“Not offhand.”
“Go to the next photo. There’s an inscription on the back.”
“Dammit, man. I don’t have time for this.”
“Another minute. That’s all. I promise.”
Sethna swiped right. “Eight two zero zero. There’s your answer. Should have showed me those first.” He handed the phone back to Jenkins. “Now get out of here.”
“You mean you know the answer?”
“Out!”
“‘Sword of God.’ ‘Hear all, see all, know all.’ ‘Eight two zero zero,’” recited Jenkins. “What does it mean? I feel like Indiana Jones.”
The phone on Sethna’s desk rang. It was a special jingle that Jenkins knew meant trouble. Sethna lunged for it as if it might explode after another ring. “Yes,” he said, and his face dropped. “Yes, I understand. I’ll be right down. And Evan, keep it together. It will be all right.”
“What is it?” asked Jenkins. “Another bomb? A truck on the sidewalk? What?”
But Sethna was already rising from his chair and yanking his jacket off the hanger on the back of his door. He bolted from the room, Jenkins trailing him down the corridor.
“Zaab, you were saying: eight two zero zero. The sword of God.”
Sethna stopped on a dime. “Not now, Roger,” he said icily.
His sudden calm was more unsettling than his ire.
“Tomorrow. If we’re still here.”
Chapter 45
She still in her room?”
The valet stationed by the third-floor elevator indicated that she was, and Simon continued to Vika’s door, knocking twice.
“Surprised?” Vika opened the door a few inches, making no motion to invite him in.
“I forgot to mention that there’s a cocktail party this evening at seven at the Sporting Club. Part of the events for the Concours. Would you care to join me?”
“No, thank you. I’m sure I don’t have anything to wear.”
Simon was sure that she did. Her flippant manner was the cherry on top of his unpleasant afternoon. “So, now you’re happy staying in?”
“Not happy, but I will be remaining in my room, as per your instructions.”
“My orders,” said Simon, leaning gently against the door. “Let’s keep things straight.”
“Very funny.”
“Do I really have to remind you that it’s for your own safety?”
“When will this end, Mr. Riske?”
“I’m hoping tonight.”
“Does that mean you’ve made progress identifying the owner of the cuff links?”
“I’ve put out feelers.”
“If you’re getting close, don’t you think you ought to contact the police?”
“I’m not there yet. With luck, you and I can pay them a visit in the morning.”
“I’m not feeling particularly lucky, are you?” Vika flashed a mean smile and closed the door in his face.
Simon showered and shaved. His shirts had come back from the laundry and were hanging in his closet. The bill was attached. Four shirts, eighty euros. He winced before remembering it was on Lord Toby’s account. He picked out a pale blue shirt and a dark suit, then toyed with the idea of a pocket square, ultimately deciding against it. A sliver of white was acceptable for business; anything else was ornamental. He wasn’t a peacock.
The stainless steel case went onto the bed. He unlocked it and took out his tools. Once more into the breech. He knew how they were stealing; it was a question of gathering the evidence. He wanted the camera, the earpiece, and, most important, the smoking gun, in the form of the software that analyzed the card order and instructed the players when and how much to bet.
He wanted more. He wanted the money back. But first things first.
Simon slid the surveillance instruments into his pockets. To save precious battery life, he’d wait until in position to activate the tracker. Getting his hands on the scoundrels’ hidden camera and earpiece wouldn’t be a problem. The question was how to find the laptop…or whatever device held the software. He needed something able to locate the Bluetooth signal, an electronic divining rod of sorts. He was sure that such a device existed, but not so sure it was available to the general public on a weekday evening in the principality of Monaco.
What now?
He sat down on the bed with a thud. If one were to place a caption above his head, it wouldn’t say “Eureka!” but “You should have thought of this earlier!” Mohammed didn’t need to go to the mountain. He would make the mountain come to him.
Simon jumped to his feet and snatched his phone from the charger, embarking on a frantic search for all the computer stores in Monaco. Unsurprisingly, there were only two. At six o’clock, both were closed. He found a store in Nice, thirty kilometers away, but it didn’t have what he required. The mountain wasn’t getting any closer.
And so? The next step came to him in an instant. No caption required. The nephew of an old friend was a big shot in the tech business, a PhD and ranking executive at a French telecom firm. Simon was certain he’d know where to lay his hands on what he needed. There were two problems. The first was that Simon hadn’t seen the man in years. The second was that the man’s uncle wasn’t really a friend at all. He was a capo in La Brise de Mer, the gang Simon had run with twenty years earlier. The uncle’s name was Jojo Matta. He and Simon had a history, and not the romantic kind. In principle, Jojo didn’t traffic with people on the other side of the law…Simon’s side.
On a wing and a prayer, Simon called him.
The phone picked up on the first ring. “Allo.”
“Jojo, it’s Simon Ledoux. Don’t hang up.” Ledoux was his mother’s married name. He’d taken it when he moved to Marseille to live with her following his father’s death.
“You again?”
“I need a favor.”
“A favor?” said Jojo. “Can’t bother with a ‘Hello, how are you?’? You’ve lost your manners since you started working with the cops.”
“It happens. I’m in a hurry.”
“I guess I better listen if I don’t want to end up doing twenty years alongside Tino.”
Tino Coluzzi had once been a mutual friend. Things changed. Now he was in prison as a result of Simon’s actions.
Simon asked Jojo if his nephew was still at the telecom company and if he lived in the area. He was and he did, said Jojo. Simon told Jojo what he needed, insisting that he write it down. Jojo told him to wait ten minutes while he contacted his nephew, adding at the last moment that there was a chance he was in Paris or Rome, or for that matter the Far East.
Twelve excruciating minutes later, Jojo called back. “Price is five grand,” said the gangster.
Simon hid his relief. “I can get it tomorrow for five hundred in any store on the coast.”
“Go ahead.”
Sometimes you had the cards, sometimes you didn’t. “Two grand,” said Simon, “and you should be happy. Found money.”
“Three and you’ve got a deal.”
Simon agreed, knowing he’d gotten a bargain and that he would have paid ten. They made plans to meet later that night, and Simon ended the call, not quite as elated as he might have been. There was always something shifty with Jojo, an angle you didn’t see coming. It came to Simon that Jojo had agreed on the price too quickly. Jojo was a haggler. He’d nickel-and-dime a guy for an hour over twenty euros.
As Simon left the hotel and headed to the cocktail reception, he wasn’t sure if he’d be met with a shiv or the portable Wi-Fi signal jammer he’d requested.
Chapter 46
They had set out the toy soldiers on the large play table in three groups facing one another: the French, the British, and the Prussians. Robby had placed the soldiers as his father had taught him: several lines of infantry up front, cavalry in the back. There were even a dozen cannons.
It was Napoleon versus Wellington and Blücher, though after so long Robby couldn’t remember the details except that it was Blücher
and his cavalry that had swept in and saved the day, defeating Napoleon and sending him into exile on Saint Helena, an island that his father had said was “precisely in the middle of nowhere.”
“This one is a grenadier,” said Robby, plucking a kneeling soldier, rifle at his shoulder and awaiting his commander’s order to fire, and handing it to Viktor. “They were Blücher’s crack troops. They could climb mountains, ford rivers, and sneak up on the enemy for a surprise attack.”
Viktor examined the soldier. “Me grenadier, too.”
“You were a soldier?”
Viktor nodded.
“For who?”
“Serbia.”
“Where’s that?”
“Yugoslavia.”
“You were a grenadier?” Robby knew it was smart to make friends with your captors. The more they liked you, the better they treated you. And the more difficult it would be for them to harm you when the time came. He’d seen that in plenty of films.
“Can I see your gun?” asked Robby.
“No,” said Viktor harshly, giving him back the grenadier, and Robby knew better than to ask again. Instead, he picked up a man riding a large brown charger, sword raised high. “This is Blücher,” he said. “He’s a field marshal. You can tell by his funny hat. Prussians are like Germans.”
Viktor looked at the soldier closely. “The big boss.”
“Yes,” said Robby. “The big boss. Like you?”
“Not me.”
“Who?”
Viktor handed Blücher back to him. “Not me.”
“I’m hungry,” said Robby. “We’ve been here for hours. There’s ice cream in the freezer downstairs. Can I go get some?”
“Elisabeth will bring dinner.”
“I’m hungry now. I’ll stay here. I promise. I’d like a scoop of chocolate, please. Get whatever you’d like. You must be hungry, too.”
Viktor considered this. He stood and slipped his pistol into his waistband. “Stay,” he said. “Yes?”
Robby nodded. “Promise.”
Viktor unlocked the door and left. Robby listened as the church key slid home and the door was locked from the outside.
He jumped to his feet and went to the window. The rollladen, a metal shade that went up and down, covered the window. It was old and noisy and had been there for as long as Robby could remember. To raise and lower it, you took a long metal wand and turned one end of it. He began spinning the handle, slowly, slowly. The rollladen groaned as if it was rusted into place. It didn’t move. Robby gave the handle a stiff push. The rollladen shuddered and began to rise. No matter how slowly he raised it, it whined and squeaked. When he’d gotten it up a foot or so, he stopped. He opened the window and looked down. It was a long drop, two stories, but wind had banked the snow against the wall. It was nearly dark. The breeze nipped at his cheeks and he felt a chill run the length of his spine. He put on his parka and slid out the window, lowering one leg, then the next.
He heard the key enter the lock and saw the door open as he lowered himself by his hands and hung on the windowsill.
“You!” shouted Viktor. He held a tray with two bowls of ice cream and two cans of cola. “Stop!”
Robby looked down and released his grip. He landed in the snow and toppled backward, his head striking the ground. Dazed, he stood up.
“Stop! Come back!” Viktor’s head poked out the window. Their eyes met. He aimed the pistol at Robby, then lowered it.
Robby took off.
He had a good head start. He had been clever not to open the rollladen any higher. It was too narrow for Viktor to fit through and it would have taken him a minute to open it all the way. He was probably scared of heights. Now he’d have to run downstairs and out the back door to follow him.
Robby headed up the hill, away from the house, away from the road, and into the forest. The snow was ankle-deep but didn’t slow him down. He had on his boots and his parka. He told himself he could go all night. He ran straight up the hill, dodging the pine trees. Somewhere there was a trail that led to the top of the mountain, but he had only a vague idea where.
Among the trees, it was darker. He slowed, already losing his breath. It was colder than he’d expected. Two days ago, they’d had practice in shorts and jerseys.
He’d been running for five minutes when he heard them. At first, their voices were faint, like shouts you hear at night in the city. Soon they grew clearer, though he didn’t understand the language they spoke—Serbian, he supposed. He stopped and concealed himself behind a tree. It was getting more difficult to see. He caught a fleeting shadow far down the slope. And another to his left. He didn’t know how many of them there were. Two or three. They were still a good distance off, but he felt certain that they’d seen him.
From here, the hillside grew steeper. The trees were fewer and there were wide-open spaces where no trees grew at all. Suddenly, he felt hungry—starving, even. He’d been too nervous to eat lunch. He didn’t have the energy he needed. He thought about his mother, lowered his head, and kept going. His pace slowed to a steady march. Viktor hadn’t shot him. That meant he needed him to be alive.
Robby stumbled on an exposed stone and looked up. Before him rose a tall rockfall where there had been an avalanche. The stones at the bottom were as big as boulders, but they grew smaller toward the top. The scree stretched as far as Robby could see to his left and right. If he ran around it, they would catch him.
Without another thought, Robby began climbing. Above the avalanche there was a broad meadow and a hut where hikers could rest and take shelter. When he was little, his mother and father would take him on long treks through the mountains. Often they stopped at the hut. There was a table inside and chairs and blankets. Maybe, thought Robby, there was a place to hide, too.
He scrambled from rock to rock, wedging his feet into gaps, finding handholds, pulling himself up when his feet couldn’t push him higher. The going was easy at first, but quickly grew challenging as the rocks became smaller and less sturdy. Time and again, he kicked a rock loose and felt his stomach shudder as he momentarily lost his balance. It was snowing harder now. His fingers had grown numb long ago and felt hard as wood. The wind came and went, the gusts as frightening as the thought of the men he could not see.
Robby tried not to look down. He kept his face close to the rocks, always seeking the next spot to place his hands and feet. He was moving slower, painstakingly slow, stopping every few feet to gather his breath.
Without warning, a shard of rock exploded above his head. The gunshot came a split second later. He looked down between his feet and saw Viktor below, the gun aimed at him.
“Come down!” the Serb shouted.
Robby gripped the rock harder. There was no chance he was going down—he couldn’t if he wanted to. He glimpsed a man at the far side of the avalanche moving up the hillside. It was the one who’d shot Coach MacAndrews. If Robby didn’t hurry, the man would be waiting for him at the top.
Robby kicked at the rocks below him until one came free and plummeted down the face. Then he kicked another and another. He didn’t look to see what happened. He found a spot for his right foot, then his left. He began moving more quickly up the nearly vertical face. And then the incline grew less severe. Rock turned to scree. He could walk, albeit cautiously. Reaching the top, he came to the meadow, the snow-covered field gray in the twilight. He saw the hut, not fifty steps away. He ran.
There was a combination lock on the door. Windows on every side of the hut were boarded up. Robby circled to the rear and found a pile of cut wood stacked to the eaves of the overhanging roof. An ax rested against the wall. He picked it up and found it heavy and ungainly.
He could think of only one thing to do.
Mustering all his remaining energy, he hefted the ax over his shoulder and hacked at the boarded window. Again and again, he threw the sharpened head against it until the wood splintered, then the glass, too. It was dark inside, but that didn’t matter. Robby threw the ax on
the ground and peeked around the corner of the hut.
He saw one man at the far end of the meadow, headed his way. There was no sign of Viktor, and Robby wondered guiltily if he’d killed him.
He discarded the thought in an instant.
Robby had only a minute or two.
It wasn’t enough time.
Chapter 47
The Sporting Club sat on a secluded rise at the eastern end of Larvotto Beach, encircled by pepper trees and reached by a private two-lane road. It was at once an open-air theater, a restaurant, and a casino, and it had built its reputation as a last bastion of the glamour that had once made the Côte d’Azur the glittering playground of the world’s rich and famous. Jackets were required for gentlemen, cocktail dresses for ladies. Its elegant, tastefully wicked atmosphere harked back to the era when words like “jet set” and “playboy” and “heiress” filled the society pages alongside names like Agnelli, Rubirosa, and the Aga Khan.
During the summer, acts of a certain niveau performed beneath the stars. The finer pop stars, jazz musicians, and big bands. Entertainers whose reputations preceded them the world over. This evening, the music was delivered by a discreet jazz quintet playing beneath an eave of poplars. Stars of a different variety held center stage. A perfectly restored 1939 Mercedes 770K, an exquisitely polished black and chrome dream screaming for Marlene Dietrich to extend one sublime leg from its door, sat on one side of the stage. The other was occupied by a gleaming yellow 1948 Citroën Traction Avant, reeking of danger and calling out to be driven by Bob le Flambeur.
The main floor had been cleared of dining tables. White-jacketed servers passed amongst the guests, offering champagne and canapés, and screens on either side of the stage showcased photographs of the automobiles that would be participating in the Concours d’Élégance and time trial.
Simon Riske plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray and exchanged pleasantries with his fellow drivers. He was the only man without a woman on his arm and, on the job or not, it bothered him. Sooner or later, it was no longer amusing, exciting, or interesting to be playing the field. A woman was the measure of a man. Her character spoke to his. What did it say that nearing forty he was alone and without prospects?
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