“Fine,” said Robby.
“You like your new school?”
“It’s fine.”
“Better than that glum pile of stones you came from. Don’t care for that part of England.”
Robby shot him a glance. He wondered how Coach MacAndrews knew that he’d been at school in Newcastle for a term last year to learn English.
They walked for a while without talking, crossing a meadow with an alp on one side. An alp was an old low-slung wooden barn where farmers kept their dairy cows all winter long. The cows were still on the mountain. The storm had come too fast for the farmers to bring them in. Even so, the smell of hay and manure made Robby’s eyes water.
They came to a flight of stairs descending the hillside, broad, decaying flats of wood cut into the earth. Robby waited for Coach to go ahead. Coach had a habit of flinging himself down the stairs two at a time to show off how fit he was. In fact, he was always moving faster than anyone at school. Karl Marshal said he had a rocket permanently inserted up his butt. Maddeningly, Coach waited for Robby to go first.
“Mind your step,” he said, as if Robby were a little girl. “So, you’re meeting a friend. Maybe we’ll all have hot chocolate together. My treat.”
At this, Robby moaned. He knew it was rude, but he couldn’t help it. And to be honest, he didn’t care.
“What’s that?” said Coach.
“Nothing.” Robby summoned his courage. “It’s just that I’d rather meet my friend by myself.” And having said the words, he stopped in his tracks and looked Coach in the eye.
“Come now, lad. Nothing wrong with a bit of company.”
“You don’t understand…” Robby hated him for making him explain. Why couldn’t he just go on his way? It was as if he was forcing him to say yes. “I’m not supposed to bring any friends.”
“That so?”
“I’m supposed to come all by myself,” said Robby.
Coach came closer. He wasn’t smiling any longer. “And who told you that?”
“My friend.”
“He got a name?”
“It’s a she,” Robby admitted.
“A ‘she.’ Really?”
“I told him,” said Elisabeth.
She stood at the base of the stairs. She was wearing blue jeans and a dark parka. There was a dusting of snow on her hair, as if she’d been waiting for him for a while. Robby noticed she wasn’t wearing makeup. She looked harder, unfriendly, even. He waved, relieved to see her, giving no thought as to why she was here and not outside Café Simmens.
Elisabeth didn’t wave back. Her hands hung by her sides, close to her legs, almost as if she was hiding something.
Coach slid past Robby down the stairs so that he stood between them. “Robert,” he said. “Run back to school. Go inside and find matron. Tell her you need to see the head. If she’s not there, go to your room and lock the door.”
“Don’t move,” said Elisabeth in a voice that Robby hadn’t heard before. It was a throaty, demanding voice and it scared him.
“Do as I say, Robert.” Coach MacAndrews’s hand came out of his parka. He was holding a gun…a black pistol like the Navy SEALs carried in Call of Duty. Robby was frightened and confused. He looked at Elisabeth, but she didn’t seem either frightened or confused.
“Go,” said Coach. “I won’t tell you again.”
There was a pop, like a firecracker, and Coach MacAndrews toppled forward and rolled down the stairs. Robby looked over his shoulder. Two men stood behind him. Tall, fit, dressed in dark clothing and wearing knit caps. One held a pistol, and smoke streamed from its barrel. The other man had silver stripes on his pants and a machine gun slung over his shoulder. A car was parked in the woods behind them. Robby recognized it at once. It was his mother’s Range Rover. Racing white with luggage racks on the roof and fog lamps mounted on the front grille. Someone was behind the wheel. It was not his mother.
Robby froze. He was unsure what to do, if he should run or cry out. He turned back toward Elisabeth. She stood over Coach. She had a pistol, too, and it appeared much too large for her hands. Coach turned on his side and reached an arm toward her. For a moment Robby could see his pale face, his eyes opened wide. She fired the gun and Coach dropped to the snow. The gunshot was louder than before, shockingly loud, and Robby jumped in his skin.
And then one of the men was upon him—the one with the machine gun—ripping one of the stripes off his pants and slapping it across Robby’s mouth. It was duct tape. He picked Robby up in both hands and bundled him to the car, tossing him into the back seat and climbing in next to him. Someone opened the rear and Robby was aware of the other man rolling Coach’s body into the back and covering it with a woolen blanket. The hatch closed. The second man climbed in next to Robby. Elisabeth got into the front seat. The car began to drive over the uneven road.
“We’re taking you to your house,” said Elisabeth, turning to face him, her elbow thrown over the back of her seat. She was smiling, just as she’d smiled at him on the athletic field. As if she hadn’t just fired a bullet into a man’s back. “To Chesa Madrun. I’m sorry about your coach. We couldn’t have him talking to anyone. I could see that he recognized me. You don’t have to worry about anything. Soon your mother will be here, too. Then we can tell what this is all about. Are you going to cooperate?”
Robby nodded. He wasn’t scared anymore. The last gunshot had done something to him. He felt as if he no longer had any emotions. He was like one of the zombies he saw on television, all cold inside but possessed of a single, all-important purpose.
They drove in silence. Robby watched the familiar sights pass. Ten kilometers outside Pontresina, they turned onto a private road that climbed into the forest, making a series of sweeping curves until finally reaching a plateau offering a view down into the valley. Robby had seen it a hundred times, yet for some reason it looked different. Maybe it was him.
He caught sight of the tower and then they were at the Chesa Madrun.
They parked in the garage. Elisabeth had a key for the elevator. This bothered him tremendously. How did she get it? Who gave it to her? They took him to the third floor. She walked with him to his bedroom, holding his hand as if he were a toddler.
“Viktor is going to stay with you,” she said, her voice full of forced kindness. “He’s going to be your friend. If you need anything, ask him. I want you to be a good boy. Do as you’re told and everything will work out fine. You’re smart. You know what this is about. Do as we say and you’ll be back at school Monday.” She kissed him on the cheek. “You’re my good boy. Tschuss.”
“Tschuss,” Robby whispered as she left the room.
Viktor used a church key to lock the door. He had hair white as snow and blue eyes. A pink scar pulled at the side of his mouth, making him look as if he’d just eaten something that tasted bad. He pulled out a chair from Robby’s desk and sat, placing his pistol on the desktop.
Robby climbed onto his bed, crossing his legs Indian style. It wasn’t a big room and it was hard not to stare at Viktor. There were three shelves above the desk and on them were Robby’s toy soldiers, hundreds of them. They’d belonged to his father and his father before him. They were fashioned from iron and expertly painted. One shelf was for Napoleon and his men. The next was for Wellington and the British. The top shelf was for Blücher, who was German and without whose cavalry Wellington would never have defeated Napoleon at Waterloo. Waterloo was in Belgium. All this his father had taught Robby as they’d played with the soldiers hour after hour on snowy winter afternoons.
Viktor picked up one of the soldiers and examined it.
“That’s a hussar,” said Robby. “Do you speak English?”
“Little,” said Viktor.
“You can have him.”
“Thank you, but…” Viktor replaced the soldier on the shelf.
Robby smiled. The thought came to him again that he had changed. Over and over, he saw Coach’s hand drop to the snow, as effortlessly a
s if he were some kind of toy that had been unplugged. Was that all dying was—being unplugged? It didn’t sound so scary. The only thoughts he’d ever had about death concerned his mother. He loved her more than anything. He didn’t want her to die.
He told himself he was like those zombies. He had no feelings. Nothing could hurt him. He was driven by one motivation and one motivation only.
He had to get free.
He had to save his mother.
Chapter 39
I came for the football tickets,” said Harry Mason.
“Get my car in shape and I’ll buy you a season pass.”
“Box seats?”
“In the trainer’s lap.”
“I’d set him straight, that’s for sure.”
Simon introduced Harry Mason to Vika, calling her Ms. Brandt, as she preferred to be known to strangers. Harry was a lifelong Labourite, but he had a traditional love of queen and country, and all things royal. There was no telling the extent of the fawning if he learned she was a blue blood.
“What are you doing with him?” Harry demanded of her.
“Mr. Riske is helping me sort some matters out,” Vika explained diplomatically.
“Good luck with that,” said Harry with a roll of the eyes, and they all had a laugh.
“I think I like Mr. Mason,” said Vika.
“No better man,” said Simon, giving his shoulder a hug, and Harry blushed three shades of red.
The Daytona was brought up from the garage. Harry spotted the damage from Simon’s collision with the hay cart. He gave his employer a nasty look. “Not again.”
“Couldn’t be avoided,” said Simon. “There’s a decent garage in Cap d’Ail, ten minutes down the road, that handles most of the high-end trade in these parts. They’re waiting for you. Anything you need is yours. But Harry, it’s not the cosmetics I’m concerned about as much as the performance. I need to soup this baby up. Give me everything you can find.”
“You have my word. Dare I ask why?”
“You daren’t,” said Simon. “You have until tomorrow morning. Do whatever it takes.”
“What kind of car exactly are you wanting to beat?”
“Bugatti Veyron.”
Harry’s face soured as if Simon had just recommended a brand of blended scotch.
“My feelings exactly,” said Simon.
“One thousand horsepower, sixteen cylinders…It’s not a car, it’s a rocket ship. There’s no beauty in that beast.”
“He can’t use anywhere close to all that horsepower without flying straight through a curve. Give me a car that will keep me close. I’ll outdrive the man.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Harry climbed into the Daytona, pulled his cap low on his forehead, and put the car in gear. He made the loop around the Place du Casino, gunning the engine as he went up the hill.
“That was for you,” Simon said to Vika.
“I find the Irish so colorful. Don’t you?”
“That’s one way to describe them.”
They entered the hotel. Glancing to his right, Simon observed a familiar face in the shadows of the Bar Américain. A tanned gargoyle with cropped silver hair in search of his senator’s toga. Simon freshened his pace and accompanied Vika to her room.
“I’m arranging for our doctor to visit Elena,” she said as they stood at her door.
“She should be in the hospital, but I understand her wishes. I’d be scared, too.”
Vika turned to face him, hands clasped at her waist. “I’m sorry if I was hard on you earlier.”
“Don’t be. You weren’t.” Simon didn’t need any woman feeling sorry for him for any reason. “Stay in your room. It might look safe out there, but it’s not. Whoever killed your mother knows you’re here. They followed you to the crash site yesterday. They followed you to the apartment last night. You’ve learned that, right?”
Vika nodded.
“Just in case,” Simon went on, “I’m putting a valet at the end of the hall. If he sees you, he’s to call me.”
“I’ve had enough of going out. Promise.”
Simon almost believed her. “I’ll be down in a bit to check on you. I’ve got some research to do. You can join me tonight at the casino.”
“That would be nice.”
“I have work to do and I don’t want to be distracted thinking about what kind of monkey business you’re getting up to.” He stepped closer to her. “We both know you’re not telling me everything.”
Vika said nothing, her eyes afire with indignation. The princess had been called out.
“Are you?” he continued.
“I’ve told you everything you need to know. Some things are, and always will be, private.”
“Not if it puts my life in jeopardy, too.”
Simon said goodbye. On the way to his room, he checked the status of the Apache app. The map of Monaco lit up the phone’s screen. He noted the position of the trackers and stopped cold. At last! After leaving the restaurant Brigantine, one of the men he’d tagged had proceeded to an address on the Rue Chaussée. What made that remarkable, though, was that one of the trackers who had moved out of range had reappeared and was presently at the same address. Simon zoomed in on the map, committing the street name and number to memory. Rue Chaussée 476. For once he had a real lead.
It was in a spirit of heightened enthusiasm that he regained his room. His phone buzzed before he could take off his jacket. It was Thierry Vallance, deputy director of Interpol.
“Allo, mon ami,” answered Simon, cautiously hopeful that Vallance had some useful information about the men who’d followed him from London.
“Winning anything?” said Vallance.
“Yeah, but not honestly.”
“Oh?”
“There’s a ring of cheats down here. Serbs, I think. You’ll know more when I do.”
“Nasty types. Be careful.”
“Good news?”
“I don’t know if it’s good news, but it is interesting. The men following you, Goran Zisnic and Ivan Boskovic, they are Croats, not Serbs. Either way, we know them well. They are in the drug trade. Part of the Solntsevo Brotherhood. Big-time traffickers and distributors. Heroin. Cocaine. Methamphetamine. The bad stuff. Large quantities only. They are active all over Europe and the Middle East, but they are based in London.”
Simon had been mistaken about them being part of an international gambling ring. The new information, however, did little to explain why they had been following him. “Drugs? Why would they be after me?”
“I cannot answer that question. Are you working on anything related?”
“Hold on. Where in the Middle East?”
“Dubai, of course. Beirut. Tripoli. Does that help?”
“Not sure.”
Since Simon had Vallance on the line, he read off the number of the Serbian license plate belonging to the car that had followed Stefanie Brandenburg’s Rolls the night she was killed.
“Don’t hold your breath,” said Vallance. “Serbia isn’t tied into our European Commission vehicle database. Normally, I’d need to go through their department of justice.”
“It’s a priority,” said Simon. “I’m certain they had a hand in murdering a woman.”
“Since when do you investigate murders? Isn’t that strictly police work?”
“Since yesterday,” said Simon, and Vallance knew better than to go any further.
“Understood. I’ll see if I can pull some strings.”
“Pull a lot of them. I owe you.”
Simon put down the phone. He poured himself a mineral water, finally took off his jacket, then sat down at the desk. He opened his laptop and pulled up the address for the house on Rue Chaussée on Google Maps, clicking on STREET VIEW. Located above the hill from the botanical garden, it was an older villa in good repair set back from the street, with a steep driveway leading to a single-car garage. It appeared to be a house like any other, a residence of a moderately successful man or woman. The pa
int was fresh, the windows clean. Simon studied the house from as many angles as possible. At some point, he was going to have to break in to gather the evidence he needed for Lord Toby Stonewood.
Finished with that task, Simon dug in his pocket for the cuff link he’d found in Princess Stefanie’s parking space and dropped it on the desktop. It rolled around in a tight circle and he picked it back up, studying it closely. Painted on an oval white enamel background was the tip of a broadsword, its base enveloped in flames, a five-pointed golden star where the handle should have been. To either side of the blade was a palm frond, and across the bottom, following the curve of the link, were two squiggly lines that looked like runes or some sort of Elven language that Simon might have found in the Tolkien books he’d once loved.
The design was an insignia of some kind, either from the military or a government organization. He was put in mind of his own cuff links from MI5, the ones that had failed him miserably at Les Ambassadeurs. He took a picture of the link with his phone and emailed it to Roger Jenkins, his contact at Box, the term insiders used to refer to the British security service, and asked for help.
Simon finished his water, then called Jenkins, to make sure the matter received the attention it deserved.
“What are you doing in Monaco?” asked Jenkins upon answering. “English lasses not good enough for you?”
“Aren’t you giving away trade secrets?” Simon asked, hiding his pique that MI5 possessed the technology to allow someone to locate him on a whim.
“We know a lot more than that. Nice room you have there, by the way.”
“You have not hacked my phone,” said Simon.
Jenkins laughed. “Not yet we haven’t. Better be a good chap or else.”
Simon informed Jenkins of the purpose of his call and all levity fled their discussion. Jenkins pulled up the email with the photo attachment. “Can’t say I recognize the insignia, but you’re right about one thing. Definitely military. With the sword and the star, I’m tempted to say Russia—rather totalitarian, don’t you think?—but the fronds throw me.”
“And the lines at the bottom? It’s a foreign alphabet. I’m sure.”
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