He thought of calling Kruger. Had he killed Riske? Was there anything he, Borgia, needed to know? That was impossible. If his phones were compromised, then so might be Kruger’s.
Theoretically, Borgia was safe. He’d done nothing wrong. He could pack his bags, climb on his jet, and be home for a late dinner. For the moment, however, he didn’t care about being safe. He cared about Prato Bornum. He was so close.
And Caesar? Would he walk away on the cusp of his greatest victory?
Never.
Neither would Luca Borgia.
He looked at the flip phone.
One call.
A spark to light the fire.
Chapter 70
Cannes
Simon pushed the Ferrari through the hills above Mougins. He knew these roads, had learned to drive on them from Marseille to Monte Carlo, and in the backcountry, too. Single-lane macadam tracks, no safety railings. Nothing between him and a five-hundred-foot fall over a sheer cliff. Cannes, Antibes, Juan-les-Pins were prime territory for a young car thief. Nothing taught you how to drive better than being pursued by a dogged cop, or a dozen of them. The prospect of jail, or worse, was ample motivation to keep the pedal to the metal.
Simon felt the same urgency as they neared Cannes, driving as fast as he thought safe, maybe a little faster. His mind was racing as rapidly as the car, but not ahead. He was speeding through the far more treacherous alleys of his past, advancing on the black heart of Delphine Blackmon, or as she now called herself, Milady De Winter.
He should have known.
She lay facing him on her immense bed, their legs intertwined, her head propped on an elbow, eyes staring down at him as if he’d committed a crime. Her naked torso glistened with sweat, her nipples erect. “Jesus, where did you learn to do that?”
“Do what?”
“That. I’m still shaking.”
“Seminar at the bank. Management wants to ensure we keep our clients satisfied.”
“Satisfied? That’s one way of putting it.” She ran her hands across his chest, tracing the latticework of scars, pressing against the ridges of muscle. They’d been dating for three months. He’d told her his story that night, about his past, about prison, his return to the law-abiding world. Not all of it, but enough. She kissed him, her breath sweet, her mouth no longer a cauldron of desire. Her hand went lower. She liked holding him, squeezing him until he responded, then instructing him what he was to do. She liked being in control.
“Now I’m going to teach you something,” she whispered.
“Oh?”
“Don’t…move…a muscle.”
She pushed him onto his back and mounted him, waiting for him to stiffen entirely, then using him as an instrument, pressing herself against him, riding him, her motions near violent, without the least inhibition, until she gasped and shuddered and rolled off of him. She didn’t care about his pleasure. That one had been for her and her alone.
Delphine.
He’d never met a woman like her, a woman of such wide and varied appetites, all of them pursued with a passion bordering on the fanatical. Sex stood at the top of the list.
She hadn’t gathered her breath before she found the remote and turned on the television. Politics came in a close second.
“All those people with nothing. No one lifting a hand to help them.”
Simon didn’t need to open his eyes to know that she was talking about the unrest brewing in Venezuela. She’d traveled to Caracas the month before and had returned determined to expose the dictator’s crimes.
“Isn’t that their government’s responsibility?” said Simon. “I mean, they have oil. Tons of it.”
“‘They’ have nothing. The government supremos keep all the money for themselves. I’m sure you have plenty of clients from there.”
“A few,” said Simon. “Maybe I should frog-march them down to the basement and summarily execute them.”
“It would be a start.”
Simon laughed, though part of him thought she wouldn’t mind one bit.
“And if the government can’t help…or won’t?” said Delphine. “Then what? Is it really every woman for herself? Every child? Have we come to that?”
“But we do help, Delphine. The Brits, the Americans, the EU. They provide billions in aid.”
Delphine reared her head. “We should give billions more.”
“All I’m saying is that sooner or later people have to solve their problems themselves.”
“And if they can’t? What if they need someone to solve them for them?”
Simon sat up, seeing that she was crying.
“Sometimes I just feel so damned helpless,” she said. “I can’t do anything about it.”
“But you can,” said Simon. “You are. All your work helps. Everything you write. It makes a difference.”
“You believe that?”
“I do.”
A disgusted laugh. A scowl. She pushed herself away from him. “As if words matter. One day, I’ll show you. I’ll prove to you I can.”
Simon had had the answer all along.
The slow winter afternoons at the Louvre. The visit to the museum his last day with Delphine. He’d looked at the painting a hundred times, she for the first time. The Raft of the Medusa by Théodore Géricault. It was a giant canvas, sixteen feet by twenty-three. Survivors of a shipwreck clinging to a sinking raft, hardly more than a few planks lashed together, adrift on a rising sea beneath a turbulent sky. And yet…hope. There, at the top of the picture, far, far away, a sail illuminated by a shaft of sunlight. A ship! Salvation! One of the survivors, marshalling all the strength that remains in him, has pulled himself upright and raised a hand, waving a tattered shirt. A final desperate gesture. Save us!
And the ship had done just that. The men on the raft had been rescued. The painting, like Samson Sun’s eponymous film, was based on a true incident.
And Delphine? All she’d said was that the painting was too gruesome. Surely it must have affected her, yet she’d said nothing more.
It had been right there in front of him all this time.
“Simon!”
Danni’s voice brought him back to the present as the front wheel wandered off the asphalt. He jerked the wheel, correcting the path of the automobile. In the back seat, such as it was, London braced herself. But Danni was as relaxed as if they were taking a Sunday drive. She spoke in even tones, briefing him on how Israeli intelligence had come to be involved, beginning with her company hacking into Rafael de Bourbon’s phone and laptop, then turning their attention to Luca Borgia, going on to describe what she had discovered at the Chalet Edelweiss.
She showed Simon the circuit board she’d found, explaining that it was commonly used in explosive devices detonated remotely by cellphones. She’d counted over twenty Semtex wrappers. She guessed there were at least three vests, maybe four. There could be more. She was not an optimist.
“Have you alerted the French authorities?” asked Simon.
“We talk to Paris. Paris evaluates the intel. They phone Cannes. In the meantime they tell us, ‘the police are already on highest alert.’”
“You didn’t tell me how you knew where we were.”
“The same way we know about Borgia and the chalet in Gstaad.”
“My phone?”
“Did you receive any strange emails recently? Something out of the ordinary or anything with an attachment.”
“A hospital bill. But it was from Harry Mason. He works for me.”
Danni shrugged unapologetically. He’d taken the bait. “I’ve been told you have some expertise in these matters.”
Simon nodded. It was pointless to ask any more questions. The Israeli intelligence apparatus had turned its spotlight on him. They possessed as formidable a surveillance capability as the United States National Security Agency or British General Communications Headquarters, GCHQ. What they wanted, they got.
“For what it’s worth, thank you,” he said. “Mr. Kruger w
as not in a merciful frame of mind.”
“Yes,” said London. “Thank you, thank you.”
Danni smiled, an amusing memory. “You were right back there.”
“About what?” said Simon.
“That he was about to lose his job.”
Traffic on Rue Jean de Riouffe moved slowly. It was after five. The premiere was slated to begin at six. Fifty-four minutes by the car’s digital clock.
“Do you have any more information about the attack?” asked Simon.
“We were hoping you might be able to help,” said Danni.
“It’s going to take place at the premiere. Kruger said as much.”
“I had a live feed from your phone. I heard.” Cannes to Jerusalem back to Cannes. The new way of the world.
“Last night on the plane, I had an idea,” said Simon. “I thought I had to be sick to imagine it, but it makes sense now that you told me about the vests. It’s the movie, The Raft of the Medusa…well, the actors in it. Four of them are survivors of the tragedy. North Africans. Muslims, I’m guessing. They all have to have badges to get into the premiere, meaning they’ve already passed security checks. No one is going to stop them from entering the theater.”
“Like the Bataclan,” said Danni, referencing the ISIL attack on the crowded Parisian theater in November 2015 that had left ninety dead and dozens wounded.
“Worse,” said Simon. “The Grand Auditorium in the Palais seats more than two thousand people.”
“Four vests in an enclosed space. Fifty kilos of Semtex. It would be the Bataclan twenty times over.”
“Just get Borgia,” said London. “You said you know where he is.”
“We do.”
“At the Du Cap,” said Simon. “They’re all meeting there.”
Danni’s averted glance told him he was correct. “I have no authority,” she said. “I can kill a bomber. The French won’t like it, but they won’t throw me in jail for the rest of my life. Luca Borgia is a different story. He’s a billionaire, one with powerful friends. Our efforts have to be on stopping the bombers. Borgia, we get later.” She looked sidelong at Simon. “Don’t worry. We don’t forget. Ever.”
“What about killing the cellphone service,” said London. “Cut that and a call can’t go through.”
“If we had two days and a judge’s court order, that’s a fine suggestion. Or do you want to sabotage every cell tower nearby? Good luck with that.”
“And a mobile jammer?” said Simon, referencing a handheld device capable of disrupting all cellular communications in a limited area.
“I don’t happen to have one on me,” said Danni. “Do either of you?”
They arrived at the first roadblock. A policeman waved them toward an auxiliary road heading away from the Palais. Simon counted five shock troops milling behind him and an armored personnel carrier parked down the block.
“Without credentials, we can’t get close,” said Danni.
“We can’t,” said Simon. “They can.” He pointed to the group of soldiers, clad in navy-blue utilities, vests, berets, submachine guns worn against their chest.
Danni narrowed her eyes, considering this. “I don’t see any female commandos.”
Simon gunned the motor, speeding down the street. He turned to her. “I’m looking at one.”
A few blocks farther along, Simon pulled the car into an illegal space. It was quieter here. A typical Saturday afternoon at closing time. Only a few people about, most already at home, making dinner, preparing for a night out on the town. All three climbed out of the car, Simon offering London a hand.
Danni brought up the Pegasus app on her phone. “Borgia’s still at the hotel. Room 302.”
“I want to go,” said London. “I can’t help here. I’ll do whatever I can to find him and let you know.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Danni. “You sure?”
London said she was.
Danni went on: “If he’s going to detonate the vest, he won’t be using his own phone. He’ll know that we can trace the call.”
“And if I find him and he has the phone?”
“Don’t shut it off. Don’t do anything except put it in your pocket and keep it away from Borgia.”
“London, you don’t have to do this,” said Simon.
“It’s really no different from what I do for a living. Track down people. Pressure them into speaking with me.”
“You want the gun?” asked Simon.
“And do what with it? Shoot myself in the foot?”
“Take it,” said Danni. “You never know.”
London held out her hand. Simon gave her the pistol. She tucked it into her belt and covered it with her blouse. Fast learner.
“Have you ever shot one?” he asked.
“Aim and pull the trigger. If it comes to it, I doubt I’ll be far away from the target.” London turned her attention to the car. “I’m more worried about this monster. I haven’t driven in years.”
“Don’t worry,” said Simon, patting the hood. “A Ferrari practically drives itself.”
“Why don’t I believe you?” London slipped into the car and adjusted the seat. She started the ignition and touched the accelerator, jumping at the engine’s aggressive response.
“Go fast,” said Danni. “Go very fast.”
It was five twenty-seven Saturday evening.
The van moved slowly down the Croisette, the Palais in sight ahead, situated next to a large promenade, the ocean beyond that. They had been stopped once already, a policeman putting his head inside the driver’s window, asking where they were going and to see their badges. “Palais,” the driver answered. “Red carpet.” All four held up their credentials and smiled as they’d been instructed. The policeman radioed a superior. A moment’s pause, then he waved them forward. Barriers were moved aside. The van continued on.
Mattias wiped the sweat from his forehead. It seemed to him that they were in a country at war, so great was the number of soldiers lining the sidewalk. Behind them, a crowd of onlookers gazed at the van, at the dark faces inside it, many standing on their tiptoes, a hundred phones taking their photograph.
“Smile and wave,” Sheikh Abdul had instructed them.
Mattias smiled and waved. Inside, though, he was a mess. His earlier pious certainty had begun to fade as soon as they left the villa and started the drive to Cannes. A new thought had come to him, growing with every minute, threatening to paralyze him. Worse than dying was the prospect of arrest, of spending the rest of his days in a prison cell. The worry ate at him as surely as acid eats through steel, attacking his confidence, his will to see the act through.
They passed beneath an imposing billboard advertising the movie. Their movie. They pointed at it and commented, awestruck. Mattias regarded himself, dressed in a tuxedo, driving along the Croisette in Cannes. For a moment, he forgot his concerns, forgot the vest strapped to his chest, and half wondered if he really was an actor. If that dark face on the billboard was him. Even at this distance, fame was intoxicating.
“Are you frightened?” asked young Mohammed.
“Of what?” said Mattias, astounded that his voice did not falter. “Either way, we will be at peace by the end of the day.”
Mohammed nodded. He did not appear as convinced.
The van slowed and came to a halt. A second set of barriers blocked the road. Policemen swarmed the vehicle. The driver rolled down his window. Another policeman banged on the passenger-side door. The driver lowered that window as well.
“Credentials. Everyone.”
Mattias and the others held them up.
“Give them to me.”
Mattias took the badge from his neck. He looked at his friends before handing it to the driver, who in turn gave them all to the policeman. Mattias remained still, silently praying as the policeman examined the badges, taking pains to compare each to the four men seated in the van. The policeman’s face darkened. Something was not right.
“Out,�
� he said, speaking English. “Everyone out of the van.”
The driver remonstrated in French. They were already late. Can’t the man see, these are the film’s stars! What could possibly be the matter?
The policeman opened the sliding door. A half-dozen soldiers stood behind him. They held their submachine guns away from their chests, barrels pointed to the ground, fingers resting on the trigger guards. Mattias could sense their apprehension, excitement even. Finally, a little action.
The policeman continued to study their badges, waiting. Mattias felt as if he were chained to his seat. To exit the van meant capture. Jail, if they could remove the vest. Either way, failure.
“Come now!”
Another policeman fought his way into the group and stuck his head inside the van, eyeing them with malice. He was blond and red-faced and brutal, a tattoo running up the side of his neck. He retreated, took the man with their badges aside. It was not a friendly exchange. The blond policeman snatched the badges from his colleague and thrust them at the driver. “Okay,” he said. “See? I learned how to be a nice guy.”
He gave Mattias and the others a withering look and slid the door closed.
Mattias saw his name tag as they passed through the barrier and toward the red carpet.
GALLONDE.
The soldiers were young, barely out of training, perhaps nineteen or twenty. They stood at the corner of Rue Pasteur and the Boulevard de la Croisette, marking the far perimeter of the security zone. Barely one kilometer from the Palais, Simon felt as if he were in a different city altogether. The sidewalks were nearly deserted. The occasional car passed by. A few shops had lowered their shutters, eager for the workday to be done. Even the grand hotels looked quiet, the Martinez, the Carlton.
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