by Melissa Roen
“Joe, do you know the Russians who jumped from the Mirableu last night?” I could see my query startled him, and he took his time before answering. He drained his glass in one long swallow before signaling the waiter for two more. He took a moment to collect himself, and I could see emotion moving in his hazel eyes—a bone-aching weariness, or maybe just regret.
“Si cara. I knew Sacha and his family very well.” He whispered so softly, it seemed like his voice was coming from somewhere deep inside his pain. “He was a client of sorts, besides being my friend. And no, I wasn’t with him at the Casino last night, before you ask.”
“I’m sorry, Joe. I don’t know what to say… nasty business with the kids. I don’t understand that.”
“I know you don’t understand. How could you? It doesn’t make sense. Sacha loved his family. He would never do anything to harm them. There’s something more going on. He was doing everything to get them to safety. Sacha didn’t play for high stakes, and whoever is spreading the rumor that he jumped because of massive losses at the Casino, is creating a smokescreen to hide behind. I think he had something pretty explosive on someone big. They didn’t go off that balcony willingly. I’d take odds on it.”
Then, he whispered one word, almost like a curse, “Slava.” And I realized my friend Giovanni was swimming with some very big sharks.
All kinds of frightening rumors swirled about a man like Slava. The one that seemed to have stuck, probably because it was based on truth, is that during the years when Slava was consolidating his power and wealth, he was Vladimir Putin’s unofficial right-hand man. Slava never held any public office or ran a ministry, preferring to operate in the shadows. Yet no one would dispute that his influence reached into the upper echelons of the Kremlin, and he was known to be ruthless in his business dealings.
I sat there for a minute, running through all the ramifications of Giovanni’s surprising disclosure. I knew Giovanni was old-school; hurt his close friends, and it was an eye for an eye. But Slava was as close as you could get to untouchable in Monaco. For that kind of big game hunting, you’d need a rocket-propelled missile. You would only get one chance. If only wounded, he would stomp Joe as easily as an enraged bull-elephant crushing an ant.
A couple of summers ago, I’d been invited by an acquaintance, a Bosnian party girl named Tasha, to a fete thrown by one of the Russian oligarchs. It started off on a 150-meter-ice-breaker disguised as a floating palace, anchored in front of the owner’s villa, the Chateau de St. Hospice, in St. Jean Cap Ferrat. Of course, there were the ubiquitous mounds of the finest caviar from Ossetia, an unending stream of ice-cold vodka, fountains of champagne, piles of Peruvian Flake, and quite possibly some of the most stunning women on the planet.
Most scraped in just under six-foot, their long limbs and curves clad in transparent wisps of haute couture fashion, their wrists and earlobes weighed down by some very serious bling. Slavic cheekbones and smoky eyes slanting upwards spoke of Tartars and Genghis Khan in their distant family trees. They strutted around on diamante-encrusted heels or draped decoratively on the arms of the owner and his guests.
It was my first time Partying with the Oligarchs, and I couldn’t help being astonished by the ostentatious display of wealth in the décor, artwork and toys that embellished their lifestyle. By midnight, when the night sky lit up with fireworks commanded by our host, a Ukrainian industrialist named Dmitri Rosnvov, the majority of his guests were well on their way to being stinking drunk.
The former Soviet Union bred exquisite young women. I wondered if the radioactivity released by the meltdown of Chernobyl had mutated their DNA and created in the women a generation of Slavic Amazonians.
As for their male counterparts—whether it was the shape of their heads, their height and breadth, their sloping shoulders and shambling gait, the suspicious and bloodshot eyes, the undefined doughy features and heavily stubbled chins—somehow or other, the radioactivity had transformed them into lumbering bears.
By 2 a.m., my first impression of an ursine confabulation was confirmed as under the sultry summer heat, quite a few of the guests had stripped down to their briefs, or for the bold, to their nasty bits, for a Midsummer’s Eve dip in the pool and Jacuzzi on the play deck. The tufts of hair sprouting from shoulders and feathering down backsides and chests in matted pelts was evidently a badge of masculine pride. Apparently “manscaping,” or Brazilian back-waxing, had yet to catch on in their neck of the woods. And the hairiest grizzly of them all was Slava.
I’m not sure how it happened, but at some point, Tasha and I were photographed, each perched on one of Slava’s massive thighs, crushed in a bear hug against the pelt of man-hair interspersed with tattoos of the Russian mafia, the Vorovsky Zakov, that decorated his chest, while he waved a bottle of Belvedere in each paw, drunkenly singing along to the music blaring in the background.
A few minutes afterwards, Tasha sent a copy of the photos to my iPhone and surprised me when she whispered conspiratorially, “You could get a million dollars for those photos from the tabloids in Moscow.”
“You’ve gotta be joking. Who the hell is this guy?” And from Tasha, I heard for the first time the rumors about the hard and hairy man, Slava.
Not long after, the party disintegrated into drunken mayhem. The jovial Slava of a short time before became surly and belligerent as he slammed back shots of vodka. You could see in his eyes he was just waiting for the slightest provocation to set him off.
The last I saw of him, he was in a half-circle of men on the aft deck, jabbing his finger into the chest of one of them, his face red with rage. I’d just stepped into the tender to return to shore when I heard what sounded like a bottle smashing into someone’s head and the meaty thud of fists and feet meeting flesh. No one spoke as we cast off, but a voice pleading for mercy floated after us over the water, all the way back to the dock.
The next day, I called Tasha and asked her if it was really true that the pictures could be sold for the kind of money she mentioned.
“Yes, Maya, but I won’t let you do it. This morning when I got up, I deleted the photos, and you should, too.” she confirmed.
“Come on, Tasha, you couldn’t use a half a million? Hell, I could. If he’s that big of a deal, he shouldn’t be so indiscreet—taking pictures with complete strangers—should he?” I was half-joking, not really believing in that kind of payday.
“Yes, you really could get that kind of money. But I like you. You’re my friend, and I won’t let you do it. Don’t you understand? If you sold those pictures, they would kill you. I’m dead serious.” She wasn’t messing around. I could hear the fear threading through her voice.
After that night, a friendship started to blossom between us. We might be from different worlds; she was wild and could drink me and most men under the table. Growing up in war-torn Sarajevo would have made anyone half-crazy, but Tasha, besides being a knockout, was street-smart and as I found out, extremely loyal. Like Joe, once you became a part of her extended family, she would have your back in any dark alley.
I never deleted them; I still have those pictures from that night with Slava hidden away in a safe place at home. Tasha, dark tresses falling to her waist while she pressed a kiss to Slava’s cheek; me, a deer caught in the headlights, with a “what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here?” expression frozen on my face. But snapshots like these wouldn’t give Joe any leverage against Slava.
I knew how Giovanni’s mind tracked, but I couldn’t stand the thought of losing anyone else. I covered his hand with my own. “You’re not thinking about doing anything stupid are you, Joe? That’s just crazy shit, if you think you can take revenge. You can’t touch Slava.”
“Cosa pensi, cara? I don’t have a death wish. I owe it to Sacha to investigate his death. He was my friend. But I need to know what Sacha had and on who. Then, we’ll see if there’s anything I can do.”
He kept his voice low, all the while scanning the terrace. I followed his gaze and in a flash of insight, I r
ealized that those hard, young men I assumed worked for the Surete Publique of Monaco didn’t really look French. Maybe they were specially trained to blend in; maybe the younger generation had taken to manscaping, as they didn’t stand out by being particularly ursine in manner or appearance. But it appeared the Russian bear had found a new habitat. A power shift was taking place, and the rumor about Slava’s plans to take over the Principality appeared to have some basis in reality.
Currently, the French were guaranteeing the security of Monaco’s borders, but the Prince was said to be so distracted by the death threats against his family and the imminent birth of the heir. It had been a difficult pregnancy for the Princess. She hadn’t been seen in public for months now.
The Prince was well-loved by his people, but these times called for a hard man. His father had been just such a man. When people had spoken of him, it was simply as The Boss.
Power loves a vacuum, and it looked like Slava thought he was the man to fill that vacuum. It probably wouldn’t be a coup d’état exactly; something more reminiscent of a Nazi-Vichy collaboration was in the works. Slava could supply all the security any Prince would ever need, protect his family and preserve the status quo in the Principality. He had the resources and manpower at his fingertips. He had vast sums of money at his disposal; he could buy and sell the ruling House of Monaco many times over.
Slava always preferred to operate in the shadows, so Monaco would have its beloved Prince as a figurehead. He knew how to play on weaker men’s fears; the murderous horde is at your door, but there’s safety assured in the embrace of a benevolent bear.
“Joe, I can’t believe the Prince would even be considering doing business with Slava.”
“I don’t know if he really is going to have a choice. The French are too distracted defending the Security Zone. The Prince needs to find allies he can trust—and quickly—to counter Slava’s power grab.”
“Mary Mother of God, any fool knows you never make a deal with a devil you meet at the crossroads. No matter how sweet or seductive it sounds. Once you’re in bed together, no amount of blow jobs will satisfy him; the only thing he’s interested in is your soul.” I shook my head in exasperation.
If Slava ever became the power behind the throne, Monaco would become Slava’s private gulag. Who’s to say his ambition and thirst for power would stop there? I lived just down the road. From Monaco, he would cast a big shadow. It wouldn’t be long before he was the de facto boss of the whole Cote d’Azur. Suddenly, the hordes at the door didn’t sound so bad.
“You know Maya, giants do fall.” The mischievous twinkle was back in his eye.
“I know, darling, but that usually involves beanstalks or slingshots.” I couldn’t help but smile, seeing his natural optimism once more resurfacing. “I take it you’re not going to leave this alone. Okay, then, David, how can I help you slay Goliath?”
“No cara. This isn’t your fight. I can’t let you get involved. If Slava does take over, I think you should give serious thought about going to join your sister Leah. This is not going to be a safe place for someone without family, for someone all alone.”
“Joe, I can’t argue with your logic. But leaving France is a one-way ticket; there will be no coming back. Leaving aside the price for a ticket to New York from Nice, there are so many desperate people fighting to leave; it might take six months before I could get on a flight. Moreover, no one even knows if in six months there will still be commercial flights or if America will let them land.”
“Those are all real problems, but you can’t stay! Let me think about it. I might be able to help you get back to America.”
“Yeah, but flying into a hell-hole like New York, unarmed and alone—Joe, that would be like checking into the psycho-ward, except all the paranoids and psychopaths will be on their home turf and armed, except me.” I finished my drink in one swallow as I warmed to my subject.
“And arriving in New York won’t get me to safety with Leah. I still have to find a way to cross the killing fields the rest of the States has become. What I need is a friend with a G6 or a Bombardier, who could drop me off in Oregon, or at the very least, open the hatch as they were flying over and let me parachute down. Or maybe there will be a wagon train heading west, like in the old days, I could join.”
“Maya, it doesn’t sound like you want to leave! At least promise me you’ll think about it.” His exasperation changed to realization. “A friend with a G6 or a Bombardier! You know… you just might have given me an idea.”
“Ok, ok, I promise I’ll think seriously about it, but I can’t leave just yet. Joe, I want you to help me with something first.” Taking a deep breath, I continued. “I want you to help me find Julian.”
“Maya, are you sure? The way he left you, afterwards you were a mess. It’s taken you this long to come back. Do you even have an idea where to start, or even if Julian wants you to find him?”
“No, I don’t know the answer to any of those questions. But can’t you understand? I can’t leave without trying.”
Of course I wasn’t going to tell him about Victoria the psychic and her claims about bonds of love that can’t be broken, or her prophecy that I would never know happiness until I was back in Julian’s arms. I wasn’t about to admit to anyone my insane and romantic delusion about soul mates, destiny and happy endings. Most of the time, I couldn’t even admit it to myself.
“Let me think…Where was the last place you heard from him?”
“I think he’s in Marseille. I just don’t know with any certainty. He’s somewhere out there in all that mess. His mother is in Marseille, and she was sick, last I heard.”
Of course, the old witch always played the sick card when she wanted to have her baby boy drop everything, and run to her side. “That’s probably where we should start looking, out there in the badlands around Marseille.”
“Ok, if I do this, you have to promise me that you’ll let me also start looking for a way for you to get to Leah. I’m serious. I don’t think you can count on Julian. He left you, and he’s not tried to contact you in months. I don’t see why you won’t at least move into Monaco. I can find you a place to stay. It’s getting too dangerous, living in your villa in France alone.”
I knew not to push it any further today; at least I got him to grudgingly agree he would start the search. I also knew Giovanni was my best shot at finding Julian. I couldn’t do it alone. But living in Monaco—maybe very soon under Slava’s iron fist—would be like living in a cage. I’d rather take my chances in France.
“I want you to come with me in a couple of weeks; on June twenty-first, there’s going to be a Midsummer’s Eve party given by Sheik Sakr bin Zayed from Abu Dhabi. There are some people I want you to meet. Maybe they can help you out.”
“To find Julian?”
Giovanni didn’t even need to answer; the look he gave me said it all. This would be a part of the quid pro quo. He would only help me look for Julian if he knew I was making an effort to get to safety.
It’d been so long since I’d put on a party dress and kicked up my heels. I couldn’t help thinking the old saying, “Nero fiddled, while Rome burned,” applied to Monaco. The party here was still swinging; collective denial reigned. It might be fun. So when in Rome…
“Ok it’s a deal.” I stuck out my hand. I knew Giovanni wouldn’t be above emotional blackmail and manipulation if he thought it was in my best interests. I also knew, however it played out, he wouldn’t let me down.
CHAPTER 7
ANCIENT SONGS
It was hard going with these ghosts on my back—all of them jostling for shotgun—as I climbed the remaining traces of the old Roman Salt Road to the Tete de Chien. From the way they were elbowing each other for position, it would appear even the dead enjoyed a nice view.
I stopped near the top to drink from my water bottle. The Med, a wide expanse of blue of such intensity it hurt my eyes, stretched to the horizon before melding into the sky. The outcroppings of
stones on the mountain were bleached by the relentless sun. The granite cliffs carved by ancient winds reminded me of old bones: spines thrusting from the earth, skeletons scattered on a long-ago Roman battlefield. Even the fields of wildflowers seemed placed there, like bouquets on graves, honoring the fallen dead.
With my back aching from the strain, I felt a kinship with those Roman slaves who’d hacked a road through this nearly vertical terrain to build a monument, the Trophee des Alpes, in tribute to Caesar Augustus’ conquest over the southern Gallic tribes.
I’ve been climbing these trails—following in their sweat, and bloody footsteps—for years now, ever since Death and I had established a nodding acquaintance. So many of my loved ones are gone now, some like my daddy or Blue to old age and disease. Others succumbed to the madness of what our world has become.
While I walk these trails of ancient rock and endless sky, I feel the ache of their passing deep inside me and wish I could have done more to help them find peace while they were still alive. I try and understand the demons which so tormented Adam that the only escape he could find was hanging at the end of a rope. The despair of living that dogged Laurent’s footsteps as he walked out into the California desert—into an isolated box canyon where only rattlesnakes and coyotes roamed—and put a gun to his head.
And the ones like Kai, lost amongst the ruin of Japan, or Julian, who had vanished. They were only missing, but I couldn’t know whether they were still alive.
I felt the heat of the sun melting into my skin as I struggled up the last hundred meters to the top. I rested for a few minutes in the long shadow of Octavian’s monument to pride. I perched on a chair of stone carved into the hillside like a throne from an ancient race of giants. The whole coast spread below me: the red rocks of the Esterels past Cap d’Antibe to the west, down to the rooftops of the Palace on the Roche, and heading east to the hills in Italy.
My destination was the sanctuary of Notre Dame de Laghet, nestled in a valley about five klicks away. But there was another purpose to my trek: I was scouting a fall-back location in these hills—off the beaten track and easily defended—where I could stash some supplies in case I needed to flee the coast.