by Roman Klee
The villa Delacroix was not what Nathan expected either. In truth he had not given the place a lot of thought. He assumed it would be just like any other grand house along the French Riviera. That was until he saw the length of the drive.
Nathan was surprised that Carla had not even hinted at the villa being so large. It was the size of a dozen Bel Air mansions. It was Versailles on the waterfront. If the Villa Delacroix was not the largest and most expensive piece of real estate on the Riviera, then it was certainly right near the top. The grounds had to be at least sixty acres.
A short walk down from the main villa, was a lagoon shaped swimming pool, surrounded by classical stone statues and lions passing water through their mouths. Part of the garden was set out in the formal French way, with a grand parterre divided by box and lavender borders. In the less formal terraced areas, pine, cypress and olive trees grew freely all the way down to a secluded private beach with views across the bay.
When Nathan approached the gatehouse, he was not sure the security guard would let him in. The guy rang through to the villa and Nathan’s chances didn’t look promising.
His fears were confirmed when the guard told him he had to use the entrance on the south side of the estate, which meant Nathan taking a small detour. But he was confident of being ahead of schedule.
According to Google maps, the distance by sea between Marseille and Villefranche-sur-Mer was a good two hundred kilometres. Nathan then used a conversion app on his phone and calculated the number in miles. It would take Anastasia another two hours to make it offshore at her regular cruising speed.
So when Nathan parked his Merc outside the south gate, he was stunned to see that Anastasia’s elegant silhouette now dominated the bay—although he had to admit, Captain Volcker could not have found a more perfect setting.
But how had she arrived before him? Even getting pulled over by the police for speeding on the autoroute should not have made much difference. Then he realized there was only one explanation. Both the first officer and Carla must have texted their messages while the yacht was already at sea.
Nathan had taken care not to tell Carla who he was having lunch with. And before he left for Villefranche, he had no idea how much Budd’s old friend would reveal about Dirk Bruening. Still, he thought it odd they would leave in Anastasia before he had a chance to get back.
Maybe Carla had found out about the lunch, though he really had no idea who might have told her. Or maybe this was her way of subtly testing how eager he was to chase her around.
The guard opened the gate for Nathan and he headed in the direction of the boathouse. By an odd coincidence, the villa and yacht were built in the same year, brought into the world during the height of the Jazz Age. The owner of the Villa Delacroix would have felt perfectly at home aboard Anastasia; she might once have been the family yacht.
And then Nathan made his second wrong assumption of the day. He assumed they were visiting one of the Wright-Bruening’s friends for a summer party. It had all the potential of being a great social occasion, with fine food and celebrity company. He was looking forward to mixing with more of Carla’s friends.
It was easy to forget that he wasn’t there for just a fact finding exercise. If he didn’t get a fix on where Liz was hiding out, then he had a fall back plan—so long as he could get a couple of Carla’s friends to transfer their business to the Trust. But from what Nathan could tell, no one was making any preparations for entertaining. All he saw was a line of moving trucks and the constant coming and going of men carrying expensive looking pieces of furniture.
Another group was pushing garment racks around. When Nathan took a second look, he noticed they were all period costumes, probably from around the eighteenth-century. Most were extravagant silk brocade and damask creations. Nathan was puzzled, since he didn’t think for a minute that the owner of the Villa Delacroix walked around dressed in a corset and high-heeled shoes with buckles.
He heard a small truck start its engine and saw a logo of a tall chef’s hat on one side. And now he knew what was going on; the caterers were clearing up after a party and by all accounts it must have been a spectacular affair, even if Nathan was beginning to sense that the place had an end of century feel to it.
Then he noticed a woman walking slowly down from the boathouse to the jetty at the end of the villa’s private beach. Here was his chance.
He hoped she wouldn’t mind if he asked for a ride.
Δ = T –16,280,640
Nathan pressed his car horn long enough to attract Consuelo DuBignon’s attention. She turned and looked over in his direction. Nathan seemed to be making a habit of missing boats and didn’t want to do so for the second time in a day.
He threw the car keys into the hands of a security guard, who was walking toward him and about to ask, Why all the noise? And then launching into a sprint, Nathan ran down to where Consuelo was standing on the jetty.
Badly out of breath, he introduced himself and was surprised by Consuelo’s response, “Oh, I see, you’re Nathan.”
So this was Carla’s friend.
He wasn’t sure whether her reaction was a good or bad sign, but at least Carla must have mentioned his name enough times for Consuelo to remember he existed.
“I guess you’re heading the same place as me?”
Nathan nodded and they both looked across the bay.
“Okay, there’s no time like the present.”
And Richie, a member of Anastasia’s crew Nathan had never seen before, helped Consuelo onto the Aquariva moored next to the jetty.
Nathan cast his eyes over the thirty-three-foot classic Italian motor launch, a newer, longer version of the Riva Aquarama. Although the hull was GRP, it still retained the elegance of the original model, plus the top deck was finished in mahogany to give it the distinctive look that had made the Riva name so famous.
Nathan always wanted to get behind the wheel of one. He imagined what it would be like handling the throttle; a sudden upward thrust would make the boat leap up in the air and skim across the surface of the water. He casually asked her top speed. “Forty-two knots,” replied Richie.
That was impressive to say the least. It was so tempting, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Can I have a go?”
Nathan knew he had nothing to lose, the guy could only say no. Richie glanced at Consuelo; she raised no objection. But she was being overly trusting. Nathan had no experience of steering any kind of boat, let alone one with twin Yanmar engines capable of producing three-hundred and eighty horse power each.
Nathan helped Richie cast off and then perched awkwardly on the bench style driver’s seat. Consuelo was sitting directly behind him on the cream semi-circular leather couch, trying her best to look relaxed.
Like most beginners, Nathan imagined steering a boat would be just like driving a car. He grasped the wheel and moved the throttle up gently. But he immediately overcorrected, causing the boat to swerve from side to side, as if he was drunk. Fortunately, this was not a major problem in an open space like the bay.
Then just for fun, Richie flicked the throttle up hard, and the Riva responded instantly, raising her bow and creating a long pure white plume of wash.
Now they were heading directly for Anastasia, and would hit her mid-ships, unless … someone intervened.
At the last minute, Richie, spun the wheel to starboard, and the Riva veered away from Anastasia, sending up a huge arch of sea spray, guaranteed to get the attention of everyone on board.
“See,” said Richie, “you can’t capsize this beauty!”
Minutes later, they were all safely walking up the passerelle.
Nathan and Consuelo were in time for aperitifs.
Δ = T –16,262,640
The battleship-grey patrol vessel of the gendarmerie maritime, came along side Anastasia. A couple of crew members lowered an RIB and a sma
ll inspection party was dispatched.
Captain Volcker got ready to receive the visitors, the crew adjusting the passerelle so the gendarmes could get aboard. He greeted them politely, under the impression they had come to carry out a routine inspection.
Because Anastasia was registered in Gibraltar and sailed under the Red Ensign, she had White List status. Volcker always assumed this made her less likely to be the target of a random search by naval authorities. He invited the lieutenant to the bridge, so the guy could check the yacht’s logbook.
But Volcker was taken aback when Lieutenant Blanc dismissed his offer and with a sense of great self-importance, announced the reason for coming aboard.
“Capitaine Volcker, I am required to perform a search of your vessel in accordance with the powers vested in me by the procurator of the Republic. We suspect you are transporting narcotics.”
“Hey fella, you can’t do that! You need a search warrant. I’m ordering you to disembark immediately!”
“I regret Capitaine, but you are in French territorial waters and you have no right to give me orders.”
This was true and Volcker knew there was nothing he could really do, other than to protest vigorously, keep calm and then make an official complaint at a later date. “I need you to assemble your crew on deck and to tell the guests to meet in the salon with their identity cards or passports. Please do this now.”
The lieutenant ordered one of his cadet officers to check the crew’s documents. He fully expected that at least a couple of them would have forged or irregular papers—it was not uncommon in his experience for people to take to a life on the sea, as a way of escaping their past.
Then he returned to the main deck salon. With everyone looking increasingly nervous, the lieutenant sat down at the backgammon table and instructed each of the guests to present him with their passports.
He leafed through the blue and gold eagle embossed documents, paying careful attention to the visa and immigration control stamps. So far nothing was out of the ordinary.
Then Mary Beth stepped forward and held out her passport.
“What are these men doing on our yacht, Monsieur? I don’t like dinner being interrupted.”
The lieutenant did not appear to hear Mary Beth’s question. So she repeated it and from the tone of her voice, Nathan had the impression she was looking for an argument.
“They are making a search for narcotics,” came the terse reply.
Mary Beth did not so much as blink when she learned the reason for the invasion of privacy.
“You can look to your heart’s content, but you’re wasting your time. You only increase the chances I will make an official complaint. And it will have consequences for your men and especially your career.”
“Madame, may I suggest you don’t make empty threats. The next time I may not choose to overlook your remarks.”
“And do I need to remind you Monsieur … do you know who you are talking to?”
Once again, the lieutenant appeared not to have heard Mary Beth, because he gave a slight nod to his second in command and the search using electronic sniffer devices began.
So far so civilized. The passport checks continued until it was Consuelo DuBignon’s turn. She was well aware she needed to remain calm and composed. What had been the point of spending thousands of dollars on therapy if it yielded no positive results?
The lieutenant turned her passport over several times and peered carefully at the front and back pages. He seemed to be examining the document much more thoroughly than all the others. Finally he asked, “Madame, I would like to know how you came to have this passport?”
“I don’t think I have to tell you. Do you doubt who I say I am?”
Consuelo looked like she was about to reach for her cell phone, but before she could dial a number, the lieutenant said, “You are surely aware Madame, of the status of British Honduras? So I repeat my question, how did you get this passport?”
Carla sensed this could develop into a tense stand off, unless she did something to diffuse the situation quickly.
“I can vouch for Mrs. DuBignon, if you need proof, I know we can supply it.”
“I’m sure you can, Madame, but I’m afraid that is not good enough. This type of document is not valid for entry into French territory.”
Now the little scene was starting to become more than embarrassing. It looked like there were legal consequences flowing from their trip to the Côte d’Azur.
“What is wrong with the passport?”
“That is simple enough. British Honduras no longer exists, it has no authority to issue valid travel documents.”
And the lieutenant repeated that Madame DuBignon had committed a very serious offense.
While this discussion was going on, Dirk moved out onto the port side deck and dialed a number on his cell phone. He spoke in a low voice, his back to the windows, so no one could read his lips or see the signs of tension on his face.
But whoever he spoke to and whatever he said, the impact was immediate.
Captain Volcker called Lieutenant Blanc up to the bridge to take an important radio call. After a short delay, he reappeared in the main deck salon. His men had regrouped and got ready to disembark.
“I regret there has been a serious mistake messieurs-dames,” said the lieutenant, suddenly acknowledging his error. “The search is finished and I make a full apology for disturbing your evening.”
The three women smiled and acted like gracious hosts who realized mistakes could happen, but they had to be put right at once and must never be repeated. Dirk completely ignored the guy.
On the surface, Consuelo DuBignon appeared in control, but underneath she was seething. A bunch of gendarmes had boarded Anastasia, within full view of the Villa Delacroix, and performed a search for narcotics. The incident was certain to become the talk of the Riviera. She would be the subject of mocking cocktail party gossip.
But she was at least comforted by one thought; if the French authorities decided to get tough with people who enjoyed visibly displaying their wealth, she knew many more yacht owners cruising the Med, who would find sleeping at night a whole lot more difficult than usual that summer.
Δ = T –16,176,240
There was no doubt that the sea air was doing Nathan good. He went to bed early and slept late into the morning. He had gradually become accustomed to the way Anastasia gently rolled in moderate seas, though his anxiety levels quickly rose when the wind got up and the waves grew bigger and started to foam.
He put on a bathrobe, shut his cabin door quietly behind him and then silently moved along the corridor that almost ran the entire length of the yacht. Strangely, there were no signs of any of the other guests.
Nathan climbed the staircase to the main deck and thought about doing a little gentle jogging, there was certainly enough space, but in the end, he decided not to because it might wake up the rest of the Wright family and the last thing on his mind was to be considered a nuisance guest, especially after how hospitable they had all been—even Mary Beth was starting to mellow.
So far however, he hadn’t seen anyone. He didn’t think they were all still asleep.
Then Nathan heard voices and looking around, realized they had to be coming from the sundeck. He quickly made his way over to the port side and up the narrow stairs. What he saw surprised him.
Two of the crew, dressed only in shorts and deck shoes, were throwing the seating cushions overboard.
Then there was something else Nathan had not noticed. A small launch boat had approached Anastasia, from the starboard side, which faced away from the shore.
As each cushion hit the water, one of the guys on the launch grabbed it and hauled it on board. Nathan thought their behavior very strange, especially since he could not recall seeing any visible signs of wear or damage to the cushions, so why did they need cha
nging?
It was of course none of his business, so he decided he wouldn’t mention it to Carla at breakfast. But if anyone wanted to sunbathe later in the day, they would find the experience very uncomfortable.
Nathan discovered his hosts were in the dining room. Dirk started to tell him how they needed to do a survey of the yacht’s funnel. In his opinion, it had developed a structural problem. He had spotted stress fractures at the base, which could lead to more severe cracks. Additional bracing was needed.
Dirk thought that since they needed to fix the funnel, maybe it was a good time to finally say goodbye to the original engines. They had proved unreliable as he suspected, when tested during a long trip.
With the funnel removed there would be easy access to the engine room—might as well do both operations at the same time.
Consuelo and Mary Beth thought there was no need for drastic action. Carla didn’t want to commit herself one way or another. In the end, it all depended on who was paying, so they decided to leave the discussion for another time.
Dirk didn’t take any notice of the objections and invited over a couple of surveyors from the same Viareggio workshop that had done the original restoration work.
If they discovered anything really serious, then Anastasia would have to travel along the coast to Italy and be placed in a dry dock.
When Nathan woke up the next morning, he noticed that the little red light on his phone was flashing—he had a voicemail.
“We’re spending the day in Monte Carlo. I thought you’d like to sleep in. If you change your mind call my cell,” said Carla.
Normally, the party would have approached the exclusive Principality from the sea, aboard Anastasia. That was the original idea. But Dirk had changed the plans and instead they hired a helicopter, which would get them there in a matter of minutes.