Clear Skies

by A. M. Murray

  “If so, it means the older sister, Chloe Harris, is not married to Richard Palmer as she would like us to believe,” Roche said. “Instead, she’s taken her sister’s place at this late stage of the scheme, and I’d guess he doesn’t know yet.”

  “And Chloe or the person pulling the strings arranged her young sister’s hit to get the real Mrs. Palmer out of the picture,” added Fontaine.

  “Surely Palmer would have noticed that Chloe is not the woman he married,” Roche said.

  “Not necessarily. Not yet, at least.” Slade stepped away from the whiteboard and dropped into a swivel chair beside Roche and Fontaine.

  “Think about it. This trip was probably the only time she’s substituted. He stayed on their yacht for no more than a few days this time. They’d not been together for several months, and they had boisterous Chinese guests and a bunch of prostitutes on board as well, which must have been distracting. In fact, he hasn’t spent a whole lot of time with his wife since they married. He told us that in London at BFI. Their voices and intonation could have been similar. They were sisters, after all.”

  “What about Isa? She believed the woman she worked for in Tokyo was Chloe and called her that, non?” Roche said.

  “After plastic surgery, Carol Palmer looked just like Chloe, and since Isa hadn’t seen the sisters for more than a decade, she didn’t notice any difference. And don’t forget she saw her on just a few days at two-month intervals,” Slade replied. “Even so, it must have been a first-class reconstruction and laser clean-up job. Even Abe, one of Japan’s most experienced medical examiners, couldn’t find postoperative traces. She’d altered her appearance to look like Chloe and so would not have been surprised when Isa addressed her as Chloe, especially if she’d been told to expect it.”

  “The big unknown is why she underwent plastic surgery. I can’t think of a reason I can swallow other than money—a big payout for her part in the plan,” Fontaine said, distracted from checking messages on his cell phone. “Although you might be right about this.”

  Slade spun the swivel chair full circle. “I’m sure I’m right. The mastermind behind this operation must have needed two identical women for the scheme to work. Chloe Harris is his strategic partner, and they probably offered her half-sister, Carol, a six- or seven-figure fee for her participation, which included marrying a billionaire. It would have been like attracting a moth to a light globe. She underwent facial reconstruction, married Richard Palmer, played a role in Tokyo, and never had a chance of survival.”

  “This explanation fits the facts better.” Fontaine rubbed the stubble on his chin. “We know more than we did and have a rough idea of the DIA’s strategy. But why was a key player like Hewitt killed? And why did the Chinese pay such an exorbitant price for technology that would put them only a smidgeon above equivalence and not give them absolute supremacy? There are too many aspects of this operation that don’t add up. And it’s not going down like a government-sponsored operation.”

  Slade looked at Fontaine and Roche. “I agree. There has to be another connection besides the sale of secret military technology. And Chloe Harris is at the center of recent events unless she too is a peripheral factor, like her sister. Deadly, but just a peripheral factor all the same.”

  Fontaine sighed. “My father was a detective for the New York Police Department before he retired. He always said the most difficult cases were the greatest resources for learning.”

  “If that’s true, I’m still in pre-school on this case,” Slade said.

  “Chloe and Hewitt looked pretty tight when I saw them in their suite at the Hotel de Paris,” Roche said. “Maybe he and Carol Palmer were having an affair. When Chloe stepped in, he might have suspected something was off sooner than Richard Palmer. It could explain why they killed him.”

  “The Carol Palmer-Hewitt affair theory explains the two sets of men’s clothing in her bedroom in Tokyo,” Slade said.

  Fontaine ran his hand through his hair. “So this woman here in Monte Carlo is masquerading as Carol Palmer and Hewitt didn’t know, at least at first. He’d been screwing the boss’s beautiful wife, and no doubt swallowed lofty promises from her about the future. The real Carol Palmer probably told Hewitt she’d leave Richard Palmer and share the fortune with him and might have even meant it. That would be a much stronger incentive than the mere salary bonus he might have expected from Richard Palmer for his role in the operation. But in the end, it was not Carol Palmer, but her sister Chloe Harris. And to her, he was a disposable liability once he handed over the final installment of classified technical information to the Chinese.”

  Slade nodded. “And as a trusted assistant to Richard Palmer, he’d have access to the banking information. Extracting it from Hewitt or his computer without arousing suspicion was as simple for Chloe as outwitting a newborn. So tonight, she receives the last tranche of funds from the Chinese and has Palmer’s bank information giving her access to everything in the British Virgin Islands’ account. Both Carol and Richard Palmer had independent access to that account.”

  “And because of her identical appearance, the bank has no reason to doubt she’s Carol Palmer when she transfers all the funds to another account,” Roche said.

  “I agree with Alex. They might have eliminated Hewitt because he realized Chloe was an imposter and threatened to expose her,” Slade said.

  “Unless she gave him a higher cut of the money, perhaps,” Fontaine said.

  Slade remained silent for a moment, then said, “Or more likely, she planned to eliminate him from the beginning of her foray into the scheme.” He inhaled deeply, his pulse quickening. “If Richard Palmer is unaware of Chloe’s substitution, as I suspect, he could be in imminent danger. After she rejoins him in London, it would be only a matter of days before he’ll notice she’s not his wife.”

  “You can be sure the plan calls for his demise too before he does, so she’ll have sole access to the bank account,” Roche said.

  “Alex, you and I are taking an early flight tomorrow from Nice to London. Top of our list of things to do will be visiting Richard Palmer at BFI to give him a heads-up. We’ll have to make sure he takes us more seriously this time.”

  “Mark and I will hang out here a while longer and keep an eye on Chloe Harris tomorrow and keep you in the loop,” Fontaine said.

  Slade stood and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. The longer he mulled over it, the more it seemed that right from the outset, this elaborate operation had never been about establishing US military air supremacy. It was all about launching the net worth of its mastermind into monetary outer space.

  CHAPTER 31

  (Sunday Afternoon— Monte Carlo)

  By the time they’d exhausted their interpretations of the limited information available, it was eight.

  “Let’s get out of here and eat dinner before we head over to Palmer’s poker game,” Fontaine said. “Crisp evening air might sharpen our wits.”

  “I’ll go back to my room to decrypt emails and see what else I can find in Aculeus’s murky cyber-world.” Roche closed his computer. “I’ll order from room service and talk to you guys later. À bientôt.”

  “Okay, it’s you and me, Ben,” Slade said, remembering that breakfast was his last meal, their lunch untouched in the rush to the Nice crime scene.

  “We don’t have a lot of time. There’s a great hamburger café a few hundred yards down the road on the Rue de la Piscine alongside Quai Albert I. If you sit topside, you get an awesome view of the marina. It’s not called Son of a Bun Badass Hamburgers for nothing—they serve a mean burger on a brioche bun.”

  “Hamburgers?”

  “It suits the budget of a junior government employee like me. I get homesick, and an occasional bite of a big juicy burger soothes my nerves.”

  Slade would have preferred a gourmet Mediterranean restaurant, and in Monte Carlo, there were plenty of those to choose from. But Fontaine was right; time was short.

  The walk to
and from the restaurant invigorated Slade, and Fontaine’s choice was a welcome taste of home. In fact, the burger tasted better than any he’d eaten before, enhanced by Monte Carlo’s charismatic ambiance.

  At nine-thirty, they strolled up the steps into the casino, ambled past the spectacular onyx portals dominating the spacious, softly echoing atrium, and sauntered into the private poker room reserved in Palmer’s name.

  No attempt had been made to exclude observers, perhaps to create an image of openness and fair play. Chloe Harris posing as her sister Carol Palmer sat with her back to the door, unaware of their presence behind her.

  It must have been the shortest game with the most cheerful losers in high-stakes poker history. The first three games ended with each of three Chinese players folding in turn after betting his entire pile of chips worth five million euros through the short course of the games and losing them all to Palmer. The fourth and final game resembled the previous three. Chloe laid down a full house of queens over sevens. The last standing Chinese, who’d served as the dealer in all their games and seemed skillful enough to have waxed the queens and pared down the jacks so the packs would break right where he wanted them to, laid down his own full house—a hand of jacks over threes.

  Chloe raked in the pot and shook hands with her donkey opponents who thanked her effusively for their games.

  She was twenty million euros richer, minus the casino’s commission, than when she’d entered the room. Her four Chinese companions were collectively twenty million euros poorer but oddly looked pleased to have lost and even happier to toast Palmer’s win with champagne.

  “They didn’t even try to make this look authentic,” Slade said as they backed out of the room before the players stood up to leave. “We all know Chinese people are among the world’s savviest gamblers. It’s second nature to them.”

  “Perhaps they’re better at mahjong than poker,” Fontaine said, straight-faced.

  Slade and Fontaine stood in the main gaming room for fifteen minutes and watched the four Chinese players. They’d dispersed among the baccarat, roulette, and blackjack games, where they took less time to beat the tables and amass chips than they’d taken to drink their champagne.

  “We meet again, Mr. Slade,” said an emotionless voice behind them.

  They’d only seen Chloe’s back at the poker table and were not prepared for her appearance, which was more astonishing than on the previous evening. Her full frontal view melded with the casino’s architecture and history, evoking the splendor of France’s Belle Époque, the “Beautiful Era” that lasted for some forty years before the First World War.

  Her long blonde mane of hair was curled and swept in front of her left shoulder, showing off a stunning diamond chandelier earring on her exposed right ear. If she wore a matching earring on the left ear beneath her hair, Slade estimated close to ten carats of diamonds hanging from her ears alone. The short train of her full-skirted scarlet dress, reflecting in the low-slung chandelier above her, swept the floor and the minimal skin-tight bodice barely covered her generous breasts. An intricate diamond and ruby choker necklace extended from the base of her swan-like neck to the top of her cleavage. Combined with the earrings, Slade estimated she wore forty carats of high-grade precious stones worth a small fortune.

  But Slade thought her most remarkable accessories were her long tapered fingernails, which tonight were manicured with sparkling crystal-like stones embedded in silver polish. If they were diamond chips, as Slade suspected, his estimate in this one appearance alone went up to forty-five carats.

  “Have you had any luck at the tables tonight?” she asked. She walked toward them, her voice and attitude marked by arrogant assurance, her steel-gray eyes glazed with an icy veneer to match.

  “Not yet, and I doubt we can in any way match your luck of fifteen minutes ago,” Slade replied.

  “You were there?” She looked at them, making no effort to disguise her surprise. “Well, of course, it’s not just a matter of luck. I have a reputation in poker circles around here as an adroit exponent of the game.” She turned toward the exit. “Gentlemen, much as I enjoy talking to you, I’m afraid I have to leave. I’m expecting an urgent call, and the management doesn’t allow cell phone use in here.”

  She glided toward the door, then doubled back and said, “Unfortunately, I won’t have the pleasure of meeting you again here. I leave on our yacht tomorrow for a leisurely trip to London. I’ll be at sea for several days before rejoining my husband. If you wish to speak to me again, please contact our London residence in a week’s time. I’ll be in Tokyo a week or two after that.”

  She weaved her way across the room between the tables and swept out of the room like the first gale-force wind of an extreme weather front. They watched in silence, along with every other male in the room, until she disappeared through the doorway. It seemed like someone had switched off the sound while she walked through the room and turned it on again when she left. Few women can distract an addicted male gambler from his game, but Chloe Harris had done just that.

  “And there goes the grieving sister,” Fontaine said. “At least Richard Palmer will be safe while she’s at sea.”

  “If she wants him out of the picture, she won’t do the deed herself,” Slade said. “For all we know, Sakata is already in London. The sea voyage back to London will give her the perfect alibi,” Slade said. “I’d like to arrest her, but we haven’t got a shred of evidence to implicate her in the Tokyo crimes, let alone an offense that hasn’t happened yet. Most of the information we have is merely conjectural. I don’t want to let her go, but we’re out of our jurisdiction.”

  “With luck, the French police will locate and arrest Sakata for Hewitt’s killing and take him out of the picture,” Fontaine said.

  Slade shrugged in resignation. “All we can do is request Scotland Yard and MI5 to be on high alert in London.”

  Fontaine pulled out his phone and called the Marseille office. He asked a colleague on night shift to brief the FBI team in the London Embassy and make an appointment for Slade and Roche with Richard Palmer tomorrow afternoon.

  Fontaine pocketed his phone. “How about a drink at the bar to unwind? I could use a couple of hors d’age Armagnacs.” When he saw Slade’s raised eyebrows, he laughed. “I like it better than cognac. It’s distilled just once and has a much fruitier flavor. Hey, this looks like a case of pots and kettles to me. I heard about your wine selection at dinner last night.”

  “Next, you’ll tell me you prefer sherry to beer,” Slade sat down at the counter. Fontaine joined him and ordered his Armagnac, and Slade had a single-malt whiskey, two shots on the rocks.

  They drank companionably in silence. Slade enjoyed the moment and reflected that despite his youth, Fontaine was a mixture of wisdom, reassurance, and good company. He made up for his lack of any discernible sense of cuisine with an informed taste for fine spirits. He hoped their paths would cross again and sensed that Fontaine felt the same way. Fontaine called the bartender to order a second drink, while Slade still nursed his first and gazed across the room at nothing in particular, organizing his thoughts.

  Then Slade broke the silence. “Alex and I are taking an eight-forty-five flight to London from Nice tomorrow morning, so it means an early start from Monte Carlo, much as I’d like to hang out longer with you here.”

  “No problem. Mark is waiting for me at your hotel. We’ll drive to Nice for the night and come back in the morning to monitor our so-called Mrs. Palmer until she leaves.”

  They walked down the hill from the casino to Slade’s hotel and met Miles in the lobby.

  “You were right, Dan,” Miles said. “I found technical documents stashed in hand luggage in a room occupied by one of the Chinese. I took photographs and sent them to you already.”

  Fontaine agreed to call Slade at eleven the next morning to provide an update on Chloe Harris’ movements and any other information that showed up overnight.

  “Thanks, guys, for your s
upport,” Slade said. “I’ll miss working with you. This case gets more opaque with every step we take, so we’ll need you to follow up over here when we’re in London. Any ideas or information or even rumors you can tease out from your contacts here and in the US will help.” He shook each of their hands in turn and watched them leave the hotel.

  CHAPTER 32

  (Sunday Evening— Monte Carlo)

  Roche was midway through his room service meal, and from his expression, Slade knew he’d uncovered new information.

  “An unidentified person using a generic Aculeus email account sent a message to Sakata one week before Carol Palmer’s hit. Sakata used a device with an IP address out of Hong Kong. The email told him to arrive in Tokyo by Wednesday morning at the latest and wait for a call from Chloe Harris for instructions. You know what this means, don’t you?” Roche paused for a reaction from Slade.

  “It means Chloe Harris gave instructions to a hired assassin to kill her sister and is connected to someone with an Aculeus email address. It also means this is not a case of a sibling driven by the age-old motives of envy and greed to muscle into her sister’s get-rich-quick scheme. She’s part of the plan.”

  “But there are no explicit instructions in the email. Nothing to connect them with the murders. Nothing we can use to incriminate them,” Roche said.

  “Which means all we have is sheer supposition.” Slade ran his hand through his hair. “It’s disturbing to learn that an operator connected with a company contracted by the DIA, a government agency, commissioned a hit man to eliminate Carol Palmer. She seemed to be an integral player in the DIA’s Clear Skies operation.”

  “And I’ve found nothing to suggest she went rogue or threatened to expose the operation.”

  “Did you turn up anything else?”

  “A message to Hewitt from an Aculeus email address before the scheme became operational offered Richard Palmer a total payment of thirty million euros in six bimonthly installments of five million euros. Hewitt said Palmer would not accept a figure that low. They exchanged a stream of follow-up emails haggling about price until they agreed to discuss the matter using burner phones. The final amount was not disclosed in email communications,” Roche said.