To be sure, he’d had his share of companions, most often choosing partners for their looks, availability, and willingness not to demand too much of him. As well as for other, more private skills. His longest relationship had lasted six months and ended badly. Since then, he’d justified his behavior as requisite for his profession, or, to be perfectly honest, he hadn’t justified it at all. It suited him. That was enough.
No longer.
Simon finished his champagne. Defying his better judgment, he took another glass, enjoying much too big of a sip. His manners were slipping. He wished he could say it was a delightful Perrier-Jouët brut, just dry enough, with a hint of oak, but his palate was untrained. It was cold, bubbly, and not too sweet. Ninety-five points on the Riske scale.
He spotted a magician plying his trade from group to group, entertaining guests with his sleight of hand. From a distance, Simon judged the man’s tricks outstanding and his aplomb such that the magician could have easily made a handsome living on Jojo Matta’s side of the law. The man picked a pocket. He lifted a watch. He discovered a king of hearts inside a woman’s pocketbook. (Yes, it was her card.) Naturally, he returned his spoils. His reward, besides a round of applause, was three hundred euros in tips. Not bad, but he could put his skills to better use.
Simon felt a familiar tingling in his fingertips. He shouldn’t…really.
He approached the magician, hoping to appear wide-eyed, ignorant, and desperate to be fooled. In short, the perfect mark.
“Pick a card,” said the magician, a slim, dark-haired man with Satan’s neatly trimmed goatee and arched eyebrows to match. Make no mistake: he was a professional.
Simon chose a card.
“Give it to a friend,” said the magician. “And please, do not let me see it.”
Simon handed the card to a Middle Eastern gentleman. Ace of clubs.
“And another,” said the magician.
Simon picked a second card. Ten of diamonds. The magician asked him to show the card to the others. Simon turned toward several men and women gathered nearby and showed them the card. Afterward, the magician asked Simon to put the card back in the deck. He did so. The magician then asked the Middle Eastern man to do the same.
So now both Simon and the Middle Eastern man had replaced the cards at different spots in the deck.
The magician fanned the deck, faces up, so the audience could see them. He asked if everyone saw the cards that had been chosen, but to be sure not to tell him which cards. The ten of diamonds and the ace of clubs were at seemingly random spots in the deck.
Then came the trick.
As the magician straightened the cards, he “flew” the top card in a boomerang, meaning he launched the top card with his thumb and then caught it as it returned faceup between two halves of the deck. In itself, it was a formidable display of legerdemain.
The magician then split the deck to reveal that the two cards that had been chosen—the ten of diamonds and the ace of clubs—were on either side of the card he’d “flown” and recaptured.
The audience gasped, then broke into applause. It was a nice trick requiring thousands of hours of practice. But Simon had caught it all. The Herrmann pass. The Charlier cut. The pinkie jog.
Simon handed the magician a one-hundred-euro note. The others followed suit.
“One thing,” said Simon as the magician pocketed his tips. “I think you dropped something.”
“Oh?” the magician said, immediately on edge.
Simon bent over and let the magician’s watch slip into his palm so that it appeared he’d picked it up from the ground. “Omega,” he said, studying the face. “Wouldn’t want to lose that.”
The magician took back his watch.
“And this,” said Simon. “Not sure how you lost it.” He handed the magician back his wallet. “Money’s still in it.”
“How?” one of the onlookers asked.
“Don’t ask me,” said Simon. “It’s magic.”
The sleight of hand artist was no longer smiling. Simon whispered an apology in his ear. “Road not taken,” he said. “Wanted to remember what it felt like.”
André Solier, president of the Rally Club, mounted the stage to give information about the time trial. Where and when they were to meet. Number of assistants allowed to prepare the car. The medals to be given in each class. Last, he gave the order of start. Simon was to go immediately after Dov Dragan.
“There you are,” said Vika. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Simon opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. Dressed like this, she was definitely Victoria, and as she’d told him the day before, he might as well add “princess.” Her dress was black and sheer and simple, cut low to reveal her décolletage and falling to her knees. She wore freshwater pearls, knotted at just the right spot, daring the eye to dive lower. Her hair was up, at once elegant and playful. He’d never seen her made up to go out, and now he knew why. She turned every head in the place. He wasn’t the only one choking on his roasted brussels sprout.
“Quite the affair,” she went on. “You should have told me. This is far more than just a cocktail party.”
“I didn’t…I mean, I wasn’t sure what…”
“Are you all right?” She angled her head, a concerned party, but the effect was to only make her more beautiful.
“You found something,” he managed, finally. “To wear, that is.”
“Amazing what a girl can do in an emergency.”
“This is an emergen—” he began to ask.
“Shh.” She put a finger to his lips, then kissed him. “Do you forgive me?”
The kiss brought him back to his senses. Surprise gave way to anger. She had no business leaving the hotel. “How did you get here?”
“I borrowed a friend from Albert.”
“Albert who?”
She whispered in his ear. “Prince Albert. We blue bloods stick together. One of his bodyguards escorted me. His name is Philippe. He’s standing ten paces behind me.”
Simon’s eyes darted over her shoulder. A tall man with broad shoulders and a crew cut was looking directly at him. “You should have asked me first.”
“Then you wouldn’t have been surprised. I couldn’t have that. I actually had an entire speech prepared.”
Simon crossed his arms. “I’m listening.”
It was Vika’s turn to be angry. Or pretend to be. “You don’t really want to hear it.”
“The moon is out. It’s a lovely evening. I may even hear a violin playing somewhere.”
“Well, then…” Vika swallowed and drew herself up, equal to the challenge. “I was going to say that I behaved terribly today and that I should never have said the things I did. They were awful and untrue. You frightened me…I think you know how I mean. Maybe I frightened you, too. Anyway, I feel quite the—”
“Shh.” Simon kissed her softly. He felt her body push against his. “Words,” he said, “are overrated.”
They stood close enough that their waists brushed against each other. His hand rested on the swell of her back, a finger feeling the rise of her buttocks. She smelled of roses and desire, and when he looked into her eyes, she looked back. Something happened. Something that he couldn’t put into words.
At that instant, a poisoned premonition sullied his joy. If he were to lose her, he’d never recover.
“Simon?”
The thought vanished as if it had never come to him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, not entirely composed. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Do you mind?”
“Mind? You’ve made me very happy.”
She took his hand and squeezed it. The band had launched into a bossa nova rendition of “Summertime.” “Is this work or pleasure?” she asked.
“Very much work.”
“Don’t let me interrupt.”
“I was headed into the gaming room. Join me.”
“I don’t gamble.”
&nbs
p; “Bring me luck, then.” Hand in hand, they crossed the floor. There at the bar in front of them stood Dov Dragan, dressed in a tan suit and black shirt and bloodred tie. He was staring at them, caught unawares, and the expression on his face was one of simmering fury.
Simon looked away, disconcerted, and continued into the building.
“What shall we play?” asked Vika.
“I only play baccarat.”
“Really? I would have thought poker more your style. Baccarat is a game of luck…Oh.” She caught herself. “I see. Work.”
“Quick learner.”
“Can you talk about it?”
“Some bad people have been cheating the casino out of a lot of money. I’m here to find out who they are.”
Simon held the door for Vika and they passed into a large, high-ceilinged gaming room, very much in the Vegas style: tables to the right, tables to the left, slots on their own in an adjoining room. The lights were dim, but not too dim, oxygen pumped in to keep everyone awake and tossing away their savings. It was 8:30. The tables were exceptionally crowded. Simon hadn’t expected this level of activity. He found his earpiece and, in a deft motion, tucked it into his ear canal. A flick of the thumb activated the scanner. A humming tone filled his ear. No pings.
“Sure you can leave the party?” Vika asked, her arm threaded through his.
“I put in an appearance. That should suffice.”
“The Concours is your excuse to be in Monaco.”
“In a manner of speaking. It’s window dressing—in case someone suspects why I’m really here.”
“What would happen if they did?”
Simon didn’t think it was the right time to tell her about Vincent Morehead or the inspector who’d ended his days with a sea bass in his mouth. “Look,” he said. “Let’s sit here.”
They took two places at a baccarat table and he asked for five thousand in chips. They played several hands, betting the minimum.
“See anything?” she asked after finishing her second dulap.
“No,” said Simon.
“How do you spot them?”
“I have some help.”
“You mean assistants? Are there others here”—she brought her head close to his—“undercover?”
Simon didn’t answer. He was listening to a pinging in his ear that hadn’t been there a second before. “Stay here,” he said.
He left the table and, nodding to Philippe, walked across the room. The pinging grew more rapid. Simon stopped a few feet from a table ringed with spectators. By now the pinging was faster than his pulse and his pulse had just jumped a few beats. A man seated at the table looked familiar. He was balding, bland to look at, dressed in a plaid shirt, with spectacles and a mustache. Simon looked over his shoulder and noted that Vika had placed a mountain of chips on the betting ring. While the cat’s away…
He shouldered his way closer to the table. It was him, the same man whom Simon had sat with two nights earlier. Not only was he wearing the same shirt, but he had the same air of fevered concentration. The pinging reached the speed of a sweeping second hand. Simon circled the table, getting a look at the other players, doing his best to pinpoint which of them had the camera and how many of the five men and three women playing were professional criminals. He stayed to watch two hands played, noting who won and who lost and the size of their bets.
Three of the players, all men, placed large bets, ten thousand euros each, then at the last moment doubled them. All three bet on punto, the player. The cards were dealt. Punto received a five and a four. A perfect nine. The bets paid off at seven to one. Each player had won one hundred forty thousand euros. And then they did something that no professional would do. All three let the full amount ride and bet again on punto.
A pit boss stood at the dealer’s side, one hand to his earpiece, unable to hide his consternation. Simon had found himself in the right place at the right time. This was happening now. Where the hell was Jojo?
The dealer slid the cards across the baize surface.
Eight for punto.
Seven for banco.
Punto wins.
In the space of two minutes, the casino had lost nearly one million euros.
Simon felt his phone buzz. He checked the caller and was disappointed. Not Jojo, but someone as important, if for different reasons. “Hello, Toby.”
“They’re at it again,” said Lord Toby Stonewood. “It’s a bloody tsunami tonight.”
“I’m at the Sporting Club,” said Simon.
“So am I. Came for the cocktail party and the big event tomorrow. Didn’t see you round. Can you free yourself up and meet me outside?”
Simon watched the crooks place their bets. He disliked reporting to a client midway through a job. Anything shy of completion came off as an excuse. Toby couldn’t have called at a worse time. “Sure,” Simon said. “But quickly.”
“You sound vexed. Are you onto something? Goddammit, I hope so. Listen, I won’t keep you. Front entrance. Far right side. Valet’s stand.”
Simon slipped the phone into his pocket and hurried back to Vika, explaining that he had to step outside to speak to someone.
“Who are you meeting?” she asked, barely looking up from her chips.
“My employer.”
“Who’s that?”
Client information was sacrosanct. “One of you. A blue blood. I’ll be right back.”
Simon left the building the way he’d come, crossing the open-air Salle des Étoiles. Dov Dragan was deep in conversation with André Solier, the Rally Club president, but Simon felt his acid gaze as he passed by. He continued out of the Salle des Étoiles and into the forecourt, stopping when he reached the Sporting Club’s main entrance.
He didn’t see Toby’s gray hair or square jaw and walked to the valet booth. He looked this way and that. By now the cheats had probably won another hand or two. He checked his phone in case he’d missed Jojo’s call. Nothing. A screech of tires called his attention to a Mercedes driving recklessly into the forecourt. He stepped away from the curb as the car drew to a halt. Two men stepped out. Dark hair. Suits. Possessed of urgent purpose.
“You Riske?”
At the mention of his name, Simon turned to face a pale, stocky man, taller by an inch, with dark hooded eyes and a pronounced widow’s peak. Simon had seen the face before, and maybe the car, too, on Pharmacie Mougins’s surveillance video. He quickly checked the Mercedes. Serbian plates.
“My name is Ratka,” said the man. “You come with me.”
Before Simon could answer, before he could give a thought to escape, Ratka pressed a stun gun against Simon’s chest. Fifty thousand volts flooded his body. His every muscle seized. He collapsed. The two men caught him and threw him into the back seat.
Simon’s last image before losing consciousness was of the indigo sky and the palm fronds hanging over the drive. A cloud had blocked the moon.
The storm was arriving ahead of schedule.
Chapter 48
Robby stood in the center of the hut. One room. Benches along two walls. A plank floor. He blinked, willing his eyes to adjust to the fading light. A table. A chair. A coil of climbing rope. Walking sticks. A folded Swiss Army blanket. He made a circuit of the room, not knowing what he should be looking for, near sick with fear and desperation. He found a first aid kit in a cupboard, scissors, moleskin, and a bottle of spirits with twigs and leaves floating inside it and a label that read GÉNÉPI—IL FAIT DU BIEN POUR LA MADAME QUAND LE MONSIEUR LE BOIT. Translated: GÉNÉPI—IT MAKES A WIFE HAPPY WHEN THE HUSBAND DRINKS IT. Robby didn’t understand what that meant, but he knew what was inside. His father used to drink something like it. He called it “eau-de-vie.” Robby yanked the cork and put his nose to the bottle. His eyes watered. He took a drink all the same, wincing as the viscous liquid burned a path to his stomach. He exhaled, half expecting to breathe fire. Almost instantly, he felt better, warmer, and strangely hopeful. He continued his frantic search. Also in the cupboard
were a clear bottle marked KEROSENE, a hurricane lamp, and a box of safety matches.
For a moment, he stopped what he was doing and stood as if frozen. He wasn’t listening for the man he’d seen far across the meadow, Coach MacAndrews’s killer. He was thinking, imagining, plotting.
The pieces of a plan fell into place on their own.
He grabbed the bottle of kerosene, the hurricane lamp, and the box of safety matches from the cupboard and set them on the table. He laid the musty army blanket on the floor, dumping the contents of a small trash bin onto it—candy wrappers, an empty packet of cigarettes, paper napkins, tissues—and then dousing all of it with the kerosene. What was left of the flammable liquid he poured all over the hurricane lamp.
Done.
Lamp and matches in hand, he crawled out the window and stood unsteadily atop the woodpile. He put the items on the roof, then pulled himself up. Lying flat, he had a clear view across the meadow. He stifled a gasp. The man he’d seen at the far end of the meadow was barely ten steps away. Robby had gotten out just in time. He heard the man try the door without success, his steps trudging through the snow as he circled the hut. It was then that Robby saw he’d cut himself. A shard of glass extended from the parka halfway up his forearm. Blood flowed out of the sleeve and across the top of his hand, dripping onto the rooftop. He felt nothing, only the cold and the wild beating of his heart.
The man had reached the smashed window. Robby knew he could not see inside the hut, not all of it. The window was too high. Robby imagined him searching for footprints in the snow, determining if there was anywhere else Robby might have gotten to. There were no footsteps, no trail to follow. Robby could only be hiding in one place.
“Boy,” the man called out. “You there? Boy?”
Robby held his breath. There came an exasperated sigh. A grunt. The rustling of wood as the man climbed the woodpile to see through the window. More scratching as he slid through the window and into the hut. Robby felt him land on the plank floor. He turned himself around and slid toward the edge of the roof, then farther, his head poised above the window. He saw the man’s figure inside. He lit a match and held it to the hurricane lamp, which caught fire immediately. With a swing of the wrist, he tossed the burning lamp into the hut. The lamp shattered. Flames burst from the doused blanket, shooting up toward the ceiling. A cry of alarm.
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