I stood at the roulette table for half an hour, watching the swarthy-faced man become increasingly desperate as he doubled up on his system. Chronic gamblers often believe in the fallacy (called the Monte Carlo doctrine) that each particular play in a game of chance is not independent of the others, and that a series of outcomes will balance out in the long run by exact, alternate possibilities. Most of the gambling systems are based on this fallacy, and I knew that casino operators were happy to encourage them.
I glanced at my watch. It was half past ten. A long night lay ahead. To pass the time, I decided to try my hand at the black-jack table and chose the one with the highest stakes, Naomi style. Here, at least, I could memorize the cards as each hand was exposed.
When we were three-quarters of the way through the pack and I had memorized the used cards, the croupier dealt me an ace, the last. Ah-ha! I bet ten thousand francs and waited for my second card. It was a jack. As the croupier placed his cards face up on the table, I scooped up my winnings. I managed to win three more times, before taking a break. Of course, the winnings belonged to Father, since I was gambling with his money, and for the same reason, had I lost I would have felt obliged to replace it. Clearly, I was in a no-win situation. What a bore.
It was then that I stepped back, collided with a spectator and spilt my drink on the floor.
‘Let me replace it,’ he said, rubbing his wet sleeves. ‘I was crowding you.’
What was that accent? Russian?
‘My clumsiness. Sorry. Please don’t bother.’
‘I insist, Ms Hunter. I’ll see you on the terrace. It seems quiet there tonight.’
He was tall and swarthy, with reckless, renegade brown eyes and an air of wild sensuality, which had something to do with his flared nostrils, wide full lips and high cheekbones. Cossack roots, I guessed. He was barely forty, but his air of studied contempt gave the impression of someone older. As he walked towards the bar, I noticed the grace and economy of his movements. He was fit and very strong, and he reminded me of a leopard stalking its prey.
I walked out on to the terrace and shivered with the damp breeze. I peered over the balustrade at the mist-shrouded waves breaking on the rocks below. The casino lights created evanescent rainbows in the spray. I watched, fascinated, and did not hear the man’s return, but suddenly he was there beside me, standing far too close, invading my space with his intimate, powerful presence.
‘You were drinking tonic water, but I know that you like martinis. Perhaps you felt you had to keep your wits about you. Don’t worry. With me you can relax, Naomi. I want to be your friend.’
An Arctic bear could not have growled more deeply or more menacingly. Or so sexually. I hastily banished that last thought as he handed me a dry martini with an olive. Was he one of the recent influx of high-rollers from Russia?
‘You’ve made me curious. Who are you? How do you know my name?’
His smile was extraordinary. It began with a beam of warmth in his eyes, then his face crinkled into a patchwork of lines, and finally his lips opened in a rueful grin.
‘I am Sergei Romanovitch, jewellery designer by profession, but nowadays I seldom have the time. I want to put some business your way. Naturally, one does a certain amount of – shall I call it research? – before offering a partnership. By the way, Naomi, that is a very beautiful necklace you are wearing. Where did you get it?’
‘It was a gift from someone who was once very close to me.’ I almost choked on the words.
‘He had excellent taste. Those are flawless diamonds with perfectly matched black star sapphires, a gift that is both rare and beautiful. Will you come with me to my home? I live nearby. I have matters that I wish to discuss with you but only in private.’
‘What could be more private than here? No one wants to brave the cold. I can’t say I blame them. Hard to believe it’s August.’
Sergei took off his blazer and put it around my shoulders. There was a pleasant, musky smell about it, intermingled with lemon verbena. He was wearing a tightly fitting short-sleeved black T-shirt and through the thin fabric I could see the strength in his arms and neck, rock-hard muscles that only years of intense physical labour could have produced.
‘You’ll be cold.’
‘Please! I was reared in Siberia. I can’t talk about this project here, Naomi. I have to show you certain objects.’
‘Perhaps tomorrow evening. Yes, why not? I’d be delighted. Right now, I’m tired.’ I wanted to check him out first.
‘I’m sorry, Ms Hunter, but it must be tonight. Drink up. Let’s go.’
I shrugged and smiled. ‘Very well.’ Sergei gripped my arm and led me through the casino to the car park, where he opened the door of a black Maserati sports car. Moments later, we were gliding through the main street to the highway. When we reached the summit of the ridge overlooking Monte Carlo, he turned off near the Monaco Sports Club into a cul-de-sac. Wrought-iron gates slid open and we drove towards a house that took my breath away. It was built on a large rock, so that the granite slopes seemed to be part of the architecture. From below, in the car’s headlights, it looked like a series of jutting ledges and angles in a deep reddish ochre, reminiscent of Corsican cliffs. The garage doors slid open and we swept in. As they shut silently behind us, I experienced a sense of fatalism. I had entirely lost control of the situation.
Chapter 51
The house was extraordinary, like its owner, I decided, as I followed Sergei on a tour of the ground floor. The design was open-plan, with each large room set at a different level and angle. The decor was plain white, which set off Sergei’s remarkable collection of Russian icons. The Persian rugs on the white tiles looked old and rare.
‘Collecting icons is my hobby, Naomi. The one you are looking at is thirteenth century, from Constantinople. And this one is Siberian. I found it in a long-abandoned church. My biggest problem was discovering from whom I could purchase it. No one wanted to be responsible.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘Naturally I stole it. Our country’s heritage is leaving Russia by shiploads each week. Most of it is smuggled out through the Ukraine to Odessa, or via Hungary to the West. I was determined to have my share. In Russia, the genuine article is becoming increasingly hard to find.
‘Let’s get back to business. I brought you here to show you something. But first, what will you drink?’
‘A martini would be lovely.’ Drink in hand, I followed him around, admiring his superb collection of icons, but when we reached his bedroom and he led me inside, I had a moment of misgiving. Icons instead of etchings? It was a typically male bedroom, I noticed, Spartan in its furnishings.
Sergei was striding across the room. He pushed a large mirror along sliding rails, revealing a door to a walk-in safe. I followed him into a small anteroom without windows, lined with glass-enclosed shelves. Six costly pieces of jewellery were displayed on velvet boards. I held my breath as I bent over the beautiful gems. Sergei handled each piece reverently as he told me its history.
‘So you deal in antique Russian jewellery?’
‘At present, yes. This one is not Russian.’
He picked up a three-stranded diamond and ruby necklace from its black velvet board. Something about the careless way he handled the piece made me suspect that it was worthless, but I was entranced at the beauty of the design and the flawless craftsmanship.
‘So where’s the original?’
He chuckled. It was a deep-throated, pleasant laugh. ‘So you know a fake when you see one.’
‘Not really. Sorry to disappoint you. I guessed from your irreverence.’
‘I was right about you, Naomi. You’re very smart. I want you to go to Prague and buy the original. Use your client’s cash to buy the necklace. You will pay for it in cash and repay your client in a cheque drawn on a famous London auction house. We split the profits and you get your laundering fee as well.’
I turned away from Sergei, pretending to admire a necklace, but I
was trying to hide my shock.
‘What makes you think that I…?’
‘You’ve been hanging around the sports club and the casino for a month, touting for business. You’ve had a few nibbles but that’s not what you’re after. You’re waiting for the big boys, I assume. I need their dirty cash, too, but for quite another reason – as temporary capital. I’m cleaned out and I have to start again. I want to propose a deal, Naomi. I can put you in touch with someone very big indeed.’
‘There’s only one problem, Sergei, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘For instance,’ he said, ignoring my denials, ‘I am a close friend of the once lovely Carla Maria Lo Bello. She’s the long-term mistress of Vittorio Cassellari. I have noticed you talking to her often. I know that you are trying to make her acquaintance. You never will without my help.’
‘Why are you spying on me?’
‘Naomi, don’t be so naive. It’s public knowledge that you conned the American public out of millions and got away with it. No trace of the cash was ever found. Now here you are, touting for business. The rumour is that you launder money very effectively. I need you and I can help you. Let’s make a deal.’
So Father had been right when he’d insisted that eventually the criminals would come to me. At that moment I experienced such a strong sense of fatalism that my arms came out in goose-pimples.
‘So trust me, my lovely Naomi,’ Sergei was saying. ‘Carla does. She’ll begin in a small way to test you. Maybe a million dollars, which would be enough to purchase this necklace. A dealer in Prague is anxious to sell it to me.’
‘Why should I want to share my business with you?’
‘Because you need to launder your dirty cash and I can provide you with the means to do this. And then there’s another reason. The profits will be large and I will give you a share. This particular necklace might fetch double what we’ll be paying for it. I’ll pay you ten per cent of my profit.’
‘Since I have the cash, Sergei, why do I need you?’
He laughed. ‘You have no idea what’s wanted, what’s available or what to offer. How about it, Naomi?’
His deal made sense. It was a good method of laundering cash because my client would receive a bona fide auction-house cheque.
‘Sergei, I’ll try to use you as often as I can, but it won’t be all the time. I have to change my money routes all the time. You must understand that. And there’s another problem. I could be cheated by the dealers. I wouldn’t know a fake from the genuine article.’
‘I’ll teach you, Naomi. Trust me. We’ll start now.’
Sergei wanted to tell me about all the lovely pieces currently on offer in Europe, their background, their design, and their past and present owners, but it was almost three a.m. I leaned back in a roomy settee and momentarily closed my eyes. Then I felt Sergei shaking my arm.
‘Come, Naomi. I must take you home.’
I stirred as I felt his lips on mine. Then sanity returned. Pushing him away, I stood up, suddenly wide awake, glaring at him.
‘I was merely sealing our bargain. From now on I promise to behave. You’re dying of boredom. I’ll drive you back to your car.’
I laughed. ‘I was tired, not bored, Sergei. No hard feelings, I hope.’
As he drove me to my car near the casino, I marvelled at my awakening libido. I had to admit that Sergei was a fascinating man.
Chapter 52
Once again I was on hallowed ground, my alternate-nightly beat, the coveted Monaco Sports Club where Europe’s super-rich let down their hair: oil sheikhs, film stars, noblemen and billionaires, rubbing shoulders with crooks and scavengers. The club fees would keep a working family for years, I guessed, but who cared anyway? Such thoughts were as out of place as sensible shoes or hot dogs for supper, and certainly not in keeping with Naomi Hunter’s acquisitive nature.
I struggled to be her, inhaling the balmy air with a sense of satisfaction, noting the heady scent of costly perfumes, rare wines, vintage brandy and Havana cigars, the latter drifting up from a group of men in earnest conversation by the swimming pool. The bar was pandemonium, everyone trying to out-shout the neighbouring groups, so I wandered outside to the terrace.
I, too, was one of the scavengers, an ex-con touting for business, but this was my night for feeling optimistic. Sergei had spoken to his friend.
My background was perfect. I had a lovely apartment overlooking the harbour and the Princess Grace Rose Garden, a brand new Mercedes convertible and a wardrobe full of designer clothes. I knew I looked the part of a successful woman in my midnight blue shot silk Dior dress with a deep decollete and a long flared skirt. It suited me and set off the emerald necklace given to me by Wolf one birthday.
I lingered, watching Monaco’s lights strung like jewels around the bay. In the yacht harbour, the masthead lights swayed to and fro with the gentle swell.
Returning to the crowded lounge, I found an empty settee in a corner beside the window. The black-clad waiter shot me an inquiring glance, so I ordered a martini.
A tall man, so black that his features hardly showed in the muted lights, stalked into the room and flung himself into a chair. He was a government minister from Zaire, flamboyantly rich from dubious sources. Trailing him came two beautiful lookalike Spanish tarts, who serviced the rich clientele at a bayside hotel. He had dressed them alike in yellow designer dresses with petal skirts. The yellow brought out their swarthiness and the ultra-youthful design made them look passe. Business must be bad at the hotel, I thought, watching their uneasy efforts to please their bored patron.
A group of Saudi Arabian oilmen dominated the centre of the room with noisy argument. Further off, I identified an American pop star, an actor, a British banker, a French estate agent and an Italian mobster. The remainder were unknown to me. Given time I would probably get to know most of them, but time was the one requirement I did not have.
I was startled to see an imposing, once beautiful woman making her way towards me. She was wearing a black satin suit in the latest cut, which accentuated her willowy figure. In contrast, her hair was a thick mass of white waves caught up in a chignon. She looked around haughtily and, moments later, hovered over me with a slightly hostile look in her imperious brown-black eyes.
‘May I join you?’ She sank gracefully beside me, bringing a scent of Joy perfume and the rustling of nylon as she crossed her shapely legs. Late sixties, well groomed and preserved, a beautiful figure despite her age, probably Italian.
I smiled cautiously.
Her hand touched my arm lightly as she said, ‘I hope you don’t mind… I may seem a little impertinent, but I’m sure I’ve seen you before somewhere. It bothers me. Haven’t we spoken here once or twice? You are always alone. You must be a stranger to Monaco. After all, a girl with your looks could not remain alone for long. Perhaps I should introduce you to some of my friends. Tell me, what is your name, my dear?’
‘Naomi.’
‘Naomi Hunter? Ah, I thought so. I read about you in the newspapers a little while ago. I was hoping that I was right, because… Well, it may sound a little odd, but I need your help.’
Thank you, Sergei. I tried to hide my excitement.
She nodded to the waiter. ‘What are you drinking, Ms Hunter?’
‘A martini, very dry, with an olive. And please call me Naomi.’
‘And you may call me Carla. I like your Western habit of using first names. So refreshing. My name is Carla Maria Lo Bello. I live in Rome some of the time, but I move around. The truth is, I’m restless.’
When she smiled her eyes lit up and she looked much younger. She used her hands a great deal when she talked and they were well shaped, with long, tapered fingers that sported a number of rings. ‘My dear, I’ve decided to throw myself on your mercy. The truth is, I have fallen upon hard times. You see, darling,’ once again her elegant hand touched my arm, ‘I have this lover. This wonderful man, and we have been, well, what do you say in English?’
She paused long enough for me to feel obliged to supply the word.
‘Intimate?’
She burst out laughing. ‘Well, yes. That part we take for granted, darling. But we have also been a family. Always… From Monday until Friday. For weekends he went to his lovely mansion in Sardinia where his two sons and three daughters live. It is the daughters I fear the most. They hate me. Three months ago this man of mine suffered a heart-attack, which has confined him to his Sardinian estate.’ She turned her lovely eyes on me and did her best to assume a tragic expression. She failed. ‘Naturally, being an honourable man, he wishes to see that I am secure.’
‘Naturally.’
‘Now that he is incapacitated and might even die, he is afraid that his children, who have taken over the business, might discover the amount that he is settling on me. After his death they might even try to recover it. For that reason he wants me to find a way to cover up this gift. How do you say…?’
‘Launder the money.’
‘Exactly. You are a straightforward woman, Naomi. I have faith in you. Would you consider doing this for me, for a small professional fee?’
‘My small professional fee is five per cent.’
I heard her sigh softly – with relief or regret?
‘How much is involved, Carla?’
‘A million dollars for the first payment.’
‘And how will the donation be made?’
‘He will pay the dollars in cash. Of course, there may be more later.’
‘I’m sure I can help you, Carla. It’s easy enough to turn the cash into a cheque in any currency, but it’s more important to make it look as if you raised the money yourself.’
‘That is what my lover says.’
‘I’ll put my thinking cap on. When would you like me to help you?’
‘As soon as you’re ready.’
‘One last question. What is your lover’s business?’
‘Is that important?’
‘It would help me to make my plans.’
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