Crown Jewel 3

 

Simon sped east along the Grande Corniche, approaching the ancient Roman town of La Turbie. A map spread on the passenger seat showed the time trial route. He glanced at it, then returned his attention to the road, its curves and straightaways, where it widened and where it narrowed, calculating where he might gain time and where he must avoid losing it. He thought of Dov Dragan, his towering arrogance and false sincerity. He decided it would feel good to beat him. Very good.

High on the mountain, Simon enjoyed a view far down the Ligurian coast toward Menton and Ventimiglia and, with the air this clear, across the Bay of Roquebrune to San Remo. To his right, below a vertical precipice diving hundreds of feet, his gaze fell upon the Rock, the elevated peninsula of golden granite jutting from the western border of Monaco that was home to the royal palace and a small army of government buildings.

In a world of elastic borders, warring monarchs, and oft-changing governments, Monaco had been ruled by one family for seven hundred years, the Grimaldis of Genoa. Over that time, the principality’s allegiances had shifted from Italy to Sardinia to France (which currently guaranteed the territory’s sovereignty, in exchange for a lemminglike adherence to its foreign policy). The territory’s size had something to do with its independence. It was a postage stamp with no natural resources, no strategic values, not much of anything to entice an invader to expend precious blood or treasure. Monaco was neither thorn nor rose.

Everything changed with the building of the casino in 1863. It was the era of the grand tour, the Baedeker guide, and the world’s first travel agent, Thomas Cook. A stop in Monaco, situated on a scenic spit of coastline between Nice and Capri, two perennial destinations, became de rigueur. Overnight, the principality had a personality where before it had none.

Since then, Monaco had known only growth and prosperity, its coronation as capital of the jet set occurring when the American actress Grace Kelly married Prince Rainier in 1956. Not long afterward, in 1969, the prince abolished income taxes. Monaco’s status as a favored home for movie stars, professional athletes, and the obscenely wealthy was forever cemented into place.

Ahead, the road narrowed and curved sharply to the left. Simon downshifted into second gear, using the engine to slow. He did not see the blue station wagon until he was nearly upon it, and he didn’t decide to stop and check if it was the same station wagon that had parked behind him the night before at the Hôtel de Paris until he’d gone a good way past.

Simon yanked the car to the dirt berm on his side of the road and killed the engine. He got out and approached the car. German plates. KO for Cologne. It was the same car, all right, but he saw no sign of Vika Brandt.

The front door was ajar. He looked in all directions, but she was nowhere to be found. He noted that a section of the guardrail had recently been replaced and walked over to inspect it. He saw her standing ten meters down the hillside. There was no path. It was a treacherous descent over exposed rock and loose terrain. A few steps below her, the escarpment fell away altogether. Should she slip, she would fall to her death.

A large tourist coach rumbled past behind Simon, distracting him. When he looked back down the hillside, he saw that Vika was bent at the waist examining an object, much as an archaeologist studies an artifact. He called her name but his voice was drowned out by the noise of passing traffic.

Simon climbed over the rail and made his way down the slope. He used his hands to aid his stability; even so, his feet slipped and he loosened a spray of rocks. The woman didn’t seem to notice. He sideslipped the last distance, pleased to have reached a narrow plateau of sorts.

“Stay away!” Without warning, the woman spun. She held a pistol in her hand, a compact semiautomatic.

Simon raised his hands, palms outward. “You’re pointing a gun at me.”

“Keep away, I said.”

Simon backed up a step, checking over his shoulder to make sure he had one more, just in case.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I was driving the course for the time trial,” he said, gesturing toward the road. “I recognized your station wagon. I thought you might need help.”

“I don’t.”

“I can see that.”

“Were you following me last night, too?”

“‘Too’? I was out walking. I’m happy we ran into each other. Then, I mean. Now, I’m not so sure.”

Vika lowered the pistol, shoulders relaxing. “They make me carry this. It’s not even loaded.”

“In which case, I feel safer,” said Simon. “And you can put it away.”

The pistol disappeared into a purse at her side. She brushed past him, her eyes on the incline. Simon offered her a hand. She ignored it and scrambled up the slope. He followed, slipping only once. She was nimbler, and at least he had a nice view. By the time he regained the road, he had plenty of questions, starting with what she was doing risking her life on a steep mountainside. He knew better than to ask.

“You weren’t frightened,” she said, brushing the dust off her hands.

“Excuse me?”

She continued to the car and tossed her purse and whatever else besides the pistol she’d put inside it onto the front seat. She was dressed in light-colored pants and a blue linen shirt, her tan moccasins unsuitable for exploring anything more treacherous than a department store escalator. Turning back toward Simon, she removed her sunglasses. “I pointed a gun at you and you didn’t bat an eye.”

“What did you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know. Just something more. Show a little surprise. Fear, even. Weren’t you?”

“Scared or surprised?”

“Mr. Riske.”

“I was certainly surprised.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

Simon looked at her and nodded. She considered this. Up close, her gaze was so direct it was unsettling. “What do you do, Mr. Riske, for a living?”

He seemed to be getting asked the same question a lot these days. “I own an automobile restoration business in London. On the side, I solve problems.”

“Are you sure it isn’t the other way around?”

If there was a right answer, Simon didn’t know it. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked.

“That’s my business.”

“If you’d like to keep looking, I’m happy to help.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

A sparkle in the sky caught Simon’s eye. He walked a few feet from the car, shielding his eyes as he looked upward. There it was again. Only then did he hear the high-pitched whir of an engine. Then he saw it. A drone—a small one, white, four propellers, nearly invisible against the blue sky—hovering a hundred feet above their heads.

“What is it?” she asked.

Simon pointed in the direction of the drone. “There.”

Vika looked to the sky, squinting. “I don’t see anything.”

“Look.”

Vika raised her hands to her eyes to block out the sun.

Behind them, a car rounded the curve, its engine screaming. Too loud. Louder than any other car that had passed. At once, Simon spun. A sedan. Silver. Traveling at high speed. The car crossed the center line, going far too wide, seemingly out of control. The sun reflected off the windscreen so that Simon could not see the driver. Instead of correcting, the car continued straight at them. At Vika. The tires howled as the driver veered onto the hardscrabble berm. Simon ran at Vika, grabbing her in his arms and throwing them both onto the ground. A shower of gravel and dirt. The deafening growl of the engine. A terrific screech as the tires regained the asphalt, and the car was gone.

Simon lay still, aware that he was lying on top of the woman, too stunned to do anything about it. “You okay?”

Vika nodded. “Was that an accident?” she asked.

Simon looked over his shoulder and gazed into the sky. The drone was gone. “Possibly.”

“Only possibly?”

He rolled off the woman. Getting to his feet, he offered her a hand. This time she accepted it. She stood and brushed herself off. Her shirt was torn. Through the flap of fabric, he could see a trace of blood, an abrasion on her shoulder.

“It’s nothing,” said Vika, eyeing the wound.

“You’re sure?”

“Considering the alternative.” She angled her head. “Only possibly? Really?”

Simon’s silence was the best answer he could give. The real answer was, “No. Not possibly. Certainly.” He had no doubt that the driver had been aiming for Vika. He thought it wiser not to sound the alarm until he knew more about her.

They stood for a moment, not speaking, each’s eyes on the other. Something had changed between them. A bond existed where none was before.

“Mr. Riske,” she said, “exactly what kind of problems do you solve?”

“Difficult ones.”

Vika Brandt drew a breath and spent a moment arranging her hair. The color had returned to her face. She drew her shoulders back and a sense of purpose took hold of her.

An army of one, Simon thought.

“Shall we have lunch?” she said. “I know a place in Èze.”

“Would you like me to drive?”

Her hands were rock steady as she took the keys from her purse. “Follow me.”

*****

The restaurant was in an old stone home with a shaded garden. They sat at a table beneath a centuries-old oak whose leaves showed the first hint of gold. Their feet brushed a carpet of white gravel. Tête de Chien, the enormous outcropping of stone that kept vigil over Monaco, loomed in the distance. They’d both ordered the salade Niçoise. Neither had managed a bite. No wine for either of them. Just mineral water. Between sips, Vika related the reason for her visit, beginning with details of her mother’s accident and her suspicions about it, moving on to her visit to the police that morning (“Damn the juge d’instruction!”), and finally, and with reluctance, concluding with the voice mail her mother had left before her death.

“The thing is I didn’t believe her,” explained Vika Brandt. “It wasn’t the first time she’d called in one of her states.”

“‘States’?”

“Drunk. Wildly drunk. Blackout drunk. It didn’t matter. She said the same things sober. She thought people were always looking at her strangely, talking behind her back. Men ogled her. Women said nasty things about her. The help made obscene remarks. She was very imaginative.”

“She was ill, then.”

“Who knows? Alcoholism, paranoia, delusions of grandeur—it all runs in the family. They used to call people like her ‘quirky.’ She refused to go to the doctor. For anything. A few years ago, she fell and broke her arm. A hairline fracture. She wouldn’t allow Elena to take her to the emergency room until it swelled up like a balloon three days later.”

“Elena?”

“Her helper. Elena Mancini. She’s been with my mother for years.”

“How often did she stop in?”

“Almost every day. She took my mother to church and to lunch, did her shopping, and helped around the place.” Vika leaned forward. “Is it true what Le Juste said about not being able to check the security cameras without a warrant?”

“Officially, yes,” said Simon. “In reality, no. No way. Apartment managers like to keep on good terms with the police. Given the circumstances, I can’t see how they’d refuse a request. Not when it had to do with one of their tenants.”

“Then why was Le Juste being so difficult?”

“It seems he had his mind made up. I can’t see it.” Simon enumerated what he considered the critical facts. Medical evidence of a detached retina, a witness to testify that her mother hadn’t driven for years, and finally a message in which her mother expressed concern for her safety.

“There’s no witness. Not yet. I haven’t spoken to Elena. She hasn’t replied to my calls.”

“Is that normal?”

“I don’t know. I went by her place in town this morning. She wasn’t there.” Vika shrugged. “She’s from the old country. She sees things differently.”

“Is there something else?”

Vika averted her eyes. “I didn’t tell Le Juste about the call from my mother.”

“Oh?”

“It wouldn’t have changed his mind.”

“It would have changed mine,” said Simon, without judgment.

“It’s beside the point, anyway,” retorted Vika. “Mama did not drive. She couldn’t have been alone in the car, call or not. I don’t care how frightened she may or may not have been.”

Simon took his time before speaking. He could see that she was distraught, that she needed to get something off her chest. “Why didn’t you tell Le Juste about the voice mail?” he asked gently.

“The prying. The attention. It’s been hard enough keeping her death quiet.”

“You think others would be interested?”

Vika shook her head with exasperation. “Only the press of every country in Europe.”

“Now there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Vika twisted her napkin, staring past him. “It just doesn’t make sense. None of it. Why would anyone want to hurt Mama? She was harmless.”

“They wanted to hurt you, too.”

“You said possibly.”

“I was being diplomatic.”

“I didn’t tell Commissaire Le Juste about the call because…because…” Vika exhaled loudly and smiled briefly, fixing Simon with a forthcoming gaze. “I owe you an apology, Mr. Riske. I lied to you.”

“Oh?”

“My name isn’t Brandt. It is Victoria Elizabeth Margaretha Brandenburg von Tiefen und Tassis. And you might as well throw a ‘princess’ in before all of that. If I’d told Le Juste about the call, it would have been on the front page of every tabloid in Germany tomorrow, and everywhere else the day after. ‘Dowager Princess Stefanie Feared for Life Before Fatal Accident.’”

“For once the headline would have been accurate.”

Simon’s smile was met with a frown. “You’re American. You don’t know anything about the family.”

“True. I don’t.”

“We’re German. From Hesse. Right in the center of the country. The title goes back a thousand years. Silly, I know, but that counts for something. The von Tiefen und Tassis family is the largest private landowner in Germany. Mama is a Schoenberg—nobility to be sure, but penniless. She married my father when she was young and he was middle-aged. She was twenty and wild. She kept her hair dyed pink and practically lived in discotheques. He was nearly sixty and a confirmed bachelor, which, of course, meant he was homosexual. He married Mama because she didn’t care who he slept with and because he wanted to further the line. I believe they loved each other dearly.

“For a while they were in the press every day. They called Mama ‘Princess TNT.’ She loved it. She fulfilled her part of the bargain and gave my father three children. Over the years, we did our best to maintain the family reputation as crazed, tragic aristocrats. Papa had a heart attack in his lover’s bed. My two older brothers died at a young age. Freddy was killed in a racing accident—now you know why I feel the way I do about cars—and Michael took drugs. My own husband, Christof, died shortly after we were married. Cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We’ve provided enough fodder for the press all these years. I’ve labored to my wit’s end to erase our family legacy. Perhaps now you’ll understand why I chose to edit the information I provided to the police.”

“I think I do. I appreciate you trusting me.”

“I don’t trust you, Mr. Riske, at least not yet. I need your help. That is all.”

The server arrived to clear their plates, not masking his offense that they had not eaten their salads. “It was not good?” he asked repeatedly. Vika promised him it was delicious and ordered coffee. Simon asked for tea. They commented on the flowers and the unseasonably warm weather. The tea and coffee arrived. She drank hers black. Simon added cream and sugar. He allowed a few minutes to pass in companionable silence.

He finished his tea and moved the saucer to the side of the table.

“May I ask you a few questions?” he began.

“Of course.”

He smiled knowingly. “I’d prefer truthful answers.”

Vika responded in kind. “I’ll do my best.”

“How much is your family worth?”

“Is that really important?”

“I’ll know after you answer.”

Vika made a show of blowing out her breath, all puffed cheeks and pursed lips. She listed her assets as if dogged by a poor memory. There were castles and artworks and bonds and shares, she explained in fits and starts, and a yacht and apartments here and villas there, but in the end, what Vika’s family had most was land, owning over three million acres, primarily wild, uninhabited old-growth forests in the central state of Hesse. When pressed to put a dollar value on it all, Vika grew even more cagey. All the numbers were just pie-in-the-sky estimations. Her accountants couldn’t be trusted. No one really knew what any of it was worth.

“Approximately,” said Simon.

“Ten billion dollars.” Vika threw out the number as if it were a guess.

Simon simply nodded. He understood now why she carried a pistol. If it were him, he would have carried a much larger one with dumdum bullets and a spare magazine.

“Actually, closer to twelve,” she added, as if disappointed she hadn’t gotten the response she’d wanted.

“Twelve,” said Simon.

“But it’s primarily tied up in fixed assets, mind you, not to mention an irrevocable trust. It’s not like there is a pile of money lying around.”

“I imagine you have at least two percent liquid.” The rule was five percent up to a hundred million, then a declining scale above that.

“Please,” said Vika, taken aback. “Never less than six.”

“Six hundred million.”

She nodded, indicating that it was a prudent figure.

“Six hundred million is a lot of cash.”

“I see that look in your eye. Don’t say anything. You’re right. It is a large sum.”

“Vast,” said Simon.

“Vast.”

“Enormous.”

“Yes, it is enormous.”

“Incomprehensible.”

A narrowing of the eyes. “Not even close.”

Simon laughed.

“May I continue?” asked Vika, unamused.

“Please.”

“After my father died, I was sent away to boarding school in Switzerland. I was ten. It was just then that the scale of his mismanagement of the family estate was coming to light. We learned in short order that we had no cash. And I mean zero, nul, nichts. Nothing. Our accounts were empty or overdrawn. Our properties had been mortgaged and mortgaged again. It’s quite amazing the stupid things that smart people can do.”

Simon merely nodded, aware that this was not a story that Vika revealed to many others.

“So, anyway,” she said, drawing a breath, “there I was at boarding school. At first, I was happy to be away from Mother and her antics. I longed for stability. For a chance to be someone other than the daughter of Princess TNT. I thought being on my own was a godsend. I was wrong. The day I arrived I realized something was different. All the other girls were boarding buses to go on a field trip to Milan to see an opera at La Scala. I wasn’t permitted to go. I was informed then, and for the first time, that I was a scholarship student. My tuition would be paid for by public relations work done on behalf of the school…You know, the pretty blond German princess holding her books under one arm…”

“Not so bad,” said Simon.

“And,” she added, “by working in the school kitchen. I was to report to the cafeteria thirty minutes before each meal and stay one hour after to help clear and wash the dishes. Weekends, my hours were six a.m. to twelve noon. Saturday and Sunday.”

“I worked in a kitchen,” said Simon. “Hard duty.”

“When you were ten?”

“Twenty-six,” he conceded.

Vika exhaled and averted her gaze, looking off into the distance. “Cherries,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“Cherries,” she repeated, her gaze coming back to him. “My first Saturday, I arrived to find five garbage pails filled with cherries at my station in the kitchen. The school fund-raiser was to take place that evening. Cherry tarts were on the menu for dessert. There were three hundred guests. Each was to receive two tarts. Four cherries on each. My job was to pit the cherries. Do you know how to pit a cherry, Mr. Riske?”

Simon said he did not.

“You take hold of one like so.” Vika picked up an imaginary cherry with her thumb and forefinger. “Then you insert the pitting knife at the bottom, thrust upward, turn, and voilà, the pit comes out with the knife. It’s quite easy once you get the hang of it.”

Simon could see that it wasn’t easy at all, certainly not for a ten-year-old girl who’d probably never sliced an apple for herself.

“Seven hours,” she said. “That’s how long it took. No break. There wasn’t time. When I finished, the pastry chef told me I’d gone through three thousand cherries to get the twenty-four-hundred intact ones needed for the tarts.” Vika held out her hand across the table. Simon took it. It was a beautiful hand—long tapered fingers, no rings, nail polish a rich shade of caramel. “My fingers were dyed crimson for a month. Sometimes I still think I can see a bit deep under the skin. Did I mention it was an all-girls school? They had very imaginative nicknames for me.” She made a fist and angled it to one side. “See there…that knot?”

Simon looked closely. “A knot?”

“I didn’t like some of the nicknames. I let the others know.”

“With your fist?”

“Both of them.” She nodded solemnly, then pulled her hand back. “So you see, Mr. Riske, after four years of serving as a kitchen maid, and many more years of work after that, until I was able to sort out the family’s affairs myself, I learned the value of having money in the bank.”

Simon met her eyes but said nothing. The server arrived once again and noted with pleasure that they’d enjoyed their coffee and tea. He asked if they desired something to enliven their palates before they left. A Calvados, perhaps? Or a Williams? Vika thanked him, but no. The server cleared away their dishes and promised to return with the bill.

Simon wiped his mouth and set the napkin in his lap. “I have one more question,” he said.

“I’ve talked far too much about the family for one day.”

“It isn’t about the family.”

“I’m waiting.”

“What did you find on the hillside?”

Vika sat back, surprised. “I suppose I should be pleased you’re so observant.” She removed a trinket from her clutch and set it on the table. It was a cuff link, though half of the face was chipped off.

“I’d say you’re the observant one. How did you spot this?”

“Good eyes.”

“I take it this isn’t your mother’s.”

“Not unless she began wearing men’s cuff links in the past year. Oh, and she was wearing a dress when she died.”

Simon picked it up. An oval face, or half of one, a white enamel background with a sword or a star and symbols that looked like ancient runes. It was difficult to tell anything further.

“My mother did not drive off the cliff, Mr. Riske. Someone killed her. Someone abominable.”

“I believe you,” said Simon. “The question is, why?”

*****

Ratka was watching soccer.

He sat on the recliner in the main salon of the Lady S, eyes trained on the wall-mounted screen. It was the 2006 Serbian Cup final. Belgrade in black was playing Novi Sad in red. Regulation time had ended with the score tied one to one. It had come to a penalty shoot-out. The score was tied three to three. Each team had one try remaining.

Ratka had viewed the match over a hundred times, the very first time as the owner of FK Novi Sad and standing on the sidelines inside the stadium. He’d purchased the team in 2005, when it was a third-division club whose roster consisted of hard-playing amateurs, most of whom held down blue-collar jobs forty hours a week. He’d known from the start that it was hopeless to expect them to compete with teams in the higher divisions, in which all the players were professionals.

And so Ratka had proposed his own unique solution to the problem. If his players couldn’t win on their own, he would give them a hand. People often referred to the fans as the twelfth player. The fans in Novi Sad didn’t count for spit, so he introduced a twelfth player, and a thirteenth and a fourteenth. Their names were blackmail, extortion, bribery, and, if necessary, outright assault. That was fifteen players, but so what? The only math he’d ever learned was how to count stolen money.

Ratka, born Zoltan Alexander Mikhailovic, was chief of the Silver Tigers crime syndicate, originally formed in Belgrade, the capital of the former Yugoslavia, in the 1980s. The Silver Tigers had made their name carrying out bank robberies, jewelry thefts, and kidnappings. With the fall of the Iron Curtain, the gang expanded its zone of activity across all of Europe. Good times. At least for a while. After a few setbacks, including his stint in prison, Ratka brought the gang to the South of France, a newly rich hunting ground after the resurgence of Russia. Antibes, Cannes, Saint-Tropez, and Monaco were favored haunts of the megarich oligarch class.

That was almost ten years ago. It felt like one hundred since he’d been on that sideline.

Ratka sat up, driving away his laments. Now he had a chance to get back to where he’d been. Not just as the owner of a soccer club. That was small potatoes. He had his eye on something bigger. Far bigger.

On the screen, his team’s best player set the ball on the spot, made his approach, and fired. The goalie jumped right. The ball went right. Too far right and missed the goal entirely.

“Govno!” Ratka shouted, jumping toward the television, fist balled. It was Serbian for “shit.”

If Belgrade made the next penalty, they would win the championship.

Ratka stifled a bitter smile. Having foreseen this very possibility all those years ago, he’d kidnapped number 23’s mother and sister and let the player know that they would be released only if Belgrade lost. Otherwise, they would be killed. He’d made the call to the player himself.

Number 23 placed the ball on the spot. The crowd, already deafening, grew louder still. One hundred thousand crazed Serbs—seventy thousand for Belgrade, thirty thousand for Novi Sad—shouted at the top of their lungs.

Ratka watched himself on the screen, standing there on the sidelines with his arms crossed, his future hanging in the balance. In contrast to the opposing team’s owner, Ratka was the picture of calm. Handsome, composed, confident that his side would prevail.

The referee blew the whistle.

Number 23 lined up his shot. He began his approach. As was his habit, he stutter-stepped, nearly halting his advance before accelerating and striking the ball with his left foot.

The goalie dove to one side. The ball went to the other, a rocket that disappeared into the corner of the net.

Belgrade four, Novi Sad three.

Game over.

Ratka covered his eyes, the pain of defeat as excruciating as on that day long ago. He rewound the tape and stopped it as number 23 prepared his approach. Using the remote, Ratka zoomed in on the player’s face, laboring to see if he could spot the pending betrayal.

He saw only determination, the will to win.

Number 23 had not considered missing for one second.

A month after the game, Ratka was arrested for the kidnapping. For his crimes, he served five years and forfeited ownership of the team. Belgrade wasn’t the same afterward. A new boss had taken his place. The police refused to be bought. He was a target and a target couldn’t do business. All that was about to change.

Taking a beer from the refrigerator, Ratka left the lounge and passed through the sliding door onto the afterdeck. Two women sunbathed on the chaise longues. Seeing him, they sat up and greeted him. The boat was for sale and they were meant to lure buyers. Ratka ignored them. If he wasn’t going to screw them, he couldn’t be bothered. He put a hand on the railing, appraising the yacht in the adjacent slip. The Czarina, a 226-foot Feadship superyacht that looked like his hard-on if he’d made it into a boat. It was for sale, too. Priced at a hundred and forty-five million dollars. He just might be able to afford it after all was said and done.

But he had no interest in yachts. He was tired of Monaco. Tired of the Côte d’Azur. He wanted to go home. To Belgrade.

Two figures turned the corner of the dock and approached the boat. Ratka’s temper flared at the sight of them. He retreated to the salon. A few moments later, two sets of feet pounded up the gangway. Tommy and Pavel entered the salon. Tommy was tall and lean, maybe twenty-five, his black hair combed back over his forehead with greasy kid stuff. Pavel was short and stocky, forty, hair shorn to the scalp, as hard and unfeeling as a rod of pig iron.

Ratka regarded them, then stepped toward Tommy. Tommy, who had been driving the car. “Well?” Ratka said.

Tommy stared at the floor hard enough to drill a hole in it.

“Well?” Ratka repeated, delivering an openhanded blow to the side of his head. “What do you think you were doing?”

Tommy winced, then cast a sidelong glance at Pavel, who was smart enough to keep his eyes on Ratka. “I was—”

“Don’t talk,” said Ratka. “That wasn’t a question. Did you think I wasn’t going to see it? Did you forget that the picture goes to the television? You nearly killed her.”

“No, it was an—”

Ratka placed a finger an inch from Tommy’s nose.

Tommy shut up.

“I said to follow her and to scare her if you had a chance. You tried to run her over. I saw it. What could you have been thinking?” Ratka balled his fists. “And then what? What would we do if she were dead? Did you think about what would happen next?”

“I thought she found something. Pavel told me…”

“Pavel was not driving the car. Pavel was piloting the drone.”

Ratka had watched it all from the salon, the drone transmitting the picture wirelessly. He’d seen the woman stop at the site of her mother’s accident, then make her way down the hill, though he could not tell if she’d found anything. What could she find, anyway? He’d watched the Ferrari arrive, the man join her on the hillside, then throw her out of the path of Tommy’s car. He didn’t recognize the man, but whoever he was, Ratka wanted to kiss him on both cheeks. Without the princess, nothing could go forward.

“Did you follow them?”

“The drone ran out of batteries,” said Pavel. “Only a twenty-seven-minute charge. My fault.”

Ratka patted Pavel on the shoulder. “Not your fault, unless you know how to engineer a better battery.”

“No, sir.”

“That makes two of us.” Ratka returned his attention to Tommy. “You’re a good boy. You made a mistake. Not again.”

“Yes, Ratka.”

“Good. That is what I want to hear.” He walked to the bar and opened the freezer, from which he took out a handful of ice cubes that he wrapped in a dishcloth. “Hold this,” he said to Tommy.

Ratka next took out a bottle of vodka, Stolichnaya, sheathed in an ice collar. He unscrewed the top but did not pour any into a glass. He left the bottle standing on the bar.

Then, to Pavel: “Give it to me. You know what.”

Pavel slid his switchblade from his jacket and handed it to Ratka. It was a long slim instrument, black pearl handle polished to a sheen. Ratka hit the release and the blade swung into place, too quick for the eye to see. He ran his thumb along one edge, then looked back at Tommy. “You didn’t think we were finished? Someone has to teach you to obey instructions. It’s for your own good, believe me. Otherwise, who knows what trouble you will get into?”

Ratka took Tommy’s hand into his own and squeezed it, massaging the palm. Gently, he led Tommy to the bar. There was a cutting board on the surface, a lemon and a lime on top of it. He dumped them into the sink and placed Tommy’s hand on the flat surface.

Tommy said nothing. Sweat beaded on his forehead, despite the arctic blast of air-conditioning. His complexion had gone paler than a ghost’s.

Ratka used the tip of the blade to separate the fingers, each the same distance from the next. “I was just like you once. As a boy, I refused to listen to anyone. I thought I knew best. My behavior didn’t please my father. He was not a subtle man. He was a laborer. A field hand. One day I beat up a boy at school. Not just any boy. The son of the man who owned the land my father worked on. This upset my father. He had no time for lectures. Do you know how he taught me? He hit me. Just once. His hard laborer’s fist in my face. It was enough. I had a black eye for a week. Worse, everyone knew he’d done it. I never disobeyed him again. But we don’t have that kind of time, Tommy, do we?”

The tip of the blade had come to rest between Tommy’s pinkie and ring finger.

“You will obey me from now on, yes?”

Tommy nodded, perspiration dripping from his forehead.

“Now, you may speak.”

“Yes, Ratka. I will obey you.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

“I know you will.” Ratka smiled and patted Tommy’s cheek with affection. “You’re a good boy.”

Tommy sighed, sensing he had escaped his punishment.

At that moment, Ratka grasped Tommy’s wrist. The smile had left his face. The blade fell across the center of Tommy’s pinkie. Metal carved bone and ligament. Tommy cried out, his eyes appraising the gore with horror.

Ratka lifted the hand and poured the vodka over the wound. Tommy rammed what was left of his finger into the cold dishcloth.

Ratka left the men in the salon. He felt as though he’d done something positive with his day. A good deed, even.

Pavel really did keep his knife nice and sharp.

*****

Dov Dragan stared at the name on the screen and walked with the phone onto the terrace overlooking the Golfe de Saint-Hospice. He could not think of anything worse than receiving an unsolicited phone call from his lawyer. “Hello, Michael.”

“Did you know about this?” barked Michael Bach.

Dragan was taken aback. It was not his lawyer’s combative tone. Michael’s prickly manner was the reason he earned fifteen hundred dollars an hour. It was the pronoun—“this.” At that moment, there were a dozen things he might be referring to. None of them good.

There was the status of his home, the Villa Leopolda, two million euros in property tax arrears and subject to repossession by the state. Or the failure of the medical trials conducted by the start-up pharmaceutical company in which he’d invested his last twenty million dollars. Or the repo notice for the Bugatti.

When Dragan failed to answer, his attorney continued. “The legislation.”

“What legislation?” It was Dragan’s turn to be irritated. He was not aware of any legislation, either in France or Israel, or for that matter anywhere in Europe, that might trigger such a fevered call. “The question isn’t if I knew about it!” he shouted back. “It’s, why didn’t you?”

“It was attached as a rider onto an immigration bill,” explained Bach. “A last-minute idea to help fund the relief programs.”

“Jesus,” said Dragan, already imagining the worst. “Don’t be shy. Tell me what the hell this is about.”

Bach lowered his voice. “It concerns the matters you’d asked me to check on a few months ago.”

“Go on.”

“The lex mortis. A decision to increase the transfer tax on estates skipping generations. It passed the upper and lower houses with an overwhelming majority in both. There’s talk of a legal challenge, but that’s far down the road. For now, it’s the law.”

“What kind of increase are we talking about?”

“An additional one-half percent, the entire amount to be paid upon transfer of title.”

“Bringing the total to two and one-half percent.” A one-half percent increase sounded insignificant, but given the size of the estate in question, it constituted a monumental sum. A sum they had not foreseen.

“The law is to be retroactively applied to all estates settled during the past six months. Even I can’t find a way around it.”

“Stop with the good news.”

“I wanted to let you know right away,” Bach continued. “In case you need to make adjustments in your planning.”

“Thank you, Michael.”

“Dov, you can still reconsider.”

Reconsider? Dragan didn’t know the meaning of the word. “Shalom.”

Dragan ended the call. His hand dropped to his side. He’d seen stronger men collapse under such a blow. He walked to the edge of the esplanade and looked out over the water toward Beaulieu-sur-Mer. The Villa Leopolda sat at the very top of Cap Ferrat on three acres of the most beautiful land on earth. Built by the king of Belgium at the turn of the twentieth century, the fifty-thousand-square-foot Beaux Arts mansion included two tennis courts (clay and hard), an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a glass greenhouse the length of a football pitch, a topiary, and, of course, the famed grand ballroom. There was a rumor that the great violinist Paganini’s bones were buried in a grotto at sea’s edge. In the ten years that he’d owned the property, Dragan had formed an attachment to it like no other. The prospect of losing it roused an anger in him that was feral in its intensity.

An increase of one-half percent. A rider to an immigration bill.

Dragan was an immigrant himself and no one had ever given his family a shekel. In the aftermath of the Second World War, the Dragans had fled Yugoslavia for the safer and warmer confines of Israel. He had grown up on a kibbutz in the driest corner of the Negev Desert. After his national service and time at university, he’d joined the Mossad, the Israeli foreign intelligence service. It was there that he’d spent the next twenty-five years of his life, moving up through the ranks, seeing every dark corner of the Israeli spy apparatus, performing every dirty job, until eventually he became its deputy director for covert operations. Nearing fifty, tired and disillusioned, he’d left his country’s employ, taking with him a top-secret surveillance software program he’d spent years developing. With that software, he’d started Audiax Technologies. Two years later, he’d sold the company for just over one billion dollars.

And the money was gone now. A string of bad investments, a propensity for gambling, two divorces. Not a penny left. The Villa Leopolda was the first purchase made with his winnings, and now it was the last remaining. He vowed not to let it go without a fight.

Dragan returned inside. Already his spy’s mind was planning, scheming, strategizing. The change in tax law was a challenge, nothing more. A last hurdle to overcome.

Another phone call, this one from Dragan.

“Double the teams on duty this evening.”

“Why?”

“And double the betting limits.”

“I thought we decided twelve per shift was pushing it. The black boy isn’t the only one who noticed.”

“And we’ll take care of anyone else who does, too.”

“Dov, what’s going on?”

“We’re short.”

“How…? Why? You said we were on track.”

“We were,” said Dragan. “Now we are not. Double the teams.”

“How much? How much are we short?”

“Fifty million.”

*****

At the hotel, Simon accompanied Vika to her room.

“You’d be doing me a favor if you’d stay inside for the rest of the day.”

“It’s four p.m.”

“Read a book,” he suggested. “Have a coffee. Order room service.”

“I refuse to be a prisoner.”

A smile to sweeten the medicine. “It’s not too bad as far as jails go.”

At her door, Vika slipped the key from her purse and spoke almost under her breath. “I need to get to Mama’s apartment. There will be so many things to go through. I can’t imagine—”

“No,” said Simon, without the smile.

Vika spun to face him, her eyes wide. “Pardon me?”

“No,” he repeated. “You need to stay inside your room.”

“I appreciate your concern, but really, I think I can take care of myself.”

“It’s not concern. It’s common sense.”

“Whatever it is, I’ll make my own decisions, thank you.”

“Please,” said Simon. “Think this through. We have no idea what is going on out there…but believe me, something is.”

“I didn’t say I was going out. You’re missing my point.”

“Which is?”

“I will not be told what to do. By you or anyone else.”

Simon held his tongue. It was the first time he’d caught the princess in her. The woman born to a title. All afternoon she’d done her best to downplay her blue-blooded ancestry. It was clear that her unstable upbringing had weaned her of arrogance and entitlement. Nearly. She was surprisingly unmannered and down-to-earth. But there was no getting around the von Tiefen und Tassis fortune. Twelve billion dollars placed hers among the richest families in Europe. Financial gain was the primary motive behind most criminal acts. It was always about the money.

“We can go to your mother’s apartment in the morning,” he said, the beacon of reason. “Together.”

“I don’t need you to keep me safe.”

Simon let her think about that for a moment. “I’d feel better,” he said.

“And you?” asked Vika, archly. “What are you going to do? Hide out, as well?”

“I have plans.”

“What’s her name?”

“There is no ‘her.’” Simon leaned in closer. “For your information, I didn’t come for the time trial or the Concours,” he said. “I’m here on a job.”

“Really?” said Vika, still playing coy.

“Really.” Simon stared into her eyes, wondering if he was making any impression whatsoever. A few hundred years ago she would have made a formidable ruler. Today…this afternoon…she was merely an uncooperative client, even if their arrangement was informal, and she was ticking him off. “Don’t forget what happened earlier. It wasn’t an accident. Stay in your room. That’s an order.”

With a full head of steam, he walked down the hall to the elevator. “And lock the goddamned door!” he shouted.

  

Returning to his room, Simon tossed his jacket on the bed, then undressed and lay down in his undershorts and a Sex Pistols T-shirt. If Princess Victoria couldn’t appreciate the shirt, Simon was certain her late mother, Princess TNT, could. It was his habit to nap for an hour if he knew he was going to be out late. He intended to stay at the casino as long as it took to find something. He closed his eyes and relaxed his limbs. He turned off his inner voice and listened to the sounds around him. A door closing in the hall. Footsteps receding into the distance. The tick tick tick of the hotel’s plumbing. Sleep eluded him. He was still angry, exasperated, and concerned, though not sure in which order.

He’d taken on too much. That was the problem. He was here on paid assignment on behalf of the Société des Bains de Mer and Lord Toby Stonewood. He had no business trying to help Vika. Her mother’s death, accidental or otherwise, was a matter for the police. He was no homicide investigator. As he’d said earlier, he was a problem solver. If an employee was embezzling money from your firm, he was your man. If your daughter ran away with a bad element, he was more than happy to find her. Purloined industrial secrets? Stolen jewelry? A missing letter? Sign him up.

But murder?

Murder was a bridge too far.

The first thing to do was call Commissaire Le Juste. The French police were well trained, efficient, and thorough. Incorruptible, however, was a trait he was not willing to ascribe to them. Simon knew a thing or two about how things worked on the Côte d’Azur. It was a clubby place where friendships, family, and long-established ties counted more than rote obeyance of the law. The fact was, he didn’t know Rémy Le Juste and so he couldn’t trust him. Or, to put a finer point on it, he couldn’t entrust Vika to him.

Going to the police was out.

So was a nap.

After twenty minutes, Simon rose and made himself an espresso. Between sips, he opened his laptop, logged on to the net, and read up on the von Tiefen und Tassis family. The headlines said it all. PRINCE LUDWIG TO MARRY WOMAN THIRTY YEARS HIS JUNIOR. WEDDING OF THE CENTURY AT SCHLOSS BRANDENBURG. FROM PINUP TO PRINCESS: STEFANIE’S RISE FROM PAGE 3 TO THE PALACE. There was a picture of a saucy blond woman wearing a bikini, or rather a bikini bottom, and nothing else. Her hair was in pigtails and her smile said she was up for anything. The prince had gotten himself a handful.

Simon continued reading.

PRINCESS TNT GIVES BIRTH TO HEIR. FINALLY, A PRINCESS!…A GIRL, VICTORIA ELIZABETH, BORN…And then plenty of articles about the mother and her brood, pictures of blond boys and their sister in traditional German garb: lederhosen, dirndls. All rosy cheeks and Teutonic goodwill, such as it is. The myth of the Aryan superman had never entirely left the German consciousness. Then: PRINCE LUDWIG DEAD AT 64: HEART ATTACK IN MALE LOVER’S BED. THE FIGHT OVER DEATH DUTIES: THE CURIOUS CASE OF VON TIEFEN UND TASSIS. PRINCESS STEFANIE MAKES A NEW LIFE IN MONACO. STEFANIE TO REMARRY INTO DYNASTY.

Fast-forward ten years. More headlines, but with a decidedly more serious tone.

PRINCESS VICTORIA STRUGGLES TO SAVE FAMILY FORTUNE. TNT LOSES MILLIONS IN STOCK SCANDAL. PRINCESS MBA GRADUATES INSEAD WITH HONORS. And most recently: A NEW BEGINNING: THE RESURGENCE OF THE HOUSE OF VON TIEFEN UND TASSIS.

As Simon read excerpts from each article, he recalled the colorful stories Vika had told him about growing up in such a chaotic atmosphere, believing herself rich one day and destitute the next. She hadn’t mentioned earning an MBA at INSEAD, Europe’s finest business school, or her efforts to restructure the family assets to lessen inheritance taxes and preserve the estate for future generations. He’d known right off the bat that she was smart. He found her exceptionally attractive. He would have to add “accomplished” and “tenacious.”

Simon showered and dressed in a dark suit with an open-collar shirt, plain white. Feeling hungry, he consulted the room service menu. There was tournedos Rossini, Dover sole, veal steak with morilles. Prisoners should have it so good. He decided on a burger and fries, and a side salad with Roquefort dressing (millionaire’s blue cheese).

“How would monsieur like that cooked?” asked the room service operator.

Simon cleared his throat. “Medium well.”

Somewhere Auguste Escoffier was turning over in his grave.

Simon retrieved the stainless steel case and freed his surveillance tools. He set the lighter-shaped camera hunter and its earpiece on the desk. Still inside the case was a plastic bag with a number of button-shaped objects inside. Opening the bag, he shook a few into the palm of his hand. Each was a miniature tracking device. Smooth, matte-textured, and difficult to detect on one side. On the other, equipped with itsy-bitsy claws designed to grasp fabrics and not let go.

It was Simon who’d come up with the solution, the idea stemming from his own criminal past. Sooner or later, the team had to regroup, if only to hand over the money earned at the casino, in the form of either checks or cash. Every thief knew that you kept the loot in a safe location. Therefore, it was a matter of determining who was cheating, then mapping their movements. All he had to do was follow their tracks.

There was a knock at the door. Room service. Simon covered his electronic toys with a towel before allowing the server to enter and set up a dining spot. The hamburger was perfectly cooked, and he added ketchup and mustard, though he refrained from raw onion to spare any casino guests who might be seated beside him. Sitting at the beautifully laid table, he placed a napkin in the neck of his shirt and another on his lap. He wasn’t a messy eater, but this was his last shirt. He couldn’t hit the casino dressed like a fan of the Sex Pistols.

After dinner, he put on a necktie and a splash of cologne. Taking care, he gathered his electronic weapons of war, slid them into his jacket pockets, and headed to the door, ready for battle. He was interrupted by a phone call.

“Simon, it’s Toby.”

“Toby?” The familiarity caught him off guard.

“Toby Stonewood. Remember me?”

“Of course—Toby. Please excuse me.”

“How was the journey?”

“Eventful.”

“Oh?”

“But nothing to keep me from getting started.”

“Everything to your liking?”

Simon took a look around the room. At the elegant black lacquer table, the exquisitely comfortable sofa, the seventy-inch flat-screen television, the spray of yellow gladiolas that lent the space an invigorating scent. “Just about.”

“We tend to overdo things down there,” said Toby Stonewood. “I know it’s too soon to ask if you’ve made any progress, but we lost another six hundred thousand euros last night. They’re still working the place.”

“I spent the evening there. I need time to get a better feel for things, but I noticed a thing or two that wasn’t quite right.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“Not yet. I’m headed back now. I hope to have something for you in a day or two.”

“I’d encourage you to take your time, but we haven’t much left.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“One more thing.”

Simon noted the marked change in tone. “Yes?”

“One of our dealers was found dead this afternoon,” Toby went on. “In fact, I’m just off the phone with the Monégasque police. The man was Vincent Morehead. He’s Ronnie Morehead’s brother.”

The news shook Simon. “Ronnie…from Les Ambassadeurs?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“They found the body in a quarry on the Italian border. He’d been beaten to death.”

The natural question for Toby was whether he thought it had anything to do with the problems at the casino. Simon already knew the answer.

“The police suspect he may have been in debt to an organized crime syndicate,” said Toby. “The inspector hinted that they’d seen this kind of thing before.”

Something fired inside Simon and he only just managed to keep his temper. It wasn’t about debts. Vincent Morehead had seen something and now he was dead. “Nonsense. He was killed because he noticed something.”

“I suspect you’re right. But Simon, you need to be careful. Morehead died with every bone in his body broken and his skull rent in by a blunt instrument. These people—whoever they may be—are vicious.”

“Count on it.” Simon ended the call.

On the way to the elevator, he phoned Vika. There was no answer. He rode down to the lobby and, using a hotel phone, asked to be connected to her room.

“Ms. Brandt has asked that she not be disturbed,” said the operator.

“It’s an emergency.” Simon gave his name and stated that he, too, was a hotel guest.

“I’m sorry, sir, but our policy is to respect the guest’s wishes.”

Simon hung up. In a minute’s time, he was standing at Vika’s door. When no one answered, he put an ear to the panel. He heard nothing. No television. No music. No voices.

He banged again, three times in succession, very hard.

A chambermaid eyed him from the end of the hall. “May I help you?” she asked.

“I’m worried about Ms. Brandt,” said Simon. “Can you open her room?”

“Ms. Brandt? She is not there.”

“Oh?”

“She left a few minutes ago.”

“Alone?”

The chambermaid nodded. “I saw her enter the elevator.”

“Great,” said Simon. “Just great.”

“Pardon me?”

“Never mind,” he said. “Some people just don’t listen.”

*****

It was the worst day of his entire life.

Robby pulled his jumper over his head, smoothed his hair, then closed his locker. He was the last one in the gym and the noise echoed off the shower tiles and the old, high ceilings, making him feel lonelier than he already was. It was nearly six. Practice had ended an hour ago. Dinner was already being served at the culi—which was short for culinarium, some dumb Swiss name for the cafeteria. Wednesdays meant schnitzel and pommes frites. His favorite. Tonight he could care less. Throwing his book bag over his shoulder, he made his way outside.

Robby pushed open the gymnasium door and put his hand out. Though the sky had turned dark as coal, not a drop dampened his palm. He gazed past the field and into the mountains. The rest of the team had left directly after practice, heading into the forest with Karl Marshal for a secret bonfire. Robby spotted a wisp of smoke drifting skyward from the pine canopy. 

“You have to be a starter,” he’d said to Robby. “Or at least have played in a game. Sorry, pal.”

Robby started up the hill toward his dorm. All afternoon, clouds had been rolling in and he hoped it would rain. He hoped it would come down like cats and dogs and that there was thunder and lightning, a proper electrical show, and that the team would come running back to school drenched and freezing and scared out of their wits and find him safe and warm and dry in the dorm. That would teach Karl Marshal a lesson.

He imagined he heard laughter drifting down from the forest. Paulie Jackson was probably telling dirty jokes. He knew a ton of them. Robby wondered if Karl Marshal really had gotten beer. He doubted it.

“Elisabeth is coming with us, too,” he’d said. “Not that she’d notice you’re missing.”

Robby knew he was lying. She would never hang out with a bunch of high school kids, even first formers. He pictured Karl Marshal and his big head and his broad shoulders and his confident manner. Was there any way in the world she might actually like him?

Robby shook his head angrily. Never. Not in a million years. Furious for even considering it, he crossed the track and started up the field, occasionally taking a sidelong glance at the forest to see if the smoke was still there.

The bonfire wasn’t the only thing bothering him. On Thursday afternoons, sixth formers at Zuoz were allowed to “hit town,” or go on their own into the village. It was a short walk, no more than five minutes, and students could spend time strolling along the main street. The first stop was always Café Simmens, where they could choose from hot chocolate and pastries—mille-feuille and strawberry tarts were favorites—or, of course, a Coupe Dänemark: vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce with a generous topping of fresh whipped cream. Across the street was a dime store called Vario that sold pretty much everything: magazines, comics, coloring books, stuffed animals, and even toys. There was a jewelry store, a pharmacy, and of course a grocery, a butcher, and a bakery. Robby’s mother kept him on a strict allowance. He had fifteen francs to spend and took care before making his purchases.

One-quarter of Robby’s classmates were day students. The privilege meant little to them. Often, they invited friends to their homes, typically chalets in St. Moritz or Pontresina. Robby’s family also had a chalet above Pontresina. The family used it only for ski holidays. The rest of the year it sat boarded up and deserted. But to Robby, “hitting town” was a big deal, an occasion that merited much strategizing and discussion.

He’d asked two of his schoolmates to accompany him. Both had turned him down. It was Robby’s first year at Zuoz and classes had started barely six weeks earlier. He didn’t think it odd that he had yet to make any friends. The fact was that he had never been exceptionally good at palling around. While some kids were naturally popular—take Karl Marshal, for example, who was never seen without two or three friends in tow, even a girl sometimes—Robby could claim no such luck. He was friendly enough in his way. He said hello when addressed. He loved jokes, even if he was terrible at telling them. He was polite and respectful and, most important, never talked badly about anyone.

And yet despite trying all week, Robby had no one to hit town with and no invitation to visit a friend’s home. Maybe he’d just stay at school and get a head start on his homework. He stopped in his tracks. No one stayed at school and did their homework. What was wrong with him?

At that moment, Robby decided he was done trying to do the right thing. He was done never complaining, never teasing the other boys, never making fun of the ugly girls. From now on, he’d do the same as the others. He’d carp about the food at the culi. He’d rib Franz Maeder for being so fat. He’d call his mother and pout about how the others were treating him.

He laughed out loud—not even a laugh, but a cackle. Robby never cackled. He was already on the right track and enjoying himself immensely.

“Robert!”

At the sound of a woman’s voice he froze. He turned his head. It was her. It was Elisabeth taking her afternoon walk, though an hour later than usual. She waved. “Where is everyone?”

“In the forest,” he said. “Having a bonfire.” Only then did he realize he’d said too much. He looked like a loser for having been left behind.

“Without you?”

Robby struggled to make up a reasonable explanation for not having been invited. He couldn’t. “It’s a secret party, but I wasn’t invited because I’ve never played in a game.”

Elisabeth stared at him, considering this. She didn’t say “Oh well” or “They’re the ones missing out” or “I wouldn’t worry.” Instead, she left the walking path and crossed the field to where he stood. “That’s not very nice of them.”

“I have to get better before I can play,” said Robby.

“Yes,” she said. “You do. I’ve watched you play.”

“You have? Me? Why?”

“My brother was a very good rugby player. He played on the German team.”

“The German national team?”

Elisabeth nodded and a lock of her blond hair fell across her face. “But he wasn’t always good. How old are you, Robert?”

Robby needed a second. He was in a state of paralysis. She’d remembered his name. “Twelve,” he said. “Actually, twelve and a half.”

“He was much smaller than you at twelve. A real shrimp.”

“He was?”

Elisabeth nodded again. “Know how big he is now?”

Robby shook his head.

“Six feet four inches tall, and he weighs two hundred twenty pounds.”

“That’s big.”

“I’ll bet your father is tall.”

“He was. He’s dead.”

“So there.” A smile to light the darkest winter night. “Just a matter of time.”

“Think so?”

“Know it.”

Robby stood up straighter, already feeling two inches taller.

“Tell you what,” said Elisabeth, placing her hand on his shoulder, leaning close enough to make Robby’s heart nearly explode. “No school on Thursday afternoons, right? Meet me in town for a coffee. Would you like that?”

Robby didn’t answer at first. The sight of her so close, the smell of her, the touch of her hand on his shoulder, had locked him in some kind of wonderful trance. Finally, he said, “Yes. Yes, I would.”

“Don’t bring your friends. It will be just you and me.”

“Sure,” said Robby. “Just you and me.”

“How about two o’clock at Café Simmens? Meet me on the corner. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Okay, then. Tschuss.”

“Tschuss.”

Elisabeth kissed him on the cheek and continued on her walk. Robby watched her go, his feet glued to the ground. If he took one step, if he moved a muscle, he was sure he’d wake up and find that the entire encounter had been nothing but a dream.

*****

It was all set forth in the trust. The ring was to be held by the most senior male of full-blood lineage in the family succession. If there was no male, then by the most senior female, until a male attained the age of majority.

Upon Papa’s death, the ring had gone to Mama, and upon Mama’s death, it was to go to Vika, who would hold it until her son, and only living progeny, Fritz, attained his majority at age twenty-one. On that date, in a ceremony performed since the twelfth century, she would give the ring to him and the von Tiefen und Tassis estate would be his. All of it.

The ring was of paramount importance.

  

Vika hadn’t intended to go to her mother’s apartment. She hadn’t been thinking about the ring at all until she saw him later that evening, after she’d had her dinner downstairs.

Her first thought after she’d returned to her room was about Fritz. She had no idea what was going on, but as Mr. Riske had said, something was. She might be a tad flippant regarding her own safety, but her attitude toward her son couldn’t be more different.

She placed a call to the headmaster’s office at the Lyceum Zuoz. When informed that Dr. Brunner was gone for the day, she called him on his private number. It was not a courtesy to be abused.

“Frau Brandenburg, how may I be of help?” said Dr. Andreas Brunner, sixty years old, climber, philatelist, and former member of the Swiss Guard. (Alas, the vow of lifelong chastity had proved too onerous. Brunner had fallen in love with a Roman beauty—a Protestant, no less. Thirty years later they were still married.)

“Something has come up,” Vika began, appreciating Brunner’s no-nonsense manner. In vague terms, she sketched out the events of the past days, suggesting that there might be an unholy interest in the family by people unfriendly to the cause.

“Shall we send Robert to you?”

“I don’t want him disturbed. There’s no reason to believe he’s in any kind of jeopardy. Please have our mutual friend keep a close eye on him. You might want to hire on an extra teacher for the next few weeks. If possible, he could even stay in Fritz’s hall.”

“I’ll see to all matters myself and of course help as much as I can personally.”

“That would be nice.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Keep my boy safe, Dr. Brunner.”

Vika ended the call and a weight lifted from her. Prior to her son’s arrival at the school, arrangements had been made to provide him with a minder—not a bodyguard so much as an attentive uncle able to react in a decisive manner if called upon. He was a member of the faculty with past military experience, time in combat. She’d met the man and had every confidence in him.

Unburdened of one responsibility, she took a shower, put on a robe, and watched television. The news in France was as unsettling as in Germany, or anywhere else these days. Six o’clock rolled around. Feeling cooped up and in need of fresh air, she decided that a trip downstairs and a jaunt around the lobby would lift her spirits. She didn’t consider calling Riske. She was a big girl. She resented his autocratic display, no matter his experience or the events that had transpired earlier in the day. Besides, how dangerous could it be? This was the Hôtel de Paris.

When she reached the lobby and saw it bustling with elegant, well-dressed men and women, numerous hotel staff in plain sight, even two police officers standing at the front door, she dismissed her concerns altogether. She was in her element. Surely she was as safe here as anyplace.

She found a table at the Bar Américain and ordered her favorite drink, a dulap: grape juice, Sprite, and a healthy chunk of lime. For the first time all day, she relaxed. A dinner of veal scaloppine and brussels sprouts heightened her sense of security. Minute by minute, the memory of the car careening around the corner and heading straight for her grew dimmer, and Riske’s order that she stay in her room and “lock the goddamned door” seemed increasingly alarmist.

It was then that she began thinking about the ring. It came to her that maybe Mama had taken it off and that Vika would find it in her jewelry chest, and if not there, in the safe or by the sink where she set all her cosmetics. Over and over she heard her mother’s voice telling her, “He wants to know about the family…He scares me.” Vika’s determination to act…to do something…grew. She couldn’t just sit still.

And then she saw him and her mind was made up.

It was after eight when Simon Riske walked across the lobby and left the hotel. He wore a dark suit cut impeccably and looked very sharp; to any observer, he was a man out for a night on the town. Work indeed. Vika’s eyes followed him out the door and across the street to the casino. Up the stairs he went with a spring in his step, clapping the doorman on the arm as he entered. What type of job involved visiting a casino dressed to the nines?

Vika’s cheeks flushed. She clasped her hands together, then tore them apart. The man was a liar. She had the entirely irrational thought that if he could do as he pleased, then so could she.

Hesitation left her.

Vika paid her bill and left the hotel, as intent on getting to Mama’s as Simon Riske had been to enter the casino. She only hoped she had as much brio in her manner as he did.

  

Vika took no notice of the sturdy, dark-haired man with the pronounced widow’s peak and crooked nose watching her from a table at the Café de Paris. After she passed by, the man said a word to his colleagues, both of whom resembled him to an unnerving degree, and set off after her.

Ratka had a good idea where she was heading and kept a safe distance between them. She was a beautiful woman and he enjoyed the sway of her hips. She had changed her clothes from this afternoon. She wore a maroon dress that hugged her shapely ass to perfection. He enjoyed even more the scoop cut that showed off her breasts. He noted how she kept her head raised as she walked, her jaw held high. Like a real princess. This angered him. He despised haughty women. At the same time, he felt a surge in his groin.

He watched as she turned her head, checking for traffic, before crossing the street. He noted the crisp line of her jaw. So damned perfect. She lifted her hand as she crossed, as if commanding the cars to stop. He walked more quickly, his anger growing with every step. He had his own opinion about princesses, real or otherwise, and how they should be treated. The same way all women were to be treated.

A thought came to him. His blood began to race in his veins. He decided that Tommy had not properly scared her. Look at her promenading alone on the streets as if nothing had happened. Her arrogance was brazen, offensive. Ratka did not want her feeling so safe, so free to pursue her every inclination. The princess needed to be taught her place. He knew how. He’d done it many times before.

He would teach her respect.

And fear.

*****

Simon entered the Casino de Monte-Carlo a few minutes past eight. He crossed the gallery, his shoes echoing off the marble floors, the main salle de jeux in sight. He had a mental picture of what to look for. The criminals would be working in teams. One to film the cards as he or she cut them, several at a table, all of them receiving instructions on how to wager. They would do their best to blend in. Nothing flashy. If anything, the opposite, like the bland man at his table last night…the wallflower who’d ended the evening on a two-hundred-million-dollar yacht. If they had cocktails, they would not be drinking them.

They were professionals. And they were killers. Vincent Morehead had spotted them and Vincent Morehead was dead. Simon would do well not to forget it.

Once upstairs, he took the first open seat he found. The minimum bet was five hundred euros. He unbuttoned his jacket and cleared his throat noisily, waving an arm to signal a server. With ceremony, he opened his wallet and counted out five thousand euros, slapping them on the baize tabletop. The dealer gave him his chips and Simon spent time arranging them. He ordered a Campari and soda and began his play.

Two men were dead. It was imperative that Simon be sharp-eyed and observant while at the same time appearing to be indiscriminate and in his cups. Law enforcement came in many shapes and forms, but drunk was not one of them.

A woman to his right had the shoe. She was sixty, corpulent, and as red as a lobster, with gold jewelry around her neck and wrists and fingers, and probably her toes, if Simon dared to look. Every player ponied up the minimum bet. Four other players sat at the table, all men. The woman dealt the cards. Two hands. Two cards each, all faceup. A six and seven for the house—banco—or three. A king and a two for the player—punto—or two.

At this point, everyone was permitted to increase their bet, either on the punto or the banco. The odds were more or less even between the two hands. Simon bet two hundred euros on banco, the woman holding the shoe. The other four players all bet on punto. The first two men bet two hundred euros, the second two a thousand euros.

The woman dealt the cards. One more to each hand.

Punto drew a six, giving them an eight.

Banco drew a four, giving it a seven.

Punto won.

As the woman had lost, rules called for her to pass the shoe. The next player declined and the shoe returned to the house. A new hand was dealt.

A pattern quickly developed. Two of the four players (not the woman, who was German and informed Simon that her name was Brünnhilde and that she was unmarried) always bet the same amount on one hand. The winning hand.

Simon made sure not to mimic their bets or to pay undue attention to anyone except his new object of desire, Brünnhilde from Hamburg. He played a dozen hands, winning and losing equally. Time came to reshuffle the shoe. A new stack of 416 cards—eight decks pre-shuffled—was loaded into the shoe.

This was the moment Eightball Eddie had told Simon to watch for.

The dealer offered the shoe to the player who had won the most money on the last hand and gave him a yellow cutting card. The player—middle-aged, dark hair, casual but elegant attire, eyeglasses—pulled the shoe closer and ran the edge of the cutting card over it in an upward direction. It was a quick motion—zip and it was done. Then the man slipped the card into the center of the shoe. The dealer took the shoe and cut the cards accordingly. Next he burned the first ten cards, dealing them into a pile and consigning the pile to a slot in the table, never to be seen again. After this, the dealer played two dummy hands to conclusion and consigned these cards to oblivion as well.

All this Simon watched with passing interest, pretending to be concerned with Brünnhilde’s tall tales and making sure that they both had a fresh cocktail before play restarted. In fact, his eye never left the man who had cut the cards. Vikram Singh had been correct. Simon had not been able to observe any behavior that might tip him off that the man was cheating. No sign of a camera. No artfully concealed earpieces. Most important, there was no pinging in his own earpiece to signal the presence of a camera. In fact, he realized belatedly, there was no sound at all. He rose too quickly, nearly spilling a drink, then asked to be dealt out of the next hand.

Inside the restroom, he locked himself in a stall and examined the Zippo-shaped camera hunter. The operating light was not on. He depressed the switch. The green light burned brightly. A low-level hum filled his ear. Cursing his ineptitude, he replaced the device in his pocket—carefully this time.

Ready to get down to business, he headed back to the table. Something strange happened on the way. The steady hum was replaced by a pinging noise not dissimilar to sonar. The pinging grew more rapid, faster still, until it reached a steady pitch. The strange part was that this happened as he walked past the table in the gaming room next to his.

Simon continued walking and the pulse slowed, only to increase again as he neared his table, turning once again to a steady tone as he passed the dark-haired man who had cut the cards a few minutes earlier.

Not one camera, but two.

“I’m back,” Simon said to the players in a jocular tone as he retook his seat. “We can all start again. I, for one, now intend to win!”

There were smiles all around. Brünnhilde welcomed him back with a bibulous hug.

Play resumed.

Simon gambled for another half hour. He recognized the cheaters’ methods and bet with the winners each time. He left the table with ten thousand euros, double his stake. He calculated that the cheaters, if it really was them, had won over one hundred thousand.

He continued to the next room and assumed a position by a back wall, watching the man he’d identified as holding the camera. After a while, the man left the table and visited the restroom. Simon kept his distance. When the man emerged, Simon was right there on his way in, jostling him only slightly as he passed.

Inside the bathroom, he washed his hands, counting to twenty before leaving. He made a beeline for the main staircase and was outside in the fresh night air a minute later. He had placed tracking devices on four persons, two of whom he knew for certain were part of the team robbing Lord Toby Stonewood and the Société des Bains de Mer of millions, and two others he suspected of being their associates.

On top of that he had one new wallet to shore up his research.

He didn’t dare look at it until he was back in the confines of his hotel room.

For now, he had another pressing matter.

*****

It was a thirty-minute walk from the hotel, and Vika was careful to stay on the populated track, following the sidewalk down the hill, then losing herself in the procession of pedestrians taking an evening stroll along the promenade. It was only when she left the seafront and traversed the three blocks uphill to the Boulevard du Larvotto that she found herself alone and the narrow streets quiet and desolate. She covered the distance as briskly as she could, without jogging or in any way betraying her anxieties. She checked over her shoulder and looked at reflections in storefront windows to see if anyone was following. She was a longtime fan of John le Carré’s novels and could match George Smiley’s tradecraft, if not Toby Esterhase’s. To her relief, she saw no one, and as she entered the lobby of the Château Perigord, stopping to look behind her a final time, she felt rather foolish, like the victim of a practical joke.

The Château Perigord was a twenty-story apartment building on the Boulevard d’Italie, overlooking the sea. In Monaco, people didn’t rent apartments; they owned them. Twenty-five years earlier, Vika’s mother had purchased a three-bedroom flat on the top floor. Papa had recently died, and like many wealthy Europeans facing onerous taxes, Mama had fled to Monaco. Her mother claimed that she needed a fresh start, a chance to build a new life with new friends in a new place where the press didn’t follow her from morning to night and it didn’t rain every day but Sunday. Things had not gone well since.

Vika rode the old elevator to the top floor. The hall carpets were the same color, the little tables and decorations unchanged since her last visit a decade before. The building had smelled tart and antiseptic then—like a hospital, she’d always remarked—and it still did.

She stopped in front of the door and removed a set of keys, each with a colored fob. Red was for Marbella, green for Pontresina, blue for Barbados. There were ten of them. And black for Mama’s place in Monaco. Vika needed several tries to get the key into the lock. Her hand was trembling, not out of fear but another emotion she disliked every bit as much.

Vika stepped inside, leaving the door open behind her. If anything happened, she wanted someone to hear her scream. The apartment was dark as a crypt. She flipped on the lights and observed that the curtains were drawn. They were blackout curtains, velvet, the color of blood. Daylight was the drinker’s enemy.

Then she took in the living room.

Vika covered her mouth as her eyes jumped from the messy coffee table to the upended chair to the shattered brandy glass. There was an empty bottle of Wyborowa, the Polish vodka her mother drank like Perrier, lying underneath the dining room table. Advancing carefully, as if she were barefoot and avoiding the broken glass, she grabbed the neck of the bottle and set it on the table. Her first reaction was that she needed to call Commissaire Le Juste. There had been a fight. A battle royale, from the looks of things. Any rational person would come to the same conclusion. Here at last was the evidence Vika needed.

But when she put her hand on her mother’s telephone, she paused.

A fight or the normal state of affairs for a raging alcoholic?

  

 

Vika woke in her bed and sat up.

Music from Mama’s party carried through the rafters below and into her room. She put her feet on the floor and felt the pounding rhythmic beat in her stomach. It was too loud. Frightened, she padded down the broad staircase of the grand chalet, eyes blinking back the bright light, trying to make sense of the confusion of bodies, the colorful sweaters and blouses dancing and mingling and she wasn’t sure what else.

There was a tall man wearing a silver fur jacket standing on the onyx coffee table, making circles and swinging a hand in the air. It took Vika a moment to realize that Mama was on the table, too, dancing with him.

Vika made her way through the merrymakers and tugged at her mother’s skirt. “You’ll wake the boys.”

Her mother betrayed no surprise at seeing her ten-year-old daughter at three in the morning standing in her flannel Lanz nightgown, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Come, Victoria!” she shouted over the music. “Come dance with us.”

“Mama, it’s late.”

“Quatsch,” her mother laughed. Nonsense. “The party is only getting started. Your mama is forty years old. Can you believe it?” Her mother turned her head away and addressed her friends, arms spread wide. “Ich bin vierzig!” she half sang, half yelled, then dissolved in a fit of laughter. I’m forty.

Vika tugged her skirt again and her mother came down off the table. Instead of taking her back to her room and tucking her in, she led her daughter around the spacious den, with its floor-to-ceiling windows and large fireplace and arolla pine walls decorated with dozens of bleached ram horns, and introduced her to her friends.

“This is Rolf. This is Michael. This is Katya.”

Vika shook their hands as she’d been taught, making a little curtsy each time, sure to lift the hem of her nightgown off the floor.

Finally, her mother led her to the man in the fur coat. “And this is Gunther. He’s going to be your father one day.”

“Good evening, Princess Victoria,” Gunther had said, bowing. “It is an honor to meet you.”

He was tall and tanned brown, with long silver hair. He was a famous man in Germany. They called him a playboy. Once he had been married to a famous French movie star.

“I don’t want another father,” Vika had said, upset.

“Don’t listen to your mother,” Gunther had said. “I can never take your father’s place.” He leaned closer. “Your mama is a bit drunk. It is her birthday, so we must forgive her.”

“She’s forty,” said Vika.

“I’m fifty,” said Gunther. “A dinosaur.”

Vika smiled.

“Do you know what I do when I’m not dancing?”

“You do the bobsleigh.” She saw that he was wearing a sweater with the badge of the St. Moritz Bobsleigh Club.

“Besides that.”

Vika shook her head.

“I take photographs. I’m going to take one of you.”

“But I’m not pretty.”

“But you are. And very serious.”

“Not tonight.”

“Another time.”

From across the room there was a shriek and a glass shattered. Then laughter, much too wild for Vika’s liking. Her mother had tripped over a chair and cut herself. She was crying.

“Back to bed with you,” said Gunther, putting one enormous hand on the small of her back. “Don’t worry. I’ll look after your mother.”

As Vika climbed up the stairs to her room, she made out the words of the song.

“Let’s dance, the last dance. So let’s dance, the last dance…tonight.”

  

A fight or a party?

Vika examined the room in a more skeptical light. A record album spun round and round on the turntable, Papa’s treasured Bang and Olufsen. She turned it off and when the album stopped spinning she read the name of the artist. It was Donna Summer’s greatest hits.

A party, then?

If so, why hadn’t Elena cleaned up? Vika felt a surge of anger at the Sicilian woman. She poked her head into the bathroom and winced. Someone had urinated in the toilet and failed to flush it. The kitchen was a mess. There was an empty wine bottle on the counter, dirty plates in the sink, and a serving dish with the remnants of prosciutto and melon. Grandmama’s crystal salt and pepper shakers lay on the floor like bowling pins, along with a soiled dish towel and several pieces of cutlery.

Vika stood very still and took another look at things. She recalled the voice mail. “He wants to know about the family…He scares me.”

Or was it a fight?

She was confused, unable to make sense of what had happened here. It came to her that she couldn’t answer.

“Damn you, Mama!” she shouted, overcome with emotion.

  

Ratka followed at a safe distance, amused at the woman’s clumsy countersurveillance methods. Again, he grew angry at Tommy for his rash actions. Maybe taking half a finger wasn’t enough. Still, at least he knew that she carried a pistol.

The woman left the beachfront and walked up the hill toward the apartment. Ratka turned up a block earlier and was in position to see her emerge onto the Boulevard d’Italie and enter her mother’s building. Through the windows, he could see that the lobby was an ornate two-story affair with mirrors everywhere and shiny stone floors. He saw her standing at the elevator bank. With mounting excitement, he studied her figure, enjoying the fit of her dress, her trim waist, her long, slender legs. He imagined her naked. Crying. Begging for him to be gentle. It had been too long since he’d taken a woman by force. The memory stirred his loins and awakened his darker instincts. The animal lurking within every man demanded release.

He hurried around the corner and down the steep alley off which residents entered the subterranean parking garage. He had a key for the maintenance door. Inside he navigated several corridors to the freight elevator. He had a smaller key for this. His heart raced as he rode to the top floor.

In his feverish mind, he saw his hands ripping off her shirt, tearing off her brassiere, kneading her breasts. He hoped she screamed. He would slap her. He hoped she struggled. He would subdue her. He would control her absolutely.

The elevator slowed. The doors opened.

It had been too long.

Days of fire.

  

Civil war had been raging for over a year across the country previously known as Yugoslavia. Now it was every man for himself. Ratka viewed the conflict as the chance to assert the Serbian’s God-given ethnic superiority. An opportunity to cleanse the land of its Muslim neighbors. Islam was a race, not a religion, a filthy subhuman race that tainted their common flag and weakened their nation.

Ratka headed the Serbian Volunteer Force, known as the Silver Tigers, and though neither he nor the two hundred men who served under him were members of the military, they had been given uniforms, automatic weapons, jeeps, and even a half-dozen armored personnel carriers.

They had arrived in Srebrenica at dawn, after devastating the meager forces defending the city. The streets were deserted. White flags hung from windows. Ratka went building by building, home by home, ferreting out the men hiding in cellars and closets and beneath beds—cowards all—and corralling them into a pen in the town square. It was a maelstrom of emotion, the women screaming, children bawling, life and death played in operatic crescendos over and over again. He gave his men free rein to plunder, pillage, and rape. This was what it was like to conquer, to subjugate, to rule absolutely.

He chose the most beautiful woman for himself. She was the mayor’s wife, tall, statuesque, and, best, proud. The mayor was dead, dispatched by a bullet to the head from Ratka’s rifle. Her strength in the face of it all, her resolution, was like a last redoubt to be stormed. He ordered her into the bedroom, and when she refused, chin held high, defiance in her eyes, he hit her across the face with the muzzle of his pistol and dragged her inside by the collar. She fought him and her every shout and struggle aroused him further. He took her twice, and when he was done, all resistance had been bled from her. She lay on the floor as defiant as a used dishrag, whimpering, begging him to kill her. He refused. It gave him pleasure to know she would suffer to the end of her days.

And now, as he let himself into the princess’s home through the servants’ entrance, he would know those feelings again.

  

Vika had her cry.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, head in hand, asking why things had turned out as they had and why she hadn’t tried harder to change it all. She’d asked herself the same questions many times before. The answer was that she had tried to change things, over and over again, but her mother hadn’t wanted to listen, let alone act. More difficult to accept was that too often one’s best efforts counted for nothing. Things just turned out the way they did.

A creak from the foyer cut short her silent tirade.

“Hello?” Vika called.

No one responded.

She crossed the living room to the front door and peered down the corridor. “Hello?” she tried again.

The corridor was dark, the lights activated by motion sensors.

Reassured, she closed the door and locked it. No one could hear her scream anyway and she preferred not to have someone sneak up on her.

She walked down the hall toward Mama’s bedroom, tucking her head into the guest rooms along the way. Both were made up and appeared untouched since Vika’s last visit.

The door to the master was ajar, which frightened her more than the shattered brandy glass, the empty vodka bottle, or the pee in the toilet. Doors in a home were either open or closed. Never ajar. With her fingertips, she gave it a shove. The door swung inward.

Vika took a step, steeling herself.

The room was immaculate. The king-sized bed neatly made, the sable bedspread placed just so, the silver lamé throws arranged as Mama liked them. There was a stack of books on her night table, and Vika was reassured to note that they were the same books as ten years earlier: Donna Leon’s biggest hits of the aughts. Next to them, arranged as neatly as soldiers on a parade ground, were Mama’s pills. A rogues’ gallery of vitamins, nutrients, and supplements that would have done Severus Snape proud. (She was the mother of a twelve-year-old boy. Of course she’d read Harry Potter.) If Vika saw eye of newt she wouldn’t have been surprised. Herbs, yes. Doctors, no. Nothing better illustrated her mother’s mental state.

She picked up a bottle to read the label and noted a sudden change in the light. Bright to dim to bright again. Startled, she spun, expecting to confront an intruder. A moth fluttered below the ceiling lamp.

Vika expelled her breath. A look down the hallway calmed her. Of course there was no one there.

Seized with the urge to find what she’d come for, she entered the master bathroom. The sinks and countertops were as spic-and-span as the bedroom, toothpaste, toothbrush, eye cream, and a variety of cosmetic nostrums all in their rightful places. There was no glint of metal to be seen, no chunk of gold hiding anywhere on the white stone surface. Vika dismissed the sink with an unprincess-like snort. It had been foolish to think Mama would leave it there. If the ring was anywhere, surely it was in the safe.

Vika marched into the closet. Dropping to her knees, she swept aside row upon row of shoes like a scythe through wheat. Decorum be damned. She needed to find the ring.

A corner of the carpet was dog-eared. She took hold of it and yanked ferociously, peeling it back to reveal the floor safe. The combination was Papa’s birthday, of course. The door sprang upward.

A spray of diamonds winked at her. Vika had seen the tiara a thousand times but it dazzled her nonetheless. One hundred carats of diamonds, half again as many of rubies and sapphires. It was named the Brandenburg tiara, created in 1815 for another Princess von Tiefen und Tassis’s appearance at the very first opera ball celebrating the Congress of Vienna.

Why wasn’t it in its proper case?

Vika propped herself up on an elbow and removed the tiara. Looking closer, she noted that there were a few diamonds missing and that one arm was slightly bent. Oh Mama, she thought, imagining her mother parading around in one of her drunken states while wearing the tiara and probably a formal gown as well.

With care, she set the tiara aside.

She lay on her belly and sorted through the safe’s contents. There were legal documents and bundles of cash in different currencies, some long since out of use. (French francs, anyone? Dutch guilders?) There at the bottom was Mama’s jewelry box, black velvet with her initials embossed in gold. Finally, thought Vika. She stretched a hand into the safe to retrieve it.

“Zat’s a fuck lot of diamonds.”

Vika screamed as a giant’s hand took her by the neck and dragged her to her feet. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a hooded figure, a large man in dark clothing, a balaclava pulled over his face. He yanked her head back and she cried out.

“Jebena kučka,” he growled in a Slavic language she did not understand. “Now we have some fun. You and me.”

The fingers dug into the muscles of her neck, paralyzing her. He guided her out of the closet to the bedroom, slamming her against the wall, shoving her onto the fur bedspread, never lessening his grip on her neck. Stunned, panicked, too confused to make sense of what was happening, Vika lay facedown, motionless, fighting for breath. Then he was on her, his weight smothering her, his loins shoved against her. She smelled his breath. Liver and onions and coffee. She gagged. She felt him, insistent and hostile. A hand slipped into her pants. She threw an elbow and hit something hard. The man grunted. His weight shifted, and she slid off the bed, tried to stand, desperately wanting to reach the door, only to be slammed onto the floor, her cheek landing first, a tooth coming loose. She tasted blood.

The man ripped her pants to her knees. She was hurt, frightened, in shock. She writhed. She fought. A fist slugged the side of her face. She stopped struggling. Rough hands pulled at her panties. Fabric ripped. She felt him against her, ugly and probing.

“Stop it!” she screamed.

Another fist landed on her skull.

She saw stars.

“Help me,” she whimpered.

Suddenly, the weight lifted. He was no longer on top of her. Someone else was in the room…Another man…It was Simon Riske. He was yelling…something French—“Espèce de salaud”—and he grabbed the attacker by his shoulders, hauled him to his feet, and tossed him against the dresser.

  

Simon glanced at Vika, saw her head move, blood on the carpet. She was alive, thank God. He looked back as the attacker regained his balance, pulling up his pants. The man grabbed a glass vase and backhanded it at Simon, the vase glancing off his head, stunning him. The attacker charged, leading with a shoulder, slamming him against the wall, pinning him with his body weight. Thick hands found Simon’s neck, thumbs digging into his throat, collapsing his windpipe. Simon forced an open palm under the man’s jaw, pressing up with all his might. His left hand dropped to his side and he thrust it into the man’s unzipped trousers, took hold of his testicles, and crushed them.

An unholy scream filled the room.

The grip on Simon’s neck loosened. The hands fell away and Simon head-butted the man, forcing him back a step. Simon curled his knuckles and launched a jab at his larynx, sending him stumbling. In desperation, the man grabbed a drawer and pulled it clear of the dresser, the contents falling onto the floor as he swung wildly.

Simon turned, taking the blow with his shoulder, the force splintering the wood. The attacker dropped the drawer and snapped up something on the floor. A letter opener, long and sharp as a dagger. He lunged at Simon, just missing. Simon grabbed a book off the nightstand and, clutching it with both hands, used it to deflect the next blow, and the next. He allowed the third blow closer, too close, feeling the blade slice into his belly, and brought the book down on the man’s wrist, swinging his shoulders in an arc, driving the book into the attacker’s throat. In the same motion, he aimed a kick at the man’s knee.

The attacker was agile for his size and dodged the kick, retreating several steps.

It was a standoff. The men faced each other, panting. The attacker’s eyes were black and hooded and Simon promised never to forget them. He felt light-headed, his throat swelling, his gut aching terribly.

The attacker flipped the letter opener in his hand so that he held it by the tip. In a lightning motion, he threw it at Vika, as deftly as a knife thrower at a circus. The blade embedded itself below her shoulder blade. She cried out. In that instant, the man fled.

Simon pursued him down the hall and into the kitchen, the man dashing through the maid’s entrance and down a flight of stairs. It was the same entrance that Simon had used minutes before. The stairwell was dark and promised danger.

He pulled up. “I will find you!” he shouted, consumed with rage. “You are dead. Do you hear me? Dead!”

Simon hurried back to Vika, who was still on the floor. With care he freed the blade, noting that it had not gone in too deeply. He told her to remain still and returned with a warm washcloth. He knelt down next to her and held it in place as she sat up.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Simon placed an arm around her. She laid her head on his shoulder. She sobbed once, then was quiet. They sat that way for a while. Simon suggested that it was time they go to the hospital. She would need stitches. It was important that a doctor see her. He noted that there was blood on his shirt and the fabric was torn. He was certainly doing a number on his wardrobe.

“He didn’t,” said Vika, answering a question Simon would not ask.

“I’ll find him.”

“How?”

Simon could only shake his head, for he had no answer.

*****

A distant church tolled the midnight hour as Ratka climbed the gangway to the Lady S. He headed fore, where lights burned in the salon. He descended two flights of stairs, past the living quarters and the pantry. He entered the office without knocking.

“Well?” asked the man behind the desk.

“Four million.” Ratka tossed an envelope containing the checks onto the table. “So far. Two hours left.”

The man swept it into the top drawer, locking it afterward. Honor among thieves was overrated. He looked more closely at Ratka. “What happened to you?” he asked, then raised a finger. “And don’t even think of lying to me.”

Ratka poured himself a glass of raki, the Turkish firewater the Jew was fond of, and slipped into a chair. “Bitch,” he murmured.

“What have you been up to?”

“She went to the apartment. I wanted to have a little fun.”

“Fun? You and I have different conceptions of the word.”

Ratka ran a hand over his throat, wincing at the spot where he’d been slugged. Reluctantly, he related the details of what had transpired. He hated the Jew as he hated all Jews, but he respected him. They were partners, and without him, Ratka knew none of their plans would have been possible. When he’d finished, the man simply stared at him. It was the look a man gave an animal, a beast of burden, not another man. Ratka threw back the rest of the raki. Maybe he was an animal. God knew that he had done things other men could not.

“Why?” asked the Jew, more mystified than angered, a hand appraising his shorn silver hair.

Ratka met the blue eyes and looked past them, to a time twenty-five years earlier, when he’d met the gaze of a man who’d looked very much like him. Not a Jew, but a Bosnian Muslim, a Bosniak. Ratka had not been looking at him across a sleek teak table aboard a luxury vessel, but through the crosshatched wire of a fence at a makeshift concentration camp Ratka and his men had built in a secluded valley ten kilometers outside the town of Srebrenica.

Ratka had ordered the men in the camp to dig a slit trench deep in the forest. It was to be used as a latrine, he’d told them. He’d taken the prisoners there in groups of twenty and executed them. Three thousand over the course of a day. Including one Bosniak who’d looked as if he could be the Jew’s twin.

“Why?” Ratka shrugged, the memory of his requited power fresh after all these years. “Because I could.”

“Do you know who saved her?”

“The same as before.”

“The one with the Ferrari?”

Ratka nodded without shame. “I will find him.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Dov Dragan. “I know where he is.”

*****