Chapter 80

[ 984 words ]

Julian’s POV

The invitation arrived on a Tuesday morning, buried between a legal brief and a quarterly infrastructure report in the stack my assistant placed on my desk at 7 AM. It was printed on heavy cream card with the Dubai Motorsport Authority seal at the top and the kind of formal language that meant someone had decided this mattered enough to send physical mail instead of an email.

Windsor Empire Group is cordially invited to attend the Dubai 24 Hour Race as the official VIP sponsor.

I read it twice. Then I set it aside and worked through the legal brief and the infrastructure report and a conference call with the Singapore team, and at eleven I picked it up again and read it a third time with my full attention.

The Dubai 24-Hour Race. One of the most prestigious endurance events on the underground circuit calendar, not officially sanctioned and never publicly listed, but attended by enough serious money and serious talent that its reputation had outgrown the legal grey area it operated in. WEG had been tangentially connected to the Dubai racing world for years through hospitality and venue partnerships. This was different. This was a direct invitation, which meant someone had decided Julian Windsor should be in that room specifically.

I was going to say yes regardless. But it helped that I had a reason beyond the obvious one.

I called Zane.

He picked up on the second ring, which meant he was at his desk and not in a meeting, which meant he had been waiting for this call specifically. Zane had a talent for anticipating the calls I was going to make before I made them, which was either perceptive or irritating depending on the day.

“Dubai,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “I saw the copy that came through WEG events p>

“We’re going p>

“I assumed.” A pause. “You’re going for the race or for Catwoman p>

I looked at the invitation on my desk. At the seal. On the date, six weeks away, the same week WEG’s Dubai expansion review was scheduled, the same week that IG Technologies had been in preliminary discussions about a Middle East office launch.

“Both,” I said.

Zane was quiet for a moment. “Julian p>

“Don’t p>

“I’m just going to say p>

“Zane p>

“Fine.” I heard him exhale. “What do you need p>

“Security deployment. Full package — facial recognition capability, drone coverage over the event perimeter, every entry and exit point covered. Legally, under the VIP sponsor security agreement.” I picked up a pen. “I want every woman who enters that circuit on camera p>

A pause that was slightly longer than the previous ones. “That’s thorough p>

“It’s efficient p>

“Julian, that is—yes, we can do it, technically speaking, but deploying facial recognition at a private racing event because you have a theory about a racing alias is p>

“Is what p>

“It is the kind of thing that would concern me if I were a more cautious person.” He paused. “Which I am, actually, when it comes to you specifically p>

“Set it up, Zane p>

Another exhale. “Done. But I want it on record that I said this was excessive p>

“Noted p>

“And that if Catwoman turns out to be someone you know and you’ve just deployed a facial recognition grid to identify her, the conversation that follows will be extremely interesting p>

I didn’t respond to that. I set the pen down and looked out the window at the Manhattan skyline, grey and indifferent in the November morning. Six weeks. The 24 Hour Race ran across one full day and night, which meant Catwoman—if she came, and I was increasingly certain she would come—would be racing in the dark. That was her environment. That was where she was untouchable.

Unless I controlled the environment.

“One more thing,” I said. “The IG Technologies Dubai expansion. Where does it stand p>

“Preliminary. Katia’s team submitted a site assessment last week. Nothing confirmed.” A pause. “Why p>

“Make sure the timeline aligns with the race week p>

Silence on Zane’s end. The particular quality of silence he produced when he was putting things together.

“Julian,” he said carefully. “Are you p>

“Set up the security deployment. Send me the logistics by end of week.” I picked up the infrastructure report. “That’s all p>

I hung up.

I took the call in my study, which I had thought was private enough. The estate was large, the West Wing was mine, and the door was closed. But the Windsor estate had been built in an era when sound traveled differently through old walls than through modern ones, and the hallway outside my study connected the West Wing to the main corridor, and Delia had a habit of moving through the house quietly in a way that I had begun to notice too late.

I didn’t know how much she heard. I didn’t know when she had arrived or how long she had been standing in the hallway or exactly which part of the conversation had reached her through the old walls and the closed door.

What I knew was that when I came out of the study at half past twelve to go to lunch, her door at the end of the corridor was closed and the house was very quiet.

The housekeeper told me later that Mrs. Windsor had made a phone call from the east sitting room at approximately twelve fifteen. Private call. Twenty minutes.

I filed it away.

Delia was careful. She was patient. She was learning, as I had noted before, and the things she was learning were becoming increasingly specific. I would need to pay more attention to what she heard and what she did with it.

But not today. Today I had a security deployment to plan and a timeline to align and six weeks before Dubai.

I had been chasing a ghost for four years.

In Dubai I intended to find a face.

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