The sound of the elevator snapped him back to action. He had to get out, not for him, but for Mako. What had she said in the text to him? “p.s. another call re script, Garance gave my message, read it then threw out with the trash!!”
He had to get to her, and fast. He pulled open the door to the fire exit stairwell, still clutching Kelso’s copy of FALL OUT and ran.
The taxi rank for the Martinez Hotel was steps away from the entrance to the apartment. “Here’s €200 if you get me to Théoule in under 30 minutes,” he said to the driver.
He dialed Mako’s cell. It just rang once and went to voice mail. He sent her a text to call him urgently. As the taxi driver honked his horn and swerved towards Pied à Mer Marcus tried the house phone. Garance answered.
“Madame has gone for a swim. Oh, and your carte blanche, it was not on Melinda 2, but maybe stolen? Last night, we had problems with les ivrognes … drunks, ou peut-être un renard… maybe fox… rubbish from the trash cans everywhere…”
“Please go get her. Now. It’s urgent.” He held the phone tightly as he heard Garance call Mako’s name. There was a pause.
“I’m afraid Monsieur the wind carries my shout, she cannot hear. She will be back in half an hour. I will get her to call you then. I must prepare lunch.” Before Marcus could explain there was a sharp click as Garance hung up.
Marcus tried to collect his thoughts and stop the panic that was rising inside him. His right hand was still clutching Robert’s copy of FALL OUT. He doubted very much if it had been foxes scavenging in the rubbish. The taxi suddenly pulled up and Marcus was flung forward in his seat. A large garbage truck that was collecting the trash bags from the homes on the steep incline approaching Théoule, had suddenly stopped for a collection, blocking the road. Marcus slapped the money onto the passenger seat, flung open the door and ran the last half mile to the villa.
Garance buzzed him in and he burst into the house. Mako was rubbing her hair with a towel in one hand and had the phone in the other.
“Just ringing you…” she started to say.
“Get a passport, a bag, your wallet and any cash,” he interrupted.
She stared at him.
In staccato bursts, still trying to get his breath, he told her what had just happened.
“Robert’s dead, I’m in the frame and my bet is you’re next.”
“Marcus, we need to go to the police…”
“That’s exactly what someone wants. Me out of the way. You left vulnerable and Sam’s message unheard.”
Mako hesitated.
He grabbed her by both shoulders and shook her hard.
“Sam and Kelso are dead. We could be next. Pack. Do it now.” She ran into her room and threw a few things into a light hold-all, grabbed her handbag and pushed her passport and a roll of banknotes into the back pocket of her jeans.
“We’ve gone, you don’t know where. We left last night.” Marcus said to Garance. He looked quizzically at Mako who nodded in agreement. They ran down the stairs and onto the boat. The wind was getting stronger now; the tops of the waves curling with white crests.
“Where?”
“Out of France and quickly. East, to Italy,” said Marcus firmly.
They pulled out into the sea, speeding past Cannes, spearing towards the Cap d’Antibes and the lighthouse near the Hôtel du Cap.
33
CANNES, FRANCE
Jonathan finished the last of his beer. He was seated at one of the beachfront brasseries, huddled against the wind, alone under a parasol designed to give protection from the sun but now giving shelter from the stuttering rain. Nearly all the other patrons had run for real cover and the waitress was anxious to do the same. She waited awkwardly for Jonathan to leave and pay the bill she had given him. He remained seated and waived her off.
As he had predicted, Mako’s Riva rounded the point, heading east. That was all he needed to see. Leaving no tip, he paid for the beer, picked up his bag from under the table and took a taxi to the airport. He had one more stop before he could return to LA; a loose-end, which Mr. Louis needed him to tie up and neatly snip into a dead one. He was going to London.
* * *
Mako was tapping the fuel gauge, a quizzical expression on her face. She saw Marcus looking at her.
“Maybe the gauge is stuck. Garance must have filled it earlier but he usually fills it up. We were practically empty this morning, now it’s half full. Can you check the spare jerry cans?” She pointed over her shoulder. “Under the seats. In the back. We will need them to make Genoa.”
Marcus grabbed at the handrails and chair backs as he hauled himself down the boat, which bucked and rolled like a bull in a rodeo. He bent down and lifted the seat covers and saw the cans. He reached down to lift one, then the other. They were empty.
“He must have used these.”
“No, he would have used the pump in the shed at the jetty.” she yelled over her shoulder, her voice nearly lost over the bellow of the engines.
One of the previous night’s champagne corks rolled at his feet and it triggered a faint memory of Bill and a hot steamy night in the Philippine jungle.
Had the howl of the wind and roar of the twin V8s not been so loud, Marcus might have just heard the faint chink chink chink of the weighted cork as it bobbed inside the three-hundred-liter tank.
He saw the small neat knot of wire poking out of a hole drilled in the top of the gas tank just as the boat rushed towards the wake left by a large ferry. The bow bucked into the air. In one movement he lunged at Mako as the boat arced skywards and they rolled over the side into the swirling water. Less than a dozen yards away the hull crashed back down into the choppy foam-flecked sea and with a roar, the boat erupted into flames as the percussion cap exploded and ignited the fumes in the gas tank.
Part III
Sun-Tzu
34
CAP D’ANTIBES, FRANCE
Marcus and Mako stumbled up the beach of the secluded bay of La Garoupe, tucked into the southern tip of the Cap d’Antibes. Exhausted, both of them collapsed on the sand. To their right the lighthouse stretched out its arms of light into the storm filled sky. Above the roar of the waves they could hear the air-sea rescue helicopters flying out to the wreckage, their lights sweeping the waves for survivors.
“We have to stay dead,” Marcus gasped, “And disappear.” He slowly pulled himself up and extended a hand. “Let me help you.” Mako slowly turned her face towards him. No tears, not even fear, but anger. “You brought this to me,” she breathed, ignoring his hand. “I want whoever did this. I’m not hiding from anyone.” She was up, marching shoeless towards the road, patting her pockets to see what had survived the plunge into the sea.
“Mako, self-preservation isn’t hiding,” pleaded Marcus running to catch up with her. “My car’s not far, at Le Bacon.” A quick pocket check had revealed passport, keys, and wallet. His cell phone, however, had not survived.
Without turning back, she hurdled the low stone wall with ease that split the beach from the road and continued at a brisk walk.
“I hope you’ve got cash; my money has gone. Dead people can’t use credit cards,” said Mako finally.
“Some. Why?”
“Because we’re going to The Nest.” Marcus looked at her quizzically.
“In Habkern, above Interlaken. My father’s retreat. The place is actually called Nisten.”
Marcus stopped walking.
“How on earth did Sam know about that?” said Marcus.
“What do you mean?”
“You remember what I told you about Uma Thurman and Kiddo? Sam littered his screenplay with names that referenced something or someone else. The banker is called Joe Nisten,” he said looking at her.
Mako’s jawline tightened. “This thing stinks. And that rotten father of mine is the reason.”
After a long walk, cold and wet, they reached the car. Marcus opened the passenger door, grabbed his small leather hold-all that was on the seat, help
ed Mako in, and handed her the bag. He had only put it there a few hours earlier, but it seemed like a lifetime ago.
“See if you can find something dry to put on for now.”
The rain had stopped, the squall blowing and blustering further down the coast. The mid-afternoon air warmed and so Marcus flipped the chromed levers holding down the mohair top and lowered the convertible’s roof. The wind and warm muggy air filled the car as he headed northeast.
Marcus had no idea if the Coast Guard thought they had drowned or if the police were still searching for them. They could be on TV or Interpol’s most wanted list for all he knew. As a precaution they stayed off the faster and well paved conveyor belt of the auto-route keeping instead to smaller roads. With open borders they were soon in Italy, hugging the coast road towards Genoa before turning across the flat fertile planes of the Po Valley. In a few hours they were past Milan and speeding north towards Switzerland.
Marcus drove in near silence. He was still shaken up, trying to work out if he had caused this, or events had simply found him. More upsetting, he had put Mako in danger. They needed to confide in each other rather than pull away or try to deal with this alone. Before he could say anything, Mako broke the silence.
“Marcus, I’m sorry. That was unfair back there… the boat… how on earth did you know…?”
He told her about Bill Baines and the tequila stunt. “Jesus. Why target us both? I don’t understand.” Marcus looked straight ahead without answering.
“It’s that script isn’t it? My father, you, Robert Kelso, Cara, and me…” Mako said.
“It’s more than just that script. It’s what binds us all. The past. Someone is pissed. Cara tried to warn me. I should have faced up to her fears and the past”
“We both have to face up to things from our past.” Mako paused and turned to him. “A lot of things sank along with that boat. No more burying my head in the sand. Whatever my father was, did or didn’t do, I can’t run from it now. If we are going to survive, I want answers.”
“You and me both,” Marcus said approaching a crossroads. “Other side!” she shouted as a car horn blared at them. Marcus had drifted over to the wrong side of the road. “We’re not in England.”
He swerved back, feeling the adrenalin pump into his surprised body as Mako sank back into her seat.
“Let’s try and live long enough to work it all out, huh?” she suggested, trying to lighten the moment.
“Nice wheels by the way. I thought you were broke?”
“When I bought this, classic cars were worth nothing, automotive shrapnel. What it reminds me of is priceless,” he said, then explaining to Mako the car’s significance.
They were now on the western shores of Lake Como, northeast of Milan. The 28-mile-long body of water was bordered by hills on both sides and was home to some of the most beautiful villas and palaces in Europe. The lake’s shoreline was carved with numerous inlets and coves where picture-postcard villages and hamlets had nestled for centuries. Tiny local shops with white-washed walls and terracotta roofs stood side by side all the way down to the water’s edge, where the major palazzos with their magnificent gardens hugged the shoreline.
They stopped in the small village of Cernobbio and pulled into a gas station to fill up the tank as well as top up the oil and water. They drove over the rubber tube on the tarmac that rang a bell advising the elderly patron of their arrival. The old man hobbled out, pointing at them and waving his arms, as he reached for his cell phone.
“Move it,” said Mako urgently. “We’ve been recognized. He’s calling the cops.”
Marcus’ muscles tensed as he put the car into first gear prepared to drive straight out, but then, he paused. He let out a sigh of relief. “I don’t think we are on a ‘most wanted list’ yet. We’re in Italy. Birthplace of the car fanatic,” he said with his first smile in a while. She gave him a sideways glance and then looked back at the garage owner. He gave a whoop and was obviously telling friends nearby to come and check out the rare car that had meandered out of the late afternoon haze and into his establishment.
“Mi faccia il pieno per favorita Fill her up, please,” said Marcus. The garage owner checked the oil, lovingly cleaned the screen and generally clucked around the classic Maserati like a mother hen. He shooed the two of them down to Harry’s Bar for a drink. Satisfied that the car was in good hands they entered the bar. It was situated at the water’s edge of the small stone cobbled harbor where the river boats and taxis collected and deposited both tourists and locals.
They both had a coffee and Mako a Cointreau on the rocks. Behind them, the lights from the white stuccoed Hotel Villa d’Este reflected into the black water. A little further up the lakeshore George Clooney’s villa was bathed in the sun’s late afternoon rays as the orange disc gently slipped behind the mountain peaks on the western side of the lake.
Mako had changed into Marcus’ French-cuffed white shirt and some dark blue shorts. Both ridiculously big on her but with the sleeves rolled just below her elbow, the shirt tied in a knot at her midriff and one of Marcus’ ties woven through the belt loops to bunch the shorts around her small waist, she somehow managed to look chic. Her hair was tangled from the sea salt and wind, and they were both barefoot.
“I’m not driving any more. I need a decent drink… and food” said Marcus.
“I need a shower, and some proper clothes,” said Mako.
“We could always throw caution to the wind and spend the night up the road,” he nodded towards the well-known hotel that dominated the town.
“Looks expensive. You have enough cash for that? I am pretty sure there will be some in the house when we get there.”
“Let’s risk it,” he said.
Marcus paid the bill and they wandered back over to the car, still being wiped and polished.
He opened the trunk.
Inside was a small compartment that housed a toolkit roll and a healthy reserve of cash
“In case I break down. Emergency stash” Marcus said. The wad contained €10,000, the last of his cash.
“I’ve seen how you drive. You mean more like speeding tickets than breaking down,” Mako replied with a grin.
“After the past few days, probably a totally different kind of breakdown,” Marcus replied deadpanning, then bursting into a laugh.
Peeling off some bills, he turned to the garage owner,
“When you have finished, I suggest you take it for a brief test drive to check it’s all working. Then, if you don’t mind please deliver it to the Villa d’Este if that’s OK?”
The wide grin on the old man’s face said it all.
Grabbing Marcus’ bag from the car, they wandered up the narrow lane that ran through the town. They stopped to buy some shoes and Mako a change of clothes which she kept in the bag.
“No way I’m wearing anything till I’m showered and shampooed.”
Looking barely more presentable than a couple of tramps, they turned right through the wrought iron gates that guard the manicured acres of the Villa d’Este.
“Ever been here? The most romantic hotel in the world,” said Marcus.
“Hmmm,” she murmured looking around the grounds. “So who did you come with? Was she beautiful? I am not sure I should be going with you to old haunts.”
“Come on, we all have a past, Mako. And yes, she was. But it was the car. They have a classic car concourse event here each spring, and I brought the Maserati here one year.”
“Shame, looks exactly like the right place for a sex-fueled weekend,” Mako replied.
They entered the high porticoed front door and went straight to the reception desk. Their disheveled look didn’t seem to faze the elegantly attired woman behind the desk. She looked up and smiled straight past Marcus to Mako who was standing just behind him.
“Signorina de Turris, how lovely to see you again. Your normal room is, I’m afraid, occupied but I’m sure we can find you a lakeside view.”
“We all have
a past,” Mako winked at Marcus.
35
CANNES, FRANCE
“We have to be very careful M’sieur. Le Festival du Film is also a victim,” Detective Inspector Pierre Groelet said. The balding officer with an unkempt mustache wore a crumpled black leather jacket and seemed permanently to be pinching a cigarette between his nicotine-stained forefinger and thumb.
Christo sat staring at the floor in the dingy interrogation room. One bright light, a mirror that was obviously two way and a plastic chair with a wobbly back. He was in a living nightmare. The only man he had ever cared for was dead, he knew practically no one in Cannes, and now the police were worried about bad publicity.
“And your relationship with Monsieur Kelso was…” continued the detective?
“Very happy,” replied Christo with a mixture of exhaustion and frustration.
This was the hundredth time he had been asked the same question. The first time he had been frightened, the next indignant. Now he was just pissed off.
It must have been almost 24 hours since Christo had discovered the body. After a wonderful couple of hours wandering amongst the explosion of color at the flower market, he had left Yvette to continue her shopping. With a fabulous bouquet in his arms, he had been eager to return to see how Robert’s meeting with Marcus was going.
He went straight to the kitchen with the flowers he had bought, to arrange them in several vases. He heard no voices, so assumed
Marcus had left and Robert was alone upstairs working on the balcony. It was at least ten minutes before he wandered into the main room. Then he saw him. The two vases he had been holding had smashed to the ground. Flower petals crystal shards and water covered the ground as Christo remained standing motionless.
Fall Out Page 16