by E. J. Simon
Catherine spoke up, a glass of the house champagne in hand. “I miss your brother, Michael. But I must admit, this tragedy brought me the opportunity to meet you and now Samantha. I want to thank you for keeping the commitment that Alex made to me. Your money completed the financing we needed. Casting is done, and we expect to begin shooting in September in Cannes.”
Michael smiled and turned toward Jennifer. “I also owe Jennifer for her selflessness in seeking me out and helping me unlock the mystery of Alex’s special computer. Without her, I don’t know how I could have figured out where Alex had hidden not only his secrets but some of the money necessary to pay off his debts and continue his business. I have to confess, the first time we met at that lunch, I thought you might be a nut. Thank you, Jennifer.”
“By the way,” Jennifer asked, “was all that ‘artificial intelligence’ stuff any help other than finding Alex’s hiding places?”
Michael thought it was interesting that Jennifer asked the question. He was, in fact, anxious to get some privacy, open up the laptop, and talk again to Alex. He could feel Samantha staring at him, watching for his reaction, but he diverted his eyes to his plate of smoked salmon and said, “No, not really. I mean, it was interesting, but I don’t think the technology has come far enough yet to have any lasting impact, other than recording some information. Maybe someday all this artificial intelligence science will be meaningful—probably just a matter of years.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. It certainly would have been interesting to have Alex around again,” Jennifer said. As she flashed her all-American perfect white teeth and those all-too-familiar blue eyes, Michael wondered if Jennifer believed him. But just before he answered, he caught Samantha’s eyes still watching him.
“Unfortunately, I think Alex died about five years too soon to be able to live forever.”
Chapter 64
Saint-Tropez, France
July 19, 2010
Michael and Samantha landed at Nice Airport from Paris and boarded a private helicopter to take them from the airport to the landing pad near their hotel in Saint-Tropez. The ride was a favorite of theirs. The twenty-minute flight was mostly flown at only five hundred feet, just above the deep-blue Mediterranean waters, until the actual approach to Saint-Tropez, when the craft had to rise high above the hills.
As they approached the hotel from the air, Michael thought about the routines they had established on these stays and how much he looked forward to another year of doing the same thing they had always done.
He and Samantha usually awoke about ten in the morning; had a breakfast of freshly squeezed orange juice, warm croissants, and strong French coffee; and then arrived at the pool by noon. They would then split a bottle of wine, usually rosé, at lunch and leave the pool for their room by six. Dinner was at nine after a five-minute ride on the hotel’s shuttle to the quaint port town, and then back in bed by one in the morning.
And for now, Michael looked forward to getting settled in their familiar room and heading straight to the pool and the hot sun.
* * *
The pool at the Chateau de la Messardiere was a mosaic of various shades of tiny blue square tiles jutting out over the Picasso-blue Mediterranean Sea. Michael was lying alongside a twentysomething young woman who, at five foot ten, would be at least three inches taller with her spiked heels, a would-be model with long blonde hair and her small, firm breasts basking in the hot sun.
The reflection from the tiny droplets of perspiration on her breasts could be seen from all angles around the pool. The only impediments to the perfect Playboy-esque view were the tiny turquoise triangular piece of fabric between her slim thighs and the large Gucci sunglasses concealing her eyes. Her long, toned, and tanned legs parted ever so slightly across her lounge chair, a fruit drink and a copy of Russian Vogue nearby on her side table. She and Michael never exchanged words.
Michael noticed Samantha eyeing the odd but not uncommon poolside combination. She appeared to be mildly amused as she said, “I told you, money does buy happiness, however brief.”
Several chairs to their right, an older but just as alluring French woman, also topless, sipped champagne. According to Mustafa, who had been in charge of Messardiere’s pool for a decade, she was a French film star, no longer in demand but still well known and recognized. Mustafa knew everyone who stayed at the Chateau. He knew who was important to the hotel and who wasn’t. Samantha and Michael were always well taken care of, mostly because they were longtime customers, generous tippers, and generally well liked—for Americans anyway.
Although they came in handy to shield his eyes from the strong Mediterranean sun, Michael always said that his sunglasses were necessary at the Chateau’s pool so that he could gaze at the “scenery” without appearing to be a voyeur. This summer was clearly no different.
Samantha and Michael took their usual reclining lounges at the very center, facing both the pool and the Mediterranean. Mustafa ensured that those same two chairs were reserved and waiting for them each morning, along with Michael’s copy of Le Monde. Michael continued to struggle with his French, but he could at least make out the gist of most articles, especially if they had pictures. He usually dozed off before he finished a few pages.
As Michael gazed out at the pool scenery and the Mediterranean in the distance, he reflected on the events of the last eight months. It was hard to believe that, through it all, he had not only retained his position at Gibraltar, but with the death of his boss, Chairman Dick Applegarden, he had actually been promoted.
Yet Michael wasn’t sure how he felt about his unexpected success. He wondered if, deep down, he really wanted to have been fired from Gibraltar. Although he was certainly now riding high, he chafed at the shortsighted corporate strategies he had become a part of. He felt somewhat satisfied yet more stressed than he had ever been.
Michael’s daydreams were interrupted by the familiar ring of his cell phone.
“Hi, Boss. Just a reminder that you have a conference call with the Financial Times reporters in less than an hour. They know you’ll be on your cell.”
“They don’t know where I am, do they?” Michael didn’t need the press reporting that he was vacationing in Saint-Tropez. It wasn’t good press relations and could always lead to an ugly article on corporate excess or even just a passing reference on page 6 of the New York Post. Michael still struggled himself with the amount he was getting paid compared to the average Gibraltar employee.
“No, I just implied you were in Europe on business, but one of the ground rules for the interview is that there are to be no questions about exactly where you are. I didn’t say it, of course, but they may have reason to believe that you’re in acquisition discussions somewhere. You didn’t hear it here though.” Karen was something else!
As Michael continued to speak into his cell, now gazing up at the sky from a full, flat reclining position on his chaise, three young ladies in their mid to late twenties, each almost six feet tall—and none wearing tops—walked by his chaise lounge. Michael’s head was about four feet from their knees. Thank God, he thought, that he had his shades on. All were deeply tanned, their bodies slim and built where it counted, their legs long and shapely yet still lean—and glistening in the late morning sun. They strolled by, chatting and totally oblivious to the fact that Michael had nearly dropped his cell phone in awe.
Michael’s mind wandered from his conversation with Karen as he speculated on the practicality of adding Playboy Publishing to Gibraltar Financial. That would certainly be a colorful discussion with the reporters and his own board. As he glanced over at Samantha, who was settling back in her chaise after a visit to the poolside ladies’ room, he was reminded that her still shapely, slim, and sexy body was enough stimulation for any man.
“Boss, did I lose you?”
Michael laughed out loud at his own meandering thoughts. “No, I’m still here, Karen. Just thinking about what a great life it is that we lead.”
“Did you say ‘we’?”
“Yours is pretty good too, Karen. We’re all so lucky. But I was really wandering off. Sorry.”
No sooner had he said it than a woman’s scream pierced the colorful but calm surroundings. Staff and security men rushed into the ladies’ room near the pool. A young woman came rushing out of the entrance in obvious distress, crying and shrieking, “Elle est morte! Elle est morte! Mon Dieu!”
Samantha turned to Michael. “Someone’s dead in the ladies’ room! Oh my God. I was just in there.”
Everyone around the pool and the casual diners in the adjacent outdoor restaurant stood up and watched as the scene of raw terror played out in front of them. After an initial few moments of silence, everyone began whispering to each other as the rumors passed amongst the small crowd of stunned vacationers now gazing in horror as word spread that the attractive French blonde who, just ten minutes earlier, was poolside basking in the sun was now lying dead in one of the ladies’ room toilet stalls, her throat slit.
“Michael, I just spoke with her this morning. We both had the same blue wrap on; she also bought hers at the hotel’s boutique. We were just laughing about it. I was leaving the stall, and she was going in.” Samantha was shaking.
Michael had noticed the woman earlier when she was topless around the pool. He also remembered thinking that she resembled Samantha—a little younger but the same blonde hair and similar trim figures, height, and weight. Both spoke French around the pool. If she was wearing the same exact cover-up as Samantha, the similarity would have been even more striking. Michael hoped that for the moment at least, these thoughts wouldn’t enter his wife’s mind.
“Why would anyone want to kill her? And here at the Chateau? She had no jewelry on, no purse. It couldn’t have been a robbery.” Michael could see his wife’s mind going to the same terrifying and dark place. “Michael, she resembled me, didn’t she?”
“Yes, she did.”
Chapter 65
Saint-Tropez, France
July 19, 2010
Dinner at the Hotel Yaca restaurant in town was tense. Samantha and Michael could not help but look everywhere for potential killers.
Michael realized that it was more difficult to identify or “profile” dangerous personalities in a foreign country. As familiar as the South of France was to them both, Saint-Tropez, nevertheless, attracted a diverse population of Arabs, North Africans, Eastern Europeans, and Russians who, even to sophisticated American eyes, were menacing in appearance. He sat, watching the multiple entrances to the dining area.
Michael had already booked the next flight out of Nice. A helicopter would be waiting for them on the landing pad near the hotel at seven in the morning to take them to the airport. They had to make it alive through the night in Saint-Tropez.
Michael had done everything he could to at least minimize their vulnerability. He hired a security guard to watch over them until they boarded the plane in Nice and a private car to take them to and from dinner instead of the hotel’s SUV-shuttle. The ride in and out of Saint-Tropez in the dark night for dinner was nerve-racking.
The local police accepted the possibility that the murder might have been a case of mistaken identity—and that Samantha could have been the real target. They promised to watch the hotel during the night and appeared to be periodically checking in on them and their security guard here at dinner. If Samantha was a target, however, the problem could easily follow them home.
Michael noticed that Samantha had consumed more than her usual share of rosé, although she had hardly touched her meal. It was time to head back to the hotel for what he knew would be a restless night.
They entered room 548, the same room at the Chateau they had stayed in each year for over a decade. The hotel’s turndown service had ensured that the lights were dimmed, the room was in perfect order, and soft, classical music played on the alarm radio. The familiar comfort of their surroundings provided at least some balance to the underlying fear and vulnerability he knew they both felt as they prepared for bed.
The security guard sitting on the couch in the hallway outside their door also offered some additional peace of mind. Michael, however, always worried about private security guards. How could anyone really know, especially in a foreign country, whether your assigned guard had been compromised? Or whether local influence and a few thousand euros had turned him into your killer?
To Michael’s delight, Samantha always slept naked. As she approached their immaculate king-sized bed, Samantha noticed something different from any other evening’s turndown. A single, elaborately gold-wrapped chocolate lay on her pillow. Perhaps a nice touch from the Chateau’s management, knowing her anxiety from the murder and the possibility that she was the intended target. Michael thought it slightly odd that he hadn’t received one on his pillow.
Samantha placed the chocolate on her bedside table, turned down the comforter, and tucked herself under the covers. Michael watched her fluid moves and prepared to join her.
But as Samantha adjusted her body to her desired position, Michael saw her suddenly stiffen as she placed her hand under her pillow and pulled out a small note card, similar to the ones the staff would leave each night with the morning’s weather forecast. Michael hoped the housekeeper had accidentally misplaced the card. But as he watched Samantha grip the edges of the Chateau’s embossed stationery, he knew immediately that it would contain no weather forecast. Samantha, her hands trembling, read the note out loud, and Michael watched as though gazing helplessly at a deadly accident unfolding in front of him:
“Samantha, sorry we missed you today.
Next time we’ll check passports first.
You are going to die.”
Samantha tried to scream. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She looked at Michael, her face contorted with terror. Michael grabbed the card out of her hand and put his arms in a protective embrace around her. Where could they turn for safety if someone could penetrate their room and bed? He picked up the phone to call the front desk—the line was dead. He then went to the door and unlatched the lock. Cautiously, he opened the door and looked for the security guard. The couch outside the room, where the guard had been sitting, was empty. Michael quickly retreated back into their room, bolting the door from the inside.
Michael looked around at the room. There was only one other exterior door, the one leading to their fifth-floor terrace. Going out the patio door meant a five-floor jump—plus, who knew if anyone was hiding out there? Michael quickly went to the heavy glass door and secured the lock, for what it was worth.
Just to be sure there was no one else in the room, he opened each of the four closet doors while holding a heavy brass bedside lamp in his other hand. Each door opened to a view of Samantha’s shoes or other clothing. He looked at Samantha and realized that they needed to get out of the room.
“Samantha, grab your robe; let’s get out of here. We’ve got to get to the front desk so they can get the police. Where the hell is our security guy?”
“Michael, I don’t know—and why doesn’t the phone work?”
“Whoever left the note must have disconnected the phone.” Michael checked the phone plug as he was speaking. The cord had been cut, thereby removing the plug that needed to be connected to the wall outlet. He rapidly moved past the bed and went into the bathroom and then into the separate toilet room. The wall phone near the toilet was also dead.
Michael dialed the hotel’s main line from his cell. No answer. “Where the hell is everyone?”
“Michael,” Samantha pleaded, “let’s just get out of here. I can’t stay any longer. Whoever is after us has been in this room. They know we’re here.”
The front door was the only way out of the room.
Michael slowly reopened the door and peeked out to the hallway. The couch was still empty. The elevator door was no more than ten feet away. “Let’s take the elevator. There’s no way we’re going down the stairway.”
Samantha raced out the door and pressed the �
�down” elevator button, illuminating the tiny red light. The overhead lights indicated that the elevator was on the main floor. As Michael checked out the hallway and all the doors leading to it, Samantha watched the lights indicating the elevator’s agonizingly slow ascent to the fifth floor.
Michael wondered what the elevator door, when it opened, would reveal. He knew Samantha was thinking the same thing. The elevator stopped at the fourth floor, further delaying its arrival and adding to the drama of who might be awaiting them when the doors opened. The groaning sound of the elevator opening and closing its doors and making its way up to the fifth floor was accentuated by the overall silence of the fifth-floor hallway.
“Something is wrong,” Michael said. “But we’re not the only ones here. Where’s the goddamned guard?”
“I don’t know, Michael.” Samantha was in tears. “I just want to get on that plane and get home.”
Finally, the elevator arrived at their floor. The door opened, revealing nothing unusual at first glance or eye level. But as Michael looked down, it was clear that more terror loomed as he stared at the crumpled body of the security guard lying in a pool of blood.
Samantha saw him one second later. “Oh my God!”
“Let’s get in and get to the lobby.” Michael was calm and his tone subdued, despite his own near internal panic. He had to exhibit some almost unrealistic sense of sanity or Samantha would break down in fear.
“Michael, are you crazy? I can’t get in there. Let’s take the stairs.” Just as Samantha spoke, a door slammed shut—either the door to the stairway or a guest room. There was no more time to think about choices.
“No, we can’t go down those stairs. Whoever is out there will be expecting that. Our odds are better here. I know it’s crazy, please—just get in and close your eyes.” Michael had no idea which was better. The thought of getting in the elevator with the murdered security guard seemed, in the split second he had to weigh such bizarre choices, only marginally preferable to stepping into an unknown, probably dark, stairway with innumerable opportunities for entrapment and more surprises.