Crown Jewel

by Christopher Reich

  It was evident that Ratka was not planning on staying in the house. Packing boxes, taped shut, lined the upstairs corridors. Rooms were empty or nearly so. Almost all the furniture had been removed. Only large pieces remained—oak armoires that dated from the nineteenth century, squat chests that would have looked at home in a Spanish galleon, and a white grand piano with an elaborate candelabra on top. Who knew Liberace was big in Belgrade? Each box was marked with Ratka’s real name, Zoltan Mikhailovic. An hour of phoning freight companies would yield the forwarding address.

  Simon came to the end of the hall. The door was locked. He kicked at the fixture, once, twice; the second time, his shoe rendered a hole in the wood laminate. Easy does it, he told himself, yanking his foot clear. Drawing a breath, he entered Ratka’s study.

  A heavy wooden desk facing a stone fireplace held pride of place. The bookshelves were empty. The only decoration was a tall flag draped from a stand, the kind of thing Simon had seen in diplomats’ offices. Out of curiosity, he lifted the corners. The colors were scarlet, black, and white. He didn’t know what country it represented, but he recognized the angular geometric symbol at its center. The design was an adaptation of the hakenkreuz, the ancient Aryan symbol that the National Socialist German Workers’ Party had made into the swastika, and that of late had been adopted by other equally vile nationalist groups across Europe. A scroll running across the bottom of the flag read SERBIA USTAJ.

  A hefty binder sat on the desk. Simon noted the image of the flag on its cover and picked it up. Inside were photographs of different men. Close-ups, long shots, alone and with others. It was clear to Simon that they were all criminals. He knew the look. Each man had his own see-through sleeve, his name typed on a label affixed to the lower right-hand corner. On the back of each sleeve a page listed the men’s activities and associates and the region of the city from which they operated. Simon was right. All the men were criminals. It was his guess that Ratka was going to kill them. Ratka hoped to return to Belgrade in style.

  Big plans.

  Before heading downstairs, Simon stopped in Ratka’s bedroom. Simon’s clothing was crusted with blood, sleeves stiff as cardboard. He tore off his clothes and washed up as quickly as possible. From Ratka’s closet he picked out the suit he considered the least awful. It was two sizes too large, but it would have to do. Finished changing, Simon washed his face, then rolled up his soiled clothing and brought it with him.

  Simon found Jojo in the garden out back. He pointed to a dented jerry can. “They were going to burn you up, Ledoux,” he said. “You owe me.”

  A second jerry can was at his feet, as was a black body bag. Nearby, a spade stood in the dirt next to a neatly dug pit.

  Benzin, pozni, nista, nista, nista.

  Simon turned to look at the house, and the rage he’d been working so hard to stifle bubbled right back up. The gun in his mouth, Elena’s battered face, Vika fighting for her life. He was at the edge. Maybe a step beyond it.

  “What did you say?” asked Jojo.

  Simon came out of his trance, unaware that he’d spoken. “Pick up the jerry can and follow me,” he said. “You still smoke, right?”

  Gasoline. Fire. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  Chapter 53

  A church’s doors are always open.

  Vika stepped inside the vestibule of the Église Saint-Marc and pressed her back to the door. The nave was dark, a dimmed spotlight illuminating the altar and chancel. The air was cool and dry, smelling pleasantly of plaster and beeswax. Her eyes lifted to the dome and the painting of Saint Paul on the road to Damascus decorated with gold leaf.

  There was no liturgy on a Thursday night. She’d lied. While Catholicism was the state religion of Monaco, most of the principality’s residents were a few “Hail Mary”s and “Our Father”s short of devout. The Église Saint-Marc satisfied its parishioners with a daily morning Mass, a late afternoon service on Saturday, and two high Masses on Sunday.

  A moment passed and Vika advanced down the aisle. She stopped at the third pew. Following Elena’s instructions, she slid to the far right-hand side. Her hand fell to the kneeler and she lowered it into place before clasping her hands. By long habit, she recited the Lord’s Prayer and made the sign of the cross upon herself. Having completed her proper hello to God, she ran her fingers below the hymnal rack, leaning forward as she sought a touch of velvet. She prayed again, this time asking that she find what she’d come for, and that Elena had not only hidden the family ring but hidden it well.

  “Victoria, everything all right?”

  Vika looked over her shoulder to see Toby Stonewood standing at the back of the church. “Fine,” she said awkwardly. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  She groped beneath the rack, fingers probing every which way, discovering a wad of gum hard as rock, and another, not so hard. Come now, Elena, I’m right where you said I should be. What have you done with Mama’s ring? She looked back again. Toby hadn’t moved. He stood with hands clasped and head bowed like a proper English schoolboy. Vika lowered her shoulder, stretching her arm as far as it would go. She touched something soft and smooth. Her fingertips danced across its surface. Velveteen. Hallelujah! A moment later, she’d pried the jewelry bag free and held it in her hand. She couldn’t help but open it to make sure the ring was inside. A round piece of gold fell into her palm. She took it between her thumb and forefinger, eyes embracing the family crest.

  Footsteps approached. “Finished?” asked Toby. “I always say my prayers beside my bed.”

  Vika fumbled with the strings to the jewelry bag. The ring fell to the ground, the tinkle of metal sounding to her ears like a tray of cutlery crashing onto the kitchen floor. She bent and scooped up the ring.

  “What have you got there?” Toby eyed her questioningly. She’d been caught red-handed.

  “Mama’s ring.”

  “The diamond solitaire? Goodness me. Let me help.”

  Vika shook her head. She saw Toby’s expression of concern and felt ashamed for her subterfuge. “The family crest.”

  “Did Stefanie lose it?” he asked. “Here…in church?” For all his wealth and experience, he was always a step behind.

  “She hid it. Or rather, Elena did.”

  “Now I am confused.”

  Vika rose and made her way to the aisle. “We need to talk.”

  “What about?”

  “About Mama.”

  “Seems as good a place as any to talk about the dead.”

  Vika turned and put her hands on his arms, looking into those handsome blue eyes. “Mama didn’t drive herself off the road.”

  “What do you mean? Of course she did.”

  Vika shook her head. “It wasn’t an accident.”

  Toby took a step back, as if frightened of what might be coming. “What was it, then?”

  “She was murdered.”

  Chapter 54

  A tired Harry Mason wiped off his wrench and dropped it into the toolbox. The first rule of garage etiquette demanded that you leave your tools as clean as you found them. He’d learned it fifty years earlier and hadn’t disobeyed it since. Taking the hand spot off its hook, he shone the light over the engine, making one last visual inspection.

  It was something to look at. A quad cam Colombo-designed 4.4-liter V12 topped with a bank of six twin choke carburetors, six gleaming valves set in a straight row that sparkled more brightly than the Queen’s silver. Back in its day, the Daytona was the fastest production car in the world, with top speeds of 175 miles per hour and a monstrous 352 horsepower, with enough torque to make you feel like a fighter pilot pulling ten gs in a negative roll.

  Of course, Simon wanted more. More speed, more horsepower, more torque. He’d come to the right man. If anyone could find an additional hundred horsepower, it was Harry Mason. The older the car, the more difficult the task, but he’d managed. He’d had to recalibrate the carburetor and modify the headers, and Simon would need to gas up with hundred-octane fuel, but he’
d have his extra horsepower, goddammit…for all the good it would do him.

  Harry closed the bonnet with care, then went to the washroom to get cleaned up. His love affair with automobiles had begun a half century ago. He’d grown up in the slums of Limerick (more or less the whole damned city), the fifth of six boys, the shortest, the plumpest, and the one with the reddest hair. In truth, he was a fine little scholar and enjoyed school until the bigger lads had taken it upon themselves to beat up the “wee tomato” day in and day out. He was as tough as any and took what they dished out, certain it would all sort itself out when he stopped being so “wee.” The problem was, he never grew. He was the wee-est in kindergarten and the wee-est in sixth form. When he turned fourteen and remained the shortest in his class, he’d had enough. Tough was tough, but only a mental deficient put himself through that kind of punishment. He wanted to have a few teeth left when he turned eighteen. School was out for Harry Mason.

  Every day, he left home with his book bag and gave his ma a kiss on the cheek, but instead of turning left to walk down Island Road to St. Mary’s National School, he turned right and spent the day wandering the streets. For some reason, he found himself coming again and again to a new car dealership. He’d spend hours staring through the window at the shiny Austins, imagining himself behind the wheel. It was a pipe dream. No Mason had ever owned a car, and a man without a proper education didn’t stand a chance of earning enough to buy one. Harry didn’t know it, but someone had noticed his loitering.

  One day, a sturdy red-haired man not much taller than he asked if he’d like to have a look around. Harry Mason started work in the dealership’s service bay the next day. Years passed. He moved from working on Austins to Rovers to Jaguars, then made the leap overseas (figuratively speaking) to Mercedes, and finally, one hallowed day, to Ferraris. His textbooks were written in grease and sweat. His final exams drove out of the garage and fulfilled other people’s dreams. The work must have agreed with him because over the years he grew. Not much. But five foot seven was a hell of a lot bigger than five foot two.

  Harry checked that the garage was spic-and-span, then made his way to the back door. Another car occupied the slot adjacent to the black Daytona. It was a shiny silver contraption with a bulbous nose and great big tires. More of a rocket ship than a sports car. It was a Bugatti Veyron and it had rolled in sometime after five for a tune-up. The car was rare enough that Harry knew it must belong to one of Simon’s fellow competitors.

  Harry loved Simon like the son he’d never had, but fact was fact, truth was truth, and horsepower was horsepower. There was no way on God’s green earth that a Ferrari Daytona could beat a Bugatti Veyron in a flat-out race. The great Eddie Irvine on his best day couldn’t bring it off. And Simon Riske, bless his soul, wasn’t even an Irishman.

  Leaving the garage, Harry jumped into a waiting taxi. He had a few more things to look at in the morning. A mechanic’s work was never done.

  “Hôtel de Paris,” he told the driver with a pat on the shoulder. “Et vite…très vite!”

  Chapter 55

  Simon sat in the passenger seat of Jojo’s old Peugeot, phone pressed to his ear as they rattled down the mountainside.

  “Vika? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. You’re the one who went missing.”

  “The call went longer than expected.”

  “What happened? I looked everywhere for you.” Her voice jumped from relief to anger to worry in the course of a sentence.

  “I had a little run-in. That’s all.”

  “You sound funny. Are you sure everything is all right?”

  The car hit a pothole and Simon’s head knocked against the ceiling. Hoods, he thought to himself. They spent all their time figuring out how to make a score, and when they did, they couldn’t even afford a decent set of wheels. He looked behind him. Flames shot above the trees, turning the sky a warm, smoky orange. He covered the phone. “Faster,” he said to Jojo. Then to Vika: “I’m fine. Where are you?”

  “Didn’t you get my message? I’m back at the hotel.”

  “At the hotel?”

  “Yes. In my room, safe and sound.”

  Simon hadn’t had time to listen to his messages. Besides the one from Vika, there were six from Toby Stonewood, all of which, he imagined, had to do with just where the hell Simon was. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said. “Stay there.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Not for a while. I’m trying to finish up my job tonight.”

  “And get back to London?” she asked sharply.

  “Eventually,” he said, struck by her tone. “Why are you asking?”

  “A man at the Sporting Club told me. Dov Dragan. He said he was your friend.”

  “Dov Dragan is not a friend. He’s a…a…”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Vika. “He introduced himself as I was looking for you. I don’t know when I’ve met a more unsavory individual.”

  Simon hadn’t thought it possible to dislike the man more than he already did. “I’ll tell you everything when I get back to the hotel. You have my word.”

  “Stop by my room when you return. I don’t care the time. There’s something I need to tell you, too.”

  “It might be late.”

  “Simon…”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want to lie to you anymore. I found what they were looking for at my mother’s house. You don’t have to worry about me any longer. It’s all going to be all right.”

  She ended the call.

  A moment later, there was a large explosion behind them. Then a second, even larger, that shook the car’s windows. A shock wave rattled the car. Simon looked over his shoulder as a fireball rose in the sky.

  “What the hell was in that house?” asked Jojo.

  Simon didn’t answer. Ratka had done more than compile a binder of his hometown enemies. He’d already begun stocking up on the tools he’d need to take them out. From the sound of the explosions, it was going to be a big job. “Shut up and drive.”

  Jojo dropped Simon back at the Sporting Club. It might not be as busy as the Casino de Monte-Carlo, but Simon knew who to look for and where to look. A hunter couldn’t ask for anything more. It was a question of flushing the pheasants from the tall grass. Instead of hounds, he had his portable Wi-Fi signal jammer. Slim enough to fit in his coat pocket, the device looked identical to a handheld recorder, only with three blunt (foldable) antennas extending from its top. Turn it on, and all communications on the Bluetooth bandwidth within fifty meters would be interrupted. The birds would fly. All he wanted was a clear shot.

  Inside the casino, he quickly located the team of cheats. They had switched tables, but by the looks of the chips in front of them their fortunes hadn’t suffered as a result. Every seat was taken. The crowd watching had thinned, however. Even winning gets boring after a while.

  Simon stopped at the bar. “Vodka,” he said. “Triple.”

  “Sir?”

  “Need something to kill the pain.” Simon winced. His pain was real, not a by-product of bad luck at the tables. A smarter man would have been in bed with enough ice wrapped around his ribs to flash-freeze a steer.

  He drank the vodka in a single go, then ordered a champagne to show that he belonged in the place despite Ratka’s baggy suit and permanent-press shirt. He shoved off and headed to the table. He had set the jammer to block a 2.5-gigahertz signal, nothing higher, thus not interfering with cell phone traffic. He stopped a fair distance from the cheats and observed as two hands were played. From the pattern of betting, he confirmed that they were still at it. He suspected the dealer of being in on it, too.

  Dropping a hand into his pocket, Simon activated the jammer.

  The dealer called for bets. Two players ponied up immediately, dropping their chips on banco. A South Asian woman followed suit, sliding a thousand euros onto punto. A fourth player was more judicious, betting the minimum, also on punto. All eyes fell on the thr
ee men who had yet to place their bets.

  “Gentlemen?” said the dealer.

  Until now, none of the men had said a word to one another. It wasn’t uncommon to strike up momentary friendships with tablemates, just as one often speaks to a seatmate on a plane. Gambling, like air travel, has a shared sense of urgency that breaks down social barriers and encourages honest, often intimate conversation. Who cares what you say to someone you will never see again? But even now, none of the men said a word. Not a peep.

  “Bets?” said the dealer, too patiently.

  One of the men shook his head, then the second, and the third.

  “Very well,” said the dealer.

  Cards were dealt; the hands played out. Two for punto. Six for banco. Banco won.

  All this time, Simon studied the cheats. None betrayed the slightest indication that their equipment had failed. They were slick, all right. Simon imagined that there must be confusion on the other end of the operation, too. But it was apparent something wasn’t right. None had yet to place a bet.

  The next hand began.

  To speed up matters, Simon leaned closer to the table and said, “If you’re not going to play, give up your seats. Some of us would like to take them.”

  The dealer shot him a dark look. “Place your bets,” he said.

  The cheats all placed minimum bets on banco. The hand was played. Punto won.

  One of the cheats left the table and headed toward the main entry. Simon held his ground, and a moment later, a second man left, following his partner. Only then did Simon give pursuit.

  He followed the men out of the room and took up position near a bank of slot machines as the two, deep in conversation, left the building and hurried down the long driveway. One of them had a hand to his ear. He was out of the jammer’s range and Simon was certain he was speaking to his controller.