Haji Haleem might become powerful. Should she worry about him?

  She laid her fork across the plate, lacking the desire to eat or to discuss the threats. She turned to Quint and said, “The best steak I ever had was in Cartagena, Colombia. I still don’t know all the seasonings, but they were
delicious.”

  “There’s some fine cooking in South America,” he said.

  “My father mentioned that you had done a lot of wildcatting. Have you been to Colombia?”

  He blinked. A shadow darkened his eyes. “That’s where I met my late wife, Paula.”

  “I’m sorry,” Natalie said. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s okay. I like thinking about when we met. Those are good memories.”

  His thumb rubbed against the braided surface of the ring he wore on his left hand. After Paula died, he had taken the remains of her wedding band to a jeweler, where he had the gold of her ring entwined with the silver of his own. Together forever.

  After their lunch, Whitney talked Natalie into letting her take the threatening note to Solutions, Inc. for computer analysis. When Whitney described the software and telecommunication services provided by Solutions, Quint almost believed it was a real business instead of a front for Chicago Confidential.

  They bid her farewell, then he and Natalie caught a taxi to the Art Institute. Though the mention of Paula had tossed him into a more introspective mood, he remained alert to his assignment, scanning the faces of bystanders on the street. In the taxi, he played the sightseer, giving him an excuse to twist his head around to see if they were being followed. With all the identical yellow cabs, that was a near-impossible effort.

  When they disembarked on Michigan Avenue outside the Art Institute, he noticed another vehicle, half a block away, that came to a sudden stop. Only one man got out. Average height. Longish brown hair and a Vandyke beard. Probably in his early thirties. He wore a shiny black windbreaker. Though he took out a cell phone and started talking, Quint had the sense that he was waiting for them to make the first move. Had they picked up a tail?

  When Quint started up the wide marble stairs leading to the fluted columns of the Art Institute’s entryway, he lightly touched Natalie’s elbow, politely escorting her, trying to protect her from unseen, unnamed threats.