Crown Jewel

by Christopher Reich

  Elvis shot the bully a look and muttered something.

  “That’s right,” said Simon. “This is a mistake. Like I told Ratka. Let’s figure this out. I’m one of the good guys.”

  “Maybe,” said Elvis.

  More words were exchanged. The stockier man’s jaw hardened and Simon realized he’d lost the argument. The bully came at him with lethal intent and swung the bar at his head. Simon shook off his false stupor, his hand rising with blinding speed to catch the man by his wrist. “I told you,” he said, matching the man’s strength with his own. “Wrong guy.”

  The bully fought to free himself, unable to gain the leverage necessary to strike Simon with his free hand. After a moment, Elvis came to life, circling to find the best position to belt Simon.

  “No, wait!” Simon swung a foot to knock the feet out from under the bully. The bully jumped back. Distracted, Simon didn’t see the pipe cut through the air behind him and strike his back. The blow wasn’t delivered with full force, but it was enough to leave him stunned and winded. He released the bully, who shouted at once, “Tommy, Ubij ga!”

  Simon knew what “Kill him!” sounded like in any language. He flicked open the switchblade he’d lifted from the bully’s pocket. It was a big knife with a big blade.

  They circled him, the bully smiling, ashamed to have been bested, eager to finish him off, or just plain rabid. Seeing the knife, Elvis, or Tommy, or whatever his name was, dropped his pipe and dug into his jacket for something more efficient.

  The bully charged Simon, waving the pipe like a madman. Simon dodged the first blow, then slid to the floor as if taking home plate, thrusting the knife upward. The blade entered the underside of the bully’s thigh, burying itself to the hilt. Simon spun his grip around so that he clutched the knife overhand and ripped it downward, carving through flesh and muscle. The blade severed the femoral artery. Blood sprayed across the room, a garish plume of gore. The bully collapsed to the floor, writhing. The accompanying scream made the hair on the back of Simon’s neck stand up.

  One down.

  Simon snapped up the pipe as Elvis cleared his pistol and fired, not bothering to aim. Ten feet separated them. He was not a trained gunman and the shots went high, the muzzle blast close enough to burn Simon’s cheek. In desperation, he chucked the pipe at the man. Elvis ducked, loosing a bullet into the ceiling. An arm of the chandelier crashed to the floor, dozens of pendants scattering across the marble, shards of glass ricocheting everywhere.

  Simon bolted for a large, well-furnished room to his left. At the far side was a sliding glass door leading to a terrace. It was his only chance. He jumped over the mortally wounded man. By now blood covered half the floor. Landing, he slipped and lost his balance. A hand reached up and took hold of his ankle.

  Not mortal yet.

  Simon kicked to get free, but the grip only tightened. Elvis straightened his arm, sighting down the barrel.

  Simon struggled harder.

  And then several things happened at the same instant. A black dot appeared on the gunman’s cheek. The window behind Simon shattered. Somewhere behind him a pistol fired.

  Simon freed himself from the bully’s grip, only to slip again, his hands catching his fall. When he looked up, Elvis was dead. He lay on his stomach, eyes open, a bit of brain peeking out from behind his ear.

  Simon clambered to his feet as a familiar figure stepped through the broken window.

  “Still got it.” The man was wiry and sixty, and very, very tan, dressed in chef’s whites. “First time I’ve fired a gun in a year. What do you say to that?”

  “Hello, Jojo.”

  Chapter 51

  After five minutes, Vika was curious. After ten, she was nervous. Twenty-two minutes after Simon left the table she was nearing a Category 4 meltdown.

  She stood and abandoned the baccarat table, leaving her chips where they were. “Did you see where he went?” she asked Philippe, her bodyguard.

  “Toward the Salle des Étoiles, ma’am.” He pointed at the table. “Your chips?”

  “Who cares?” Vika made a beeline for the double doors leading outside. More than anything, she was angry. Simon had to realize that she’d worry if he was gone too long. It was inexcusable not to text or even put his precious employer on hold for a moment to call and let her know that he’d be a while. A gentleman didn’t leave a lady seated alone at a gambling establishment.

  Vika stopped abruptly, her breath leaving her. One thing she knew about Simon: he was a gentleman. If he hadn’t returned, if he hadn’t taken a moment to let her know he’d been delayed, it was because something had happened. Something unfortunate.

  She threw open the glass doors and embarked on a hectic search of the outdoor area. Half the guests had left. Those remaining milled in islands of four or five. Nowhere did she see a dark-haired man dressed in a navy suit and possessed of an unstoppable momentum. She arrived at the far side of the floor, looking around desperately for where to continue her search.

  “May I be of service?”

  Vika looked over to the bar, where an older, weathered man with steel-gray hair sat alone, nursing a glass of brandy. “Excuse me?” she said.

  “I saw you earlier today with my friend, Mr. Riske.”

  “You did?”

  “At the hotel.”

  “Have you seen him recently?”

  “Have you lost him, or is it vice versa?” The man chuckled. “My name is Dov Dragan. I’m a steward with the Rally Club.”

  “Simon…Mr. Riske…stepped outside a few minutes ago and now I can’t find him.”

  “I can’t imagine he’d leave without saying goodbye. He said you were close friends.”

  “He did? When?”

  “We shared a drink this afternoon at the hotel. After you’d returned from Italy.”

  “He told you about Italy?”

  “He said he was ready to go back to London. Something about finishing his real job and letting other people solve their own problems.”

  “Really?” Vika put a hand on the bar, suddenly unsteady. “He said that?”

  “And more, my dearest princess. You look peaked. May I offer you a cocktail? I believe your mother quite enjoyed martinis.”

  “How do you know my mother?”

  “I thought everyone did. Didn’t she throw a martini ball all those years ago at the Adlon in Berlin? She made her entrance swimming in a giant martini glass.”

  Vika blushed. It was true. It was one of the stories from her childhood that she’d done her best to repress. The party had made news across Europe (as intended) and had landed her mother on the cover of all the gossip glossies: Hello!, Gala, and even Paris Match.

  “So you haven’t seen him in the last few minutes?” asked Vika, determined to be pleasant.

  The man waved a hand toward an empty stool. “Have a seat. I’m sure he mentioned me. He’s convinced he’s going to beat my Bugatti tomorrow. I told him it was impossible, but he’s a stubborn one.” Dragan leaned in, his blue eyes pouchy and bloodshot with drink. “Does he really just restore cars? Surely there’s something he’s not telling us?”

  Vika had a strong urge to slap this impudent and ill-bred troll. “I wouldn’t know,” she managed. “You must excuse me.”

  “But no, please stay.” He placed a hand on her arm.

  “Good night.” The hand lifted, but only after she glared at him.

  Vika left the grand floor and hurried along the leafy entry corridor to the forecourt. A line of guests waited for their cars to be brought up. She saw no sign of Simon. She dug her phone out of her purse and called him. After eight rings the call went to his voice mail. “Simon, would you please—”

  A hand landed on her shoulder. “Victoria, is that you?”

  She spun to face a tall, handsome gray-haired man dressed in his trademark double-breasted navy blazer, the gold buttons shiny as ever. “Tobias…Hello.”

  “I’m so sorry about your mother.”

  “So sorry
you couldn’t phone?”

  “My apologies,” he said graciously. “It’s been a difficult time. The Société des Bains de Mer is having a hard go of it.”

  They spoke in German, as was their custom. “Too bad,” she said, looking over his shoulder, combing the sea of faces.

  “Have you set a date for the service?” he asked.

  “Not yet. But it will be at Schloss Brandenburg. I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  “Stefanie had many friends in the principality. It might be nice to have a small get-together here. A ‘celebration of life.’ Maybe at that Italian place she loved so much.”

  “You are her ex-husband and you do live here, at least some of the time. May I impose on you to arrange it?”

  “It’s been ten years. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “The divorce was never finalized. Technically, you are still married.”

  “Your mother refused to sign.”

  “She said it was you who refused.”

  “Let’s not start this. Are we really going to rely on her word?”

  Vika put on her most polite smile. She’d been unprepared to see Lord Toby Stonewood, born Tobias Holzenstein, a.k.a. “Bismarck.” Like the Battenbergs before them, who’d inverted their name when they’d fled Germany to become the Mountbattens, Toby’s great-grandparents had made a change in order to better fit in. “Holzenstein” became “Steinholz,” which in turn was translated to “Stonewood.” Ever so English.

  After all this time, she’d never come to terms with how to view him. Certainly not as family, despite the fact that he’d been married to her mother for many years and had, Vika was the first to admit, given her much happiness, if only in the form of the status his English title bestowed. (Mama had never gotten over being born poor, even with a title of her own.) And yet, Vika realized, besides Robby, Toby was the only family she had left, like it or not.

  “You all right?” he asked. “You look distracted.”

  “I’ve lost someone. He must have gone back to the hotel.”

  “A new beau? It’s about time someone helped you run things.”

  “I’m more than capable,” said Vika, “as you well know.”

  “Of course you are, my dear,” said Lord Toby, smooth as ever.

  It would take more than a mention of their past disputes to upset him. All that English reserve and cool. Stay calm and have a gin and tonic. Or, in Toby’s case, a dozen. He hid his alcoholism better than anyone she’d known. It was one of the things Mama had loved best about him. He could match her drink for drink and somehow maintain a semblance of sobriety. Vika imagined that his liver looked like a withered grape.

  She studied the ruddy cheeks, the legion of burst blood vessels hiding below the surface. The only time she’d seen him lose his temper was one day a few months before he’d married her mother. The subject was money. He didn’t want to sign prenups, either for him or her, arguing that it was beneath them. Everyone knew that the Holzenstein dynasty was one of the richest in Europe. His English holdings alone were worth more than the Brandenburgs’. On her mother’s behalf (and her own), Vika had insisted on the prenups. She’d seen how fortunes waxed and waned.

  Toby smiled decorously. “I’m heading out. Busy day tomorrow. Give you a lift?”

  An idea popped into Vika’s head. Then and there, she decided that she’d never have a better opportunity. God knew she was anxious to show Simon that she was capable, too. She drew Philippe aside and told him that she would return to the hotel with her stepfather and that she couldn’t be in safer hands. The bodyguard exchanged words with Toby. The men shook hands.

  A minute later, the valet arrived with Toby’s Bentley. As they left the main drive and turned toward the hotel, she placed a hand on Toby’s arm. “Let’s go to church,” she said.

  “Church?” said Toby, the devout Anglican who regarded Catholicism as one step removed from voodoo. “Whatever for?”

  “Église Saint-Marc. It’s just around the corner. I believe there’s an evening Mass.”

  Chapter 52

  I know these two. Tommy and Pavel.”

  Jojo Matta circled the floor, looking at the men with interest, careful not to poke the toe of his white loafer into the lake of blood.

  “You missed their boss,” said Simon. “Ratka.”

  “You mean he missed me. I had to hide as he came out of the house.”

  “You took your sweet time.”

  “Thought you deserved to get to know them better, with all you done. I saw you at the Sporting Club. Followed you. Hey, what are you doing?”

  Simon had taken off his belt and was applying a tourniquet to the bully Pavel’s leg. “He’s alive. Maybe he can tell me something.”

  “Why’s everyone trying to kill you?”

  “They have their reasons.”

  “What are you doing down here, anyway?”

  “Ratka has a crew stealing from the casino. Sophisticated, organized. I was brought in to find out what’s what, get rid of them.” One minute with Jojo and Simon was talking like the old days.

  “Sophisticated? Ratka? Not a chance. He’s a strong-arm man. Fucking war criminal.”

  “He’s gotten smarter. They’ve taken the casino for millions over the last six months.”

  Simon realized he was saying too much, but Jojo had been family once, and Simon needed to talk. He was rattled. Too much had happened in too short a time. At some point, he was going to have to have a long sit-down and think everything through, make sure his head was still screwed on straight. This wasn’t the time.

  He notched the belt just below the man’s groin, though he wasn’t sure what good it would do. Simon tapped his cheek. The Serb’s eyes fluttered and he grunted.

  “Pavel, listen to me. Why did Ratka kill Princess Stefanie? I saw you in the car following him.”

  Pavel’s eyes opened wide. “Fuck off.”

  “Who was with Ratka?”

  Pavel shook his head.

  “Please,” Simon continued. “Who do you have inside the casino? Someone’s helping you. I know it. Give me the name.”

  Pavel tried to push Simon away, and when he failed, he made an effort to undo the tourniquet. Simon restrained his hands. “Pavel, talk to me. Why did Ratka kill Stefanie? Who else was with you?”

  “I never say shit to you.” Pavel glared at Jojo. “Fuck you, too.”

  Before Simon could stop him, Jojo came closer, put the gun to Pavel’s forehead, and shot him. Simon jumped back, splatter all over his face. “What the hell? Jesus—”

  “Fucking Serbs,” said Jojo. “Piss me off. Don’t look at me like that. Get water from a stone sooner than these guys snitch.”

  Simon half walked, half stumbled into the living room. Only when he’d sat down on the couch did he see the trail of bloody tracks he’d left. He didn’t care about the carpet. The shoe prints were evidence.

  “This Ratka’s place?” asked Jojo.

  “That’s what he said. You have it, right? The jammer?”

  “Think I followed you here to save your ass? Come all this way, I want my money.”

  “You’ll get it.”

  “What does the thing do, anyway?”

  “Blocks phones and computers from talking to each other. Stops their signals.”

  Jojo wasn’t interested. “Three thousand,” he said.

  Simon handed over the money and Jojo peered greedily into his wallet. “How much you got there?”

  “I don’t know. Ten grand.”

  Jojo’s gaze shifted from the wad of bills to Simon. “I could shoot you like that and take it. What’s stopping me?” He stepped back and pointed the pistol at Simon. “Not like anyone would know. How ’bout it, Ledoux? Give me the money.”

  Fast as lightning, Simon snatched the pistol out of Jojo’s hand and pointed it right back at him. In the same motion he was up off the couch, clutching a fistful of Jojo’s tunic. “You were saying?”

  “It was a joke. You know that.
We’re family. La Brise forever.”

  Simon jammed the muzzle into the skin hanging from Jojo’s jaw. He’d had enough of tough guys for one night.

  “Ledoux, please. I’m sorry.”

  “Save it.” Simon gave him a good tug before releasing him. Jojo brushed off his tunic, the color taking a while to return to his face.

  “I’m talking about real money,” said Simon. “Couple hundred thousand at least.”

  “You serious?”

  “What do you think?” said Simon. “I need someone to help me sort things out. Go in heavy. You remember what that means. It’s the drop house. It might get messy.”

  “We talking about Ratka?”

  Simon nodded.

  “And you’re serious about the hundred thousand?”

  “More than that.”

  “I’d about pay you to take that asshole out,” said Jojo. “Fucking Serbs. Come down here. Make like they own the place. Russians are one thing. I mean, Russia’s a real country. But Serbia…it’s smaller than Corsica. Someone’s got to send them home. When are you thinking?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Tonight? It’s already eleven. It’ll take me some time.”

  “I have some work to do first.”

  “At the casino?”

  “Yes.”

  “With that gizmo?”

  “Yes, Jojo. With that gizmo.”

  Jojo considered the proposition, then nodded his agreement. He returned to the front door, tiptoeing around the perimeter of the foyer, which was now entirely covered in blood. There was red marble, too, thought Simon. Carrara rosso. He didn’t think it was quarried in Serbia.

  “Let’s go,” called Jojo, standing at the door. “Too many dead people in here.”

  “I’m not done.”

  Jojo appeared confused. “There someone else here you want to kill?”

  “Wait here.” Simon went upstairs. He was more or less certain there was no one else in the house, and he wasn’t interested in killing such a person should he find him or her. It was Ratka’s words that prompted him to search the place, his vow not to let Simon mess up his “big plan” or allow Simon to stop him from “getting it all.” Big plans left a trail, and if Simon wasn’t sure which of Vika’s things Ratka wanted, he understood his intent loud and clear.