“That’s the coolest part. Alicia paints on a mixture of cement, and I don’t know what else. It’s a whole process. And not only does it look awesome, but it lasts, even where it’s wet or humid. See, it’s got that high-gloss finish, which is really a protectant. Many of her clients are yacht owners—Texas oil barons, movie stars, Bollywood actors. She’s one of the few in the world who use this technique, so when they want to decorate their yachts, she gets the call.”

A spark of an idea formed in Nir’s mind. Likely, it would be impractical—and quite probably, impossible. But he wouldn’t know for sure until he got a little more information.

“Where did you say your next shoots are?”

“Stockholm, London, New York, Dallas. Just in and out at each. Why? I can see the gears turning. What’s going on in that twisted mind of yours?”

“Since you’ll be in Dallas, is there any chance you might be able to pop on over to Houston?”

“It’s Texas. I don’t think any two cities are within pop-able distance. But sure, I could add a few days to my trip.”

A smile spread across Nir’s face. “Interesting. You and I need to do some serious talking. Let’s grab something to eat. But not here. I don’t want to have to mortgage my business for a plate of pasta.”

“Okay, Mr. Bond, I’m in.” Then she grabbed his arm again as they looked for a cab.

October 2020: (One Week Later)

OCTOBER 2020

(ONE WEEK LATER)

Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

ONE WEEK LATER

CAFALA BAHR, MIRABELLO BAY, SEA OF CRETE, GREECE—OCTOBER 5, 2020—20:15 / 8:15 P.M. EET

Saad swirled the Hibiki 21 Years Old whisky, then brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply. With his financial reserves, the price of the expensive liquid wasn’t even a minor rounding error. But he was a man who appreciated fine things, and he wanted to savor this moment. He sipped and let the whisky’s flavor of sandalwood, dried fruits, nuts, and smoke cover his tongue and palate. This was the final bottle from the case hand delivered to him by the chief distiller of the House of Suntory when he was off the coast of Osaka last year, and he wanted to make it last.

Unfortunately, it was difficult to be in the moment with loud music and tittering laughter. Two men—his invited guests—were moving their bodies in various ungainly gyrations 20 meters away on the helipad, which doubled as a dance floor. The six women giggling and swaying with much more skill were all being paid for their attendance.

One of the ladies, a tall blond wearing a short and sparkly two-piece halter dress, slapped the bare chest of IRGC general Arash Mousavi. Pulling her close, he whispered something in her ear. She feigned shock, which she then transformed into a well-practiced look of anticipation.