“A few hours after Mr. Ravnikar landed, a private jet owned by the Simmonet Organization took off from another airport in Cape Town and flew direct to Sharjah.”
The Simmonet Organization are run by a businessman who’d be better described as a crime lord. We’ve done real estate deals with him in the past. Mikhail always detested him, though not enough to not ask him for help, it seems.
Got you, asshole.
“And then where did the jet go?”
“Back to London.”
They won’t have been on it. They must have stayed in Sharjah, and then gone on elsewhere. “Were there any other jets in the vicinity?”
Boris sighs. “Lots, unfortunately. It’s not as big as Dubai, but Sharjah is a hub for North Africa, the Middle East and Europe. But there were no jets that belonged to anyone connected with Ravnikar Enterprises, from what I could see.”
I stare at the map pinned to the wall, considering each of the surrounding countries in turn. From Dubai, they could have boarded a commercial flight to anywhere in the world. I want to swear and punch a wall. For a moment I was hopeful, but this is another dead end.
I scrub my hands over my face and try and think like my brother. Wherever Mikhail has gone, it will be somewhere he can protect his little treasure. Somewhere remote, probably, where people won’t see her locked in some tower or fortress.
Fortress. Guards.
“Private security,” I say slowly.
“Boss?” Boris asks, looking up from his laptop.
I drum my fingers on the tabletop, staring at the sea beyond the window and thinking out loud. “Mikhail is protective of his little Ciara. He’ll want to know he’s got muscle on hand to keep her safe.” He’s also very predictable. Always drinks the same vodka. Always buys the same suits. “What’s the name of the security firm we used at Enterprises?”
Boris answers promptly. “Titanium Security.”
“Do they have offices outside London?”
He does a quick Google search. “Dubai. New York. Singapore.”
I take the satellite phone from the charger and look at the list of phone numbers over Boris’ shoulder. I start at the top with Dubai.
A cool, businesslike male voice answers the office phone. “Good morning, Titanium Security, this is Butrus.”
“This is Mikhail Ravnikar,” I say, in a voice laced with barely controlled irritation. “I’m calling about this month’s bill. I need these numbers broken down for me because I don’t understand how you’re charging me so fucking much.”
“Of course, Mr. Ravnikar.” The phone operator taps out a few things on his keyboard. “First I’ll need to confirm your account number. Do you have it on hand? It will be on the top right-hand corner of your invoice.”
“My company email server is down.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Ravnikar. In that case, I’ll have to confirm a few personal details.”
“Yes. Just get on with it.” I catch Boris’ eye and he’s grinning as he listens to the one-sided conversation.
Butrus asks for Mikhail’s full name and date of birth, which I give him, along with our mother’s maiden name and town of birth.
“Address?”
“It’s not fixed at this time. You’ve probably got my old London address.” I recite Mikhail’s home address.
“Ah, yes. I see a note on the file. Finally, I need your password.”
“Ciara,” I say, taking a gamble.
“Thank you, Mr. Ravnikar. Let me put you through to billing and they will be able to take you through the charges you’re querying.”
So goddamn predictable. “Thank you.”