A large ice sphere cracked against the inside of a crystal tumbler when Serhat poured the scotch.
"Want one?" He swiveled, tossing his head over a shoulder.
Standing astride next to the ottoman near the entrance, Armo Palermo declined the offer. "But thank you, sir," he added, his hands crossed before his groin.
Serhat shrugged and put the rim of the glass to his lips. "Found anything interesting?"
"We tailed all the supply trucks like you asked. Seemed normal except for one, which didn't go to any of the locations in the book."
"Oh?"
"Telesphore Reyer Refinery," the man continued. "Not too far from the Port."
A smirk dissolved into a squinting frown. Serhat nipped from the tumbler.
Owned by the Commonwealth merchant, Telesphore Reyer, the refinery was an international investment through which Reyer intended to relocate his assets. Since a group of vigilantes who called themselves the Reds swept the Commonwealth with their revolution for a change, many of their leading figures, from scientists to artists, scholars to politicians, had fallen from grace, burned in effigy if not worse. And those lucky enough to have picked the winning side and remain unaffected feared that the same fate could befall them should they not tread carefully. Among those yet affected was Telesphore Reyer who had known Warshond since the two were still in college, and no secret there that Warshond was a shareholder who helped make it happen.
Serhat smacked his lips after another sip. He lifted his eyes at Armo Palermo, "Warshond's new lab, is that what you're saying?"
"I'm not saying anything." The burly chauffeur shrugged.
"But?"
"Does Lord Qusbecq know about it?"
Serhat lowered his gaze at the amber liquor glittering under the spherical chandelier. His fingers tightened around the glass.
A simple answer of yes or no would make a world of difference. If Lord Qusbecq were indeed behind this, nothing much would change, and exposing Warshond as the Phantom Lord would deliver a fatal blow to Ayub's campaign, a weighty pledge of loyalty to Mustafa unlike anything else. But if he weren't…
Is Warshond also a traitor who has gone behind his old man's back?
Clamping a hand to his brow, he laughed.
If that was indeed the case, the capture would cut like a double-bladed sword, hurting Quesbecq as a politician and a father. Any hope his stepbrother had for the old man's rescue would have gone down the drain! Warshond would be done for!
He laughed so hard he spilled the scotch.
Armo Palermo tipped his bald head, his eyes narrowing. "What would you have me do next, sir?"
"You know phenylacetone?" he asked in reply, all the laughter died out from his voice.
His chauffeur nodded. "The oil dispatched to the labs?"
"Dilute it. And be sure it's the one that gets delivered to the refinery."
Palermo quirked his mouth.
"Questions?" Serhat shot him a sullen glance.
"What if your stepbrother didn't show?"
"He has to. Only he can fix the problem if the percentage is to meet the standard. It's too complicated to instruct over the phone, and I doubt he wants to share his secret." A hissing snort paused his speech while he nursed the scotch. "Besides," he continued. "Qusbecq has a deadline for him he has yet to meet."
The bald head bobbed again. "What about the DEA?"
"You know Zahid Abid?"
"Commander of the operational squad?"
"Mustafa's." Serhat sat down on the turquoise couch facing the chauffeur, a half smile perching on his lips. Leaning back, he slumped, his legs crossed, an arm dangling from the back of the couch. "He'll oversee the operation, and I'll be watching it live." As his voice fell, he darted a glance at a small trunked system radio receptor on the ivory coffee table of polished marble.
***