Eternal Night

by Richard Turner

  “I’m not sure he has the time,” replied the woman, looking over the card.

  “Danielle, let them come in,” said a man’s voice from inside the office.

  “Entrez,” said Danielle, stepping to one side.

  Mitchell opened the door. The receptionist’s office was small, but immaculately kept. In a doorway stood a man in his mid-fifties, with a head of dirty-blond hair, and a well-tanned face. “Good day, gentlemen, I am Jean Chevalier. How may I be of assistance to you?”

  Mitchell handed Chevalier one of his cards before introducing himself and Nate.

  “Please, let us take a seat in my office,” said Chevalier.

  They walked inside and sat in chairs around an oval coffee table.

  “Before we begin, would either you gentlemen like a cup of coffee, or perhaps a bottle of water?” asked Chevalier.

  “No, thanks,” replied Mitchell.

  “Very well, then. I understand you have a couple of questions for me?”

  “Sir, we are conducting an investigation into the disappearance of Ms. Grace Maxwell. One of your cards was found in her office, and were hoping you could shed some light on what happened to her.”

  Chevalier drummed his fingers on his desk, his expression thoughtful.

  “Sir, you’d never forget her,” said Mitchell. “She’s a stunningly attractive redhead.”

  Chevalier snapped his fingers. “But of course. She was here two, almost three weeks ago. But she wasn’t a redhead. This woman had short, black hair. It was her emerald-green eyes that I remember the most.”

  Mitchell leaned forward. “Do you recall why she was here?”

  Chevalier opened a notebook on his desk. He flipped a few pages before stopping. “I always take notes after my clients leave. It helps me to keep my thoughts in order.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” said Jackson.

  “It’s all coming back to me now,” said Chevalier, skimming his notes. “Ms. Maxwell said she was looking for a young Romanian woman by the name of Nova Dinu.”

  Jackson reached over and helped himself to a piece of paper and a pen. “I’m not good at memorizing things, either.”

  Chevalier smiled. “Please keep them.”

  “Sir, did Grace say why she was looking for Nova Dinu?” asked Mitchell.

  “She said she had been hired by the girl’s mother to find her.”

  “Did she say how long this girl had been missing?” asked Jackson.

  “At that time, about a month,” replied Chevalier.

  “Do you know why Grace began her line of inquiry with you?” asked Mitchell.

  Chevalier nodded. “Nova Dinu’s father, Max Dinu, worked for a leading Romanian biogenetics firm. My office represents his, and several other biogenetics companies spread across Europe. Ms. Maxwell wondered if Nova had come here in search of her father.”

  Jackson made a T with his hands. “Timeout. Are you telling us that Grace Maxwell, Nova Dinu, and her father, Max Dinu, are all missing?”

  “It would seem so. Max Dinu was reported missing by the police in Indonesia about five months ago. His body was never found, and the police suspect that Max took his own life. Regrettably, that is all I can tell you. Neither Max nor his daughter Nova ever stepped foot in this office.”

  “So, I take it Grace left here and flew to Indonesia?” said Mitchell.

  “Not right away. Before she left, Ms. Maxwell mentioned that she was heading to Singapore.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “Yes, before Mister Dinu disappeared, he took a tour of a company called Hygeia Designs, which is located in Singapore, and is one of several biogenetic firms owned by an Indian philanthropist by the name of Varun Sandesh. His family is among the power elite of the Indian sub-continent, and have substantial business interests spread all over Asia.”

  “Are you getting all this?” Mitchell asked his friend, furiously scribbling down his notes.

  “Yes,” mumbled Jackson. “Next time out, you can buy us a tape recorder.”

  “If you have excellent connections in Monte Carlo, you might be able to meet Mister Sandesh tonight,” mentioned Chevalier.

  “Come again?” said Mitchell.

  “Mister Sandesh is holding a charity event at the Monte Carlo Casino tonight. It’s an annual event to raise money for children displaced by the ongoing conflicts around the globe. How fortuitous for you that you came when you did.”

  “You wouldn’t know where we could get a pair of tickets for tonight?” asked Jackson.

  Chevalier smiled. “My office makes in the high-eight-figure range, and I’m considered a peasant compared to the people who will be there tonight. I’m sorry, but it’s a closed affair.”

  “Is there any other chance of setting up a meeting with Mister Sandesh?” Mitchell asked.

  Chevalier shook his head. “If Mister Sandesh keeps to his normal routine, he’ll be in his private jet minutes after the fundraising ends.”

  Mitchell stood and offered his hand. “Sir, you’ve given us more than I’d hoped for. With a bit of luck, we should be able to find Ms. Maxwell and the Dinus and bring them all home alive.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Mister Mitchell. The world is a big place,” said Chevalier. “People go missing all the time, and most are never found.”

  Mitchell locked his eyes on Chevalier’s. “Not today.”

  Chevalier shook Mitchell’s hand. “I admire your optimism. If you ask me, it’s the one thing missing from the world right now.”

  “Thanks for the pen and paper,” said Jackson. “Sir, before we go, the person who hired us said she tried to contact you for close to two weeks but got no reply. Why was that?”

  “I was on holiday in Greece. If I don’t shut off my phone while I’m alone with my wife, she tends to get grumpy.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Why didn’t your secretary take your calls?” asked Mitchell.

  “My rules apply to her as well,” explained Chevalier. “She and her boyfriend took advantage of my holiday, and went to Australia to visit his family.”

  “This sounds like a good place to work,” mused Jackson.

  “Gentlemen, a word if I may,” said Chevalier. “I consider myself a good judge of human character. By your use of Grace instead of Ms. Maxwell, it’s clear to me that you’ve met her before, and that she means a lot to you. I take back my earlier pessimism, and hope that you find all three people alive.”

  “If we do, it will be because of the information you provided to us today,” Mitchell replied earnestly.

  “You are too kind, Mister Mitchell. Good luck to the two of you. Danielle will see you out.”

  Mitchell and Jackson walked out of the building and waved at their taxi driver.

  “So, what do you think?” Jackson asked his friend.

  “We need to contact Fahimah and Jen right away, so they can look into the Dinus and Mister Sandesh. After that, we need to get a hold of Dawn for a pair of tickets for the casino tonight. Lastly, let’s hope these credit cards are stacked, because we need a pair of expensive-looking tuxedos if we’re going to blend in tonight.”

  Jackson chortled. “I thought we were troubleshooters, not fashionistas.”

  The taxi pulled up to the curb.

  Mitchell shook his head. “I’m amazed you even know the word fashionista.”

  “I watch TV with Kelly, and she likes all of those fashion shows.”

  “You’re getting soft in your old age.”

  “Whatever, Captain, less chatter and more work out of you.”

  A few cars down, a man brought up a camera and snapped several pictures of Mitchell and Jackson before they got into their cab. He lowered the camera and scrolled through his photographs. Satisfied he gotten some decent shots, the man dropped the camera on the seat beside him, and reached for his phone.

  “Yes?” said a man on the other end with a Slavic accent.

  “Two unknown men just visited Monsieur Chevalier,” rep
orted the photographer.

  “So?”

  “They didn’t have a scheduled meeting with him, and look like trouble.”

  “Trail them, and when you can, send me their pictures.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The photographer waited for the taxi to drive by before starting his car. He shifted his vehicle in drive and followed the taxi at a discreet distance. His usual gig was photographing celebrities, but when he was contacted out of the blue to keep an eye on Chevalier’s office, the man jumped at the chance to make one hundred thousand Euros for next-to-no work. He’d never met his employer, but he didn’t care. The money was good, and as far as he was concerned, he didn’t have a care in the world.

  8

  Mitchell and Jackson’s taxi joined a long line of expensive sports cars, luxury limousines, and high-end SUVs. Outside of the casino, paparazzi jockeyed with one another to get the best shot of the celebrities as they got out of their rides.

  “We’re never going to pull this off,” moaned Jackson, as he pulled at the collar of his freshly starched shirt.

  “Sure, we will,” replied Mitchell. “According to the invites Dawn sent us, you’re Thomas Jackson, the former heavyweight champion of the world, and I’m David Hamilton-Mitchell, the heir to the Hamilton-Mitchell shipping line. What could possibly go wrong?”

  “What if some smartass kid out there with a camera realizes there’s never been a world champion by the name of Thomas Jackson?”

  “Just pretend you didn’t hear him, shadow box for the paparazzi, and keep moving. We’ll be inside before anyone can stop us.”

  “We’re almost there,” announced the driver.

  “Game time,” said Mitchell. “I’ll call you when we need you, Henri.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” replied Henri, stopping at the red carpet.

  A young man in a dark-blue uniform, wearing white gloves, opened Mitchell’s door, while his partner opened Jackson’s. Both men climbed out of the cab, adjusted their tuxedo jackets, and waved at the sea of photographers. Lights flashed like summer lighting, and then abruptly stopped, when no one recognized the two men.

  Mitchell began to sweat. His friend was right; all it would take was one question shouted out by the reporters, and their cover would be blown. Luckily, the paparazzi turned away from the two Rangers and clamored over their colleagues to get a shot of an older British rocker with short, spiky, blond hair, walking down the red carpet, pumping his fist in the air.

  “Hurry,” whispered Mitchell to Jackson. “I think I stole that guy’s car once before.”

  They rushed past the photographers, and handed their invitations and fake passports to a short haired man dressed in a tuxedo. The bulge in his jacket revealed the man was armed. The man scanned their invites, gave a cursory look at the passports, and smiled. “Good evening gentlemen, welcome to the Monte Carlo Casino. I hope you enjoy your evening.”

  “I’m sure we will,” replied Mitchell.

  The security guard handed back the men’s passports, and let them pass. They walked past a group of A-list celebrities, who were busy socializing with business, political, and high-ranking military leaders from all over the world. After passing through the ornately sculptured main salon, with its arched roof and rare artworks on the walls, Mitchell and Jackson came out into a larger room filled with card tables. Every seat was taken. Curious onlookers stood behind the people gambling, cheering them on.

  “Good evening, gentlemen, may I be of assistance?” asked a young woman dressed in a long-tailed tuxedo.

  “We don’t know where to start,” responded Mitchell, honestly.

  “What would you like to play?”

  “What is there to play?” asked Jackson.

  “Sir, there are all the usual games one would expect to find in a casino,” said the woman. “We have roulette, poker, blackjack, craps, baccarat, video poker, and slots. Just don’t expect to be walking out of here with any money. All of our best dealers are on tonight. The aim is to help you lose one to two hundred million Euros for Mister Sandesh’s charity.”

  Mitchell looked at the people in the room, and didn’t doubt Sandesh would easily make his goal tonight. “Miss, would you happen to know where Mister Sandesh is right now? My colleague and I would like to thank him for graciously inviting us here tonight.”

  “But of course, sir. Mister Sandesh is in the games room. Last I heard, he’d already lost one million dollars to his charity.”

  “A gracious man,” observed Jackson.

  “And quite handsome,” added the woman, with a smile.

  “I’ll take your word for that,” said Mitchell.

  “The room is just off to your left,” explained the woman, indicating the open doors.

  “Merci,” said Mitchell.

  “De rien,” replied girl.

  As they made their way to the room, they helped themselves to flutes of champagne from one of the dozens of white-jacketed waiters circulating throughout the casino.

  “Nice stuff,” noted Jackson after taking a sip.

  “To be honest, right about now, I’d prefer a cold beer,” said Mitchell.

  “Yeah, well, when in Monte Carlo, do as they do, and that includes drinking free champagne.”

  They entered the games room and gravitated toward a packed roulette table. People laughed and cheered with each spin of the wheel.

  “Give me another fifty grand,” said a man with a robust Sottish accent. People all around the table cheered and clapped.

  Mitchell slid past a tall, broad-shouldered man to get a better look at the table, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked back right into the cold eyes of a baldheaded man with a thick neck and tree trucks for arms.

  “Sir, would you mind coming with me,” said the man. Mitchell knew it wasn’t so much a request as an order.

  “Hey, take your hand off me,” said Mitchell, trying to sound offended.

  “Sir, please, said the man, unbuttoning his jacket to reveal a concealed pistol.

  Mitchell glanced over and saw Jackson in the same predicament. He relaxed and smiled. “My apologies. Where would you like us to go?”

  “Please quietly follow me,” responded the bald man.

  Mitchell straightened out his tuxedo jacket. “Most certainly. Please lead on.”

  “Some heavyweight champion of the world I turned out to be,” muttered Jackson.

  The guards escorted Mitchell and Jackson to a side door. Two more muscle-bound men in tuxedos stood on either side of the door.

  The baldheaded man brought up his sleeve and spoke into a concealed microphone. “I have them.”

  The door opened.

  The guard moved to one side. “Please, step inside.”

  Mitchell’s curiosity was piqued. He’d expected to be shown the back door. Instead, he and Jackson walked into a brightly-lit room with a single table in the middle of it. A handsome gentleman in his early fifties, in a hand-tailored tuxedo, stood behind the card table. He had short, black hair with a dash of gray around the temples, and a matching goatee.

  “Gentlemen, please do come in,” said the man, with a hint of an Indian accent.

  Mitchell and Jackson walked toward the card table. The door closed behind them. A couple of guards took post by the door, their pistols held in their hands.

  “It’s not every day that you get to meet a former heavyweight champion, and the heir to a shipping corporation,” said the man.

  “Yeah, about that,” said Mitchell.

  “There’s no need to explain yourselves. I know who you both are. Am I not speaking with Ryan Mitchell and Nathaniel Jackson, retired U.S. Army Rangers, now employees of Polaris Operations?”

  Mitchell smiled. “Yes, you are, sir.”

  “Please let me introduce myself. My name is Varun Sandesh, and I am your humble host for the evening.”

  Mitchell furrowed his brow. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, how long did it take your security people to spot us as imposter
s?”

  “Oh, about five seconds,” replied Sandesh. “The casino’s security staff use state-of-the-art facial recognition software to spot people like yourselves trying to sneak into events they weren’t invited to. Normally, it’s the paparazzi who try to crash my events. Imagine my surprise when I was informed there were two special-operations soldiers walking around inside the casino.”

  Mitchell chuckled. “To paraphrase, the best-laid plans of men and mice often go awry.”

  “I always thought soldiers like yourselves said no plan survives contact with the enemy.”

  “It depends on the audience,” said Jackson.

  “Sir, why did you bring us in here?” asked Mitchell.

  “I was curious,” replied Sandesh. “After the head of my security detail told me that two American Rangers had bluffed their way inside the casino, I had to meet you and ask you why you are here.”

  “Actually, we came here hoping to speak with you.”

  Sandesh raised an eyebrow. “Really? What about?”

  “Sir, have ever heard of Nova and Max Dinu? Or Grace Maxwell?”

  “Grace Maxwell, no. But I have heard of Max Dinu. If memory serves me, he committed suicide a few months back, after a visit to one of my genetics laboratories in Singapore. It must have been a real tragedy for his family. What was the other name you said?”

  “Nova, Nova Dinu,” said Mitchell. “She’s Max’s daughter, and she recently disappeared, while looking into her father’s alleged suicide.”

  Sandesh’s dark-brown eyes lit up. He snapped his fingers in the air. “Now I remember the name. I never met her, but she wrote several letters to my lawyers, asking to meet the last people her father saw before he disappeared. I didn’t see the harm in it, and asked my people to set up a meeting, and that’s the last I ever heard mention of her name.”

  “Sir, weren’t you the slightest bit curious as to the outcome of the meeting?” asked Jackson.

  “I’m an incredibly busy man, Mister Jackson,” replied Sandesh. “I’m sure within a day I was onto another crisis within my company, and forgot all about Miss Dinu, until you mentioned her name here tonight.”