He allowed them a few more steps, then left the casino. A median with palm trees planted every ten steps divided the road into two lanes—coming and going. Simon ducked onto the opposite side, staying in the trees’ shadows. A car idled at the foot of the driveway. The men climbed into the back seat. The car zoomed away, and there was a moment when Simon thought he’d blown it, and that they were taking off for good. Twenty meters farther, the car pulled to a halt so as not to block the exit.
A few minutes passed. The doors opened. The men left the car. Simon observed both men placing what were surely new receivers into their ear canals, checking that they worked, then heading back to the casino to resume their assignment.
Crouched in the shadows, Simon watched them pass, then ran to the car. He didn’t know how many people were inside. He didn’t care. Pistol leading the way, he threw open the door. There were two men: a driver behind the wheel and the controller in the back, laptop open, images of cards about to be dealt visible in one of several open windows. Simon spun the pistol in his hand, held it by the muzzle, and clubbed the driver with its butt. One blow to the temple was enough. The man slumped to one side, unconscious, head resting against the window.
Simon dropped into the back seat and pulled the door closed. All throughout his career as an investigator, he’d forsworn the use of guns. Not tonight. The pistol was a nine-millimeter SIG Sauer, courtesy of Elvis. There were six bullets remaining in the clip. Simon had one chambered and thumbed the hammer as he placed the barrel against the second man’s cheek.
“Don’t say a word.”
An earpiece with an attached microphone was plugged into the laptop. Simon yanked it free and inserted the earpiece.
“Who are you?” the controller asked, his accented English depressingly familiar. He was thirty, pale as soapstone, with two days’ stubble and shaggy black hair that fell into his eyes.
“Police,” said Simon. “You’re parked in a red zone.”
“Bullshit,” said the man.
Simon slammed his head against the glass. “We take traffic violations seriously.”
The man shrunk back, properly warned. “How much do you want?” he asked.
“All of it.”
The man shook his head. “Fuck off.”
Simon was beginning to understand why Jojo hated these guys so much. “How much are you up tonight?”
“Up? What you mean? What you talk about?”
“Where’s Ratka?”
“Who?”
“Your boss. I’m wearing his suit. Recognize it? I was just up at his place with Tommy and Pavel. Nice chandelier. By the way, they’re dead.”
“You’re crazy.”
Simon dug out his phone and showed him a picture of the two men. It had sickened him to take the photo, but he’d reasoned that it could have some persuasive value. At the sight of the blood and the bodies, the controller turned an unpleasant shade of green.
“What’s your name?” Simon kept the gun to his cheek.
“Radek.”
“Okay, Radek. Now that we know who’s who and what’s what, I’m going to ask you a few questions. Rue Chaussée four seventy-six. Is that the drop house?”
Radek stared straight ahead. He was loyal and he was brave. Simon gave him that much. “I’ll count to three, then I’ll blow your friend’s brains all over the front window. One.”
“No! He’s my brother.”
“All right, then. I’ll kill you first, then him. Two.”
“Yes,” said Radek, spitting out the word. “Rue Chaussée is the drop house. Tonight is last night. Everyone stops at two a.m. Deliver money.”
“And Ratka?”
“He’ll be there. He’s in charge.”
“Who else is with him?”
“Usually Tommy and Pavel. We go, give him money, then get out.”
“When does he pay you?”
“No one paid till it all over.”
“When what’s all over?” Radek’s words didn’t ring true. Crooks didn’t wait to get paid.
“Ratka keeping the money for now.”
“All of it?”
Radek nodded.
“He hasn’t paid you in all this time you’ve been robbing the casino?”
“Little bit. We split it later. There’s more then.”
“More than you steal from the casino?”
“Lots more.”
“Tell me.”
“One million,” said Radek.
“For all of you?” asked Simon, purposely misunderstanding him.
“Each,” said Radek, pridefully. The male ego was an amazingly simple instrument to manipulate.
“Why is tonight the last night?”
“We got enough.”
“How much is enough?”
“I don’t know. Lots.”
“Who’s the one who decides how much is enough?”
“Ratka. Who you think?”
“And he’s paying you a million?”
Radek nodded.
Simon thought of Jojo’s crapped-out Peugeot. Yes, he decided, for a million euros Jojo would wait, too. Everyone wanted a shot at the big money, a spin of the wheel of fortune. A million went a long way back home in Serbia. All of which begged the question: If a soldier like Radek stood to earn a million, how much was the man in charge looking to take down? Ten times that amount? A hundred? Big plans cost big money.
If Ratka and his gang had already stolen over two hundred million euros, how much more were they looking to earn?
The answer came to him courtesy of a striking German blonde with more brains than he’d ever have, and, he was beginning to suspect, more backbone.
The family is worth twelve billion dollars, Vika had said over lunch in Èze.
And Ratka wanted to get all of it. Taking control of all organized crime in a big city was expensive.
“And what about the princess?” asked Simon.
“What princess?” demanded Radek, evidently concerned that Simon might know more than him. Honesty stuck out like a neon sign in the dead of night. Simon was pretty sure Radek didn’t know anything about Ratka’s big plans.
So, thought Simon, there were two operations, and they were connected. The first involved stealing from the casino, the second from Princess Victoria Brandenburg von Tiefen und Tassis, and it had required killing her mother. Going to get all of it. Ratka might not have been sophisticated, but he was ambitious and without morals. If Vika had found what Ratka wanted, she was in more danger, not less.
Looking at the laptop’s screen, Simon noted that the two cheats had returned to the table in time for a new shoe. The laptop was his front row seat to watching how the bad guys played their game.
A window in the corner broadcast a live feed from a camera planted in one of the cheats’ sleeves—the man who had not left the table. The dealer offered him the shoe to cut the cards. The cheat ran the yellow plastic cutting card across the entire shoe from bottom to top before pulling the card away and sliding it into the center of the deck. All this the hidden camera filmed and transmitted to the controller.
The dealer took the shoe back and cut the cards accordingly, then followed his defined practice of burning the top five cards and playing two mock hands. Now official play could begin.
“What exactly do you have to do?” Simon asked Radek.
“First, I input where our players sit at the table, give them betting limits. The software give a probability to every hand. It never always right, who wins, who loses—punto or banco. I tell players how to bet. Bet heavy if this number high”—he pointed to a figure indicating the ratio of success—“bet less if smaller. Sometime we have to lose, so it looks okay. Like I say, software not right all the time.”
“Who wrote the program?”
“A friend of Ratka, I think. I don’t know. Whoever it is, he’s a mathematical genius.”
Simon studied the screen, putting it all together. Custom software, trained controllers, disciplined teams to hit th
e casinos. Something didn’t jibe. Jojo had been right when he said that Ratka wasn’t sophisticated. So, if he wasn’t running the show, who was?
“From now on, you work for me,” said Simon. “Do what I say and I’ll let you and your brother go. Do not fuck with me.”
Radek nodded eagerly. Simon didn’t believe his sincerity for a minute.
On the screen, a new hand was dealt. Immediately figures showing the probabilities for punto and banco appeared in separate windows.
“Go ahead,” said Simon. “But this time make them lose.”
“Lose?”
“Lose big.”
“Ratka won’t like it.”
“He can see?”
“Sure. Everything goes to a central unit, so he can see who’s winning and how much.”
Of course Ratka could see, thought Simon. If a genius had designed the software, he’d certainly make sure to keep track of their winnings on a real-time basis. Simon wanted that computer. Evidence from day one.
Ten minutes later, the three cheats had forfeited two hundred thousand euros of their winnings. One of them could be heard muttering through the receiver.
“Tell him to keep playing,” said Simon.
Another hand was dealt. Another loss for Team Serbia. Fifty thousand back to the Société des Bains de Mer. Simon looked forward to giving Toby Stonewood the good news.
“He’s coming,” said Radek.
“Who?”
“Team leader.”
“Good. I’d like to meet him.”
The driver stirred, moaning as he came to. Simon glanced in his direction, immediately on guard, ready to give him another lump if necessary. Radek saw his chance. He threw himself at Simon, knocking the pistol away, forcing him against the door. Simon grunted, the pain from his ribs making his eyes water. He tried to push Radek off him, but the man had him pinned. Radek fought for the gun, hands battling to pry it from Simon. The Sig had a hair trigger. The gun fired, blowing a hole in the car’s roof. Simon drove his fist into Radek’s jaw, but the blow had no effect. If anything, Radek fought harder. The noise had roused the driver. Seeing what was going on, he clambered over his seat, arms extended, hands grabbing Simon’s arms. Simon kicked him in the jaw and kicked him again. The driver’s head caromed off the roof. His eyes rolled back in his head and he slid, limp, back into his seat.
Radek closed his fingers around Simon’s fist. He was very strong and Simon felt himself losing his grip on the weapon. His left hand closed around Radek’s windpipe, fingers digging into his flesh. Blood dribbled over his fingertips. The Serb’s face grew red, his eyes unnaturally large in their sockets. Another shot exploded in the confined space, shattering the window. Simon dropped the weapon onto the street and took hold of the door frame, drawing his knees to his chest and thrusting Radek off him. Radek lunged at him like a rabid beast. Simon wrapped his legs around the Serb’s head, locking his ankles, and turned his torso viciously to his right. Radek’s neck cracked like a twig but did not break. He continued to struggle, but Simon was too strong. Leaning forward, he grabbed a handful of Radek’s hair, yanked his head back, and hit him with a closed fist, shattering his nose. He hit him again. Moaning, Radek covered his face and slumped against the door.
Simon fell back against the seat, physically and emotionally spent. His hand throbbed and his knuckles were scraped bloody. He sat up, recalling Radek’s words that his colleague was coming, no doubt to inquire about what was going on. Looking out the rear window, Simon spotted a man hurrying down the drive. It had to be the team leader.
With no time to spare, Simon hauled the driver out of his seat and messily folded him into the passenger seat. Simon slid behind the wheel, started the car, and drove away from the Sporting Club, careful to keep his speed reasonable—nothing to cause alarm.
Behind him, the team leader started running, then gave up, throwing his hands in the air.
Simon rolled down the window and waved.
Chapter 56
A firm hand knocked three times. “Victoria, it’s me.”
Vika hurried to the door, looking through the peephole to make sure it was Toby Stonewood. “There you are.”
“Sorry, dear. Business. Had to take a call. Several, actually. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting, especially when we have so much to discuss.”
“I’m sorry to drop this on you out of the blue,” said Vika. “I can understand it’s a shock.”
“Nonsense. If there’s been foul play we need to get to the bottom of it. I hope you won’t mistake my surprise for disbelief. As you said, it’s a shock.” Toby dropped into a club chair and exhaled. “Mind making me a drink? You’re scaring the hell out of this old man. A double, if you don’t mind.”
Vika mixed Toby a stiff gin and tonic and handed it to him. He thanked her and proceeded to drink half of it. “That’s better,” he said. “Now I can think. Murder? That’s a serious word.”
Vika sat down in a chair beside him. “It is.”
“You’ve gone to the police?”
“I brought it up with Commissaire Le Juste when I arrived.”
“Good man. Head of the criminal department.”
“I told him that something wasn’t right,” Vika began. “Mama hadn’t driven at night in years. She couldn’t see out of her right eye. In fact, she barely drove at all. Elena took her everywhere.” She gazed at Toby inquisitively. “Didn’t you ask yourself what she was doing on the Grande Corniche at midnight all by herself? And in the Rolls? She hadn’t taken it out in a year.”
“I may have,” said Toby, “if I’m entirely honest with myself. But you know…I wrote it off to drink. I’d seen her around town a few times over the past year and she wasn’t looking herself.”
“I’m not blaming you,” Vika was quick to add.
“Of course you’re not. It’s just that it’s your mother we’re talking about. Murder? Hard to wrap my mind around the idea.”
“Think of her as a princess with a fortune and what I have to say will make more sense.”
“I’ll try. Go on, then.”
“Le Juste felt the same as you. He said there was no reason to think it was anything other than an accident. He asked if I had any evidence that might give weight to my suspicions.”
“Did you?”
“Not then.”
“You do now?” Toby leaned forward, cupping the drink in both hands. Vika looked at his firm jaw, the inquiring eyes. His easy manner was gone. He looked ten years younger, formidable, and more than a little intimidating.
“After meeting with Commissaire Le Juste, I drove up to the site of the accident. I had to see for myself. Of course, they’d picked the perfect spot.”
“‘They’?”
“At a sharp bend, no streetlights,” continued Vika. “Easy to see how a car driven by an older person, supposedly drunk, could go off the road. If I were Le Juste I’d think it was an accident, too. I had a look around, and I found something, something that to my eye didn’t belong there.” She noted the skeptical glint in Toby’s eye. “I’ll come back to that,” she said. “And that was the first time they tried to harm me.”
“Harm you? What happened?”
“A car tried to run me over.”
“Good God!”
“I was standing by the side of the road when out of nowhere a car appeared around the curve and came straight at me. The driver didn’t look frightened or out of control. He stared right at me and kept on coming. If it wasn’t for Simon, I’d be dead.”
“Simon?”
“An American,” said Vika by way of explanation. “We’d met the night before as I was checking into the hotel. He’s here for the Concours. He’s driving in the time trial, or that’s what he said then. As luck would have it, he was previewing the course when he saw my car. He stopped to see if I was all right.”
“And saved you?”
“He pushed me out of the way.” Vika noted a change in Toby’s manner, his eyes keener than before. “What
is it?” she asked.
Toby waved away her comment. “Continue.”
“That night I went over to Mama’s place at the Château Perigord. I wanted to have a look around.” Vika drew herself up, hands clasped. “Actually, that’s not entirely true. There’s something I forgot to tell you. When I was given Mama’s personal affairs at the police station—her watch, wallet, jewelry—something was missing. Her ring with the family coat of arms.”
“You thought the police might have taken it…Le Juste?”
“No. Her diamond solitaire was there. It’s worth a thousand times more. I was puzzled. She’d never taken off the ring in her life. You know that. I wanted to have a look around her place to see if it was there. The apartment was in shambles. At first, I thought she’d gone on a bender. God knows some of the parties she’s thrown. But then I realized it wasn’t a party or a drunken fest. Someone had searched her apartment. Ransacked it.”
“For the ring?”
“At the time I wasn’t sure. Now I am.”
“But why? Who could know its value to the family?”
“That’s what I don’t know,” said Vika. “There’s more, and please, promise me you won’t get upset.” Toby nodded sternly and she continued. “While I was there, a man broke in and attacked me.”
“Victoria!” Toby raised his hands, beside himself. “We should be at the police station this minute.”
“I’m all right, Toby, but thank you. Maybe later. He tried to…well, he tried to rape me. I’m sure he planned on killing me, too. But he didn’t…rape me, I mean.”
“Thank God you fought him off.”
“I didn’t. I tried, but he was far too big. An animal. He was Eastern European. A Slav, I think.”
“He spoke to you?”
“A few words.”
“You said you didn’t fight him off. What happened?”
“My friend saved me.”
“The same one?”
“His name is Simon Riske.”
“The American here for the time trial.”
“He’s actually here on a job. He’s been hired to look into a gang who’s been cheating the casino out of millions.”
“And he just happened to come along?”
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