Crown Jewel 5

 

The family was under attack.

Someone had killed Mama.

Someone had tried to kill her.

Elena Mancini had been beaten within an inch of her life.

Vika acknowledged these facts as she would any others affecting her welfare and the welfare of those she loved. Not with fear, trepidation, and panic. But calmly, rationally, and with a desire bordering on the pathological to find whoever was responsible and make them pay. If anyone expected her to fall to pieces and let someone else do all the work, they had the wrong woman.

Thankful to be back in her room, she kicked off her shoes and collapsed into one of the club chairs. Her first order of business was to place a call to Fritz’s school. She was pleased to find Dr. Brunner in his office. She asked after her son and the headmaster informed her that Robert had gone into town as all the boys did on Thursdays after school. As per her wishes, he had dispatched Coach MacAndrews to tag along and see if he might join Robert. Dr. Brunner had heard nothing back, so he assumed all was fine. Vika thanked him and hung up. She considered calling her son but didn’t want to embarrass him if he was with friends. It had taken long enough for him to be comfortable on his own. She didn’t want to jeopardize his independence. She had interviewed MacAndrews herself. He was a capable man with a solid record. Fritz was in good hands.

Vika put down the phone. If only she could curl up on the bed and sleep. If only she could cry out, “Please help me. It’s too much.” Capitulation, sweet and fragrant as a poisonous flower, beckoned. Yield. Yield. Yield.

And then what?

She’d learned long ago that to rely on another was as dangerous as doing nothing. It didn’t matter that she was frightened and fragile and altogether out of her depths. She could not bend. She could not break. She could not yield.

Vika stood suddenly, surprising herself. Shelter could be found in her own history. This was not the first time they had been threatened. The family’s thousand-year history was strewn with battles and treachery and attempts to wrest its birthright, and its fortune, from its members. Her home, Schloss Brandenburg, had been built in the sixteenth century on a mountain redoubt overlooking the valley in all directions. The castle boasted thirty-foot walls, sentry towers, and even a portcullis. If there was a family motto it might be “Take No Chances.” Deep in the cellar, there once had been a room for boiling oil, with a medieval delivery system to transport great cauldrons of the stuff to the parapets, from where it could be poured down onto the heads of the enemy. As a child, she’d run her hand along the sections of stone burned smooth by the boiling liquid. Her family knew about marauders. 

“He wants to know about the family…He scares me.”

And now her mother’s fear had proved justified. If they wanted the ring, it meant they knew about the codicil. Either mother had divulged it, accidentally or otherwise, or someone outside the family had done so. Vika could count on one hand the individuals who knew about it. There was Herr Bruderer, their eighty-year-old family attorney. Out of the question. It was easier to get blood from a stone. And Herr Notnagel, the family accountant, the fourth generation of Notnagels to hold the post. Never. Of course, there was “Bismarck,” Mama’s ex-husband, but he was as rich as they. The Holzenstein dynasty went back as far as their own. None of the above had motive to reveal the codicil to an outside party.

Even so, Vika called them all and apprised them of what had happened. She asked if there had been any undue attention, any questions asked, any change in the law or their family circumstance that she should know about. The answer was an unambiguous no, apart from a law that had passed only a few days earlier, a rider to an immigration bill raising the death duty on the transfer of estates by one-half percent. That was of no concern.

Vika herself had instigated the tax planning that had saved the von Tiefen und Tassis fortune. The estate would pass from Papa to Fritz upon his twenty-first birthday. No one would be allowed to touch it until then. By skipping one generation, the family would benefit from a tax holiday implemented to prevent the breakup of great estates. There were additional restrictions on the sale of family assets, but Vika couldn’t see how anyone outside the family could benefit from trying to sell them off.

Which brought her back to the ring.

Vika went to the window overlooking the Place du Casino. Elena had told her where it was hidden. It was safe, that much Vika knew. And close. Close enough to retrieve on foot and be back in her hotel room in an hour. She scanned the busy sidewalks, the throngs of men and women. It was hard to believe that out there somewhere was someone who wished her harm.

Vika crossed the room and opened the door to the hall. Peeking out, she gazed in the direction of the elevator. She was willing to wager Riske had been lying about stationing a valet to keep an eye on her. Surely he had believed her this time when she’d said she would stay put. She opened the door further and stepped into the hall. A head poked out from the elevator vestibule. A man was staring at her. A hotel valet.

Vika jumped back into her room and slammed the door.

Damn Simon Riske for keeping his word.

*****

Simon threw on a blazer and headed downstairs. The last thing he felt like doing after such an emotionally taxing day was make chitchat with Dov Dragan. But Dragan was a race steward and Simon had come to Monaco to take part in the time trial. Cover was something you lived. He considered asking Vika to join him, then decided against it. It wouldn’t be fair to her, and more important, he needed to wean himself off his feelings for her. It was a dead end. The sooner he got that through his head the better.

Simon found Dragan seated at a table in the rear of the bar. He was wearing a canary-yellow blazer over a black T-shirt with navy slacks that desperately needed ironing. He was a remarkably bad dresser. And that was before Simon caught sight of the espadrilles.

“So nice of you to join me,” said Dragan, pulling himself from his chair and extending a hand in greeting. “And at such short notice.”

“You said you had some news about the time trial. It sounded urgent.”

The handshake was weak and noncommittal. A dead fish. Nothing told Simon more about a person.

Dragan sat and motioned for Simon to do the same. “We’ve decided to move up the time trial by one day. A severe storm system is headed our way and the forecasters promise torrential rain. There’s no chance the race can take place. What do you say?”

“Good idea.”

“You’ll be ready?”

“I’m having the car serviced now. You had me so worried I flew down my best mechanic from London.”

“You don’t really think there’s anything you can do to that engine to make it compete with my Bugatti?”

“We’ll see, won’t we?”

Dragan had a laugh to himself. “How did a man like you get from Marseille to London?”

“What do you mean?”

“I noticed your artwork the other day. We don’t see that often at the club. Just trying to put two and two together.”

“I was young. I grew up. Nothing more to it than that. And you, Mr. Dragan: where did you come from before Cap Ferrat?”

“Here and there…Tel Aviv, mostly.”

Dragan was Israeli. That was the accent, though it was apparent Dragan worked hard to lessen its bite. He was a tough Jew in a part of the world that didn’t particularly welcome the type. “That Dragan,” said Simon. “Pardon my lapse. I may have purchased shares in the company you founded. Remind me.”

“Audiax. We had a patent on sensitive listening devices. Surveillance, that kind of thing. Very popular with the defense industry. The IPO was after I’d left. I fear I sold too early. It’s hard to turn down a billion dollars.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You were a broker?”

“Private banking, actually.”

“My bankers are Swiss. Pictet in Geneva.”

“Banque Pictet is a good firm.”

“Finest in the world,” said Dragan. “I have friends in London. Where did you work? Perhaps they know you.”

“It’s been a while,” said Simon. “Unless they have a Ferrari that needs fixing up, I probably wouldn’t know them.”

The waiter arrived and Dragan ordered Negronis for both of them. Simon wasn’t a fan of the drink, which was Campari, gin, and vermouth. He found it bitter and cloying, and vermouth had never done anything for him to begin with. But Dragan wouldn’t stop praising it, or the bartender’s skill in preparing it, and Simon went along. He knew Dragan’s type: always lauding his every accomplishment, acquisition, and association as the best. Audiax had earned him a billion dollars. Banque Pictet was the finest in the world. And the Negroni was a cocktail nonpareil. Maybe they should both unzip their pants, yank them out, and see whose was bigger then and there.

Simon asked how long he’d been living in the South of France, and Dragan said, “Not long enough.” He’d purchased the Villa Leopolda (“the most beautiful property on the coast”) ten years earlier and had his eye on an adjoining property to enlarge his estate.

The drinks came and Dragan raised his glass with relish. One would have thought it was going to add fifty years to his life, or at least make him a little better looking. “Chin-chin.”

“Cheers,” said Simon, and after he took a sip, “Delicious.”

“Told you.” Dragan smiled, delighted with himself. “The best!” He put down the drink and leaned across the table, a hand motioning Simon closer. “I saw you arrive earlier with a lovely woman. Your wife?”

If Dragan had noticed his tattoo when he was wearing a blazer, surely he would have remarked on the absence of a wedding ring. “A friend,” said Simon.

“Some friend.” Dragan raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Though she looked rather tense.”

“She’s had a difficult day.”

“Too bad you couldn’t find a way to ease her worries.”

“I did what I could.”

“For a friend.”

Simon’s temperature rose a notch. “Yes.”

But Dragan wasn’t done with the subject. “She’s someone,” he said, screwing up his face as he searched his memory. “Now I know. Princess Victoria of Germany. Of course. I read that her mother died recently. Pulled a Princess Grace and drove straight off a cliff. My, my, Mr. Riske, you move in fancy circles.”

“And I’m not even a billionaire.”

“If you’re not helping her with her car, what are you helping her with?”

Simon finished his Negroni. It was worse than he remembered. “It’s getting late, Mr. Dragan. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Give the princess my regards. Let’s hope she’s every bit as wild as that mother of hers. She certainly shares the same figure.”

As Simon rose, his fingers locked around the armrest of his chair. If he let go they’d be around Dragan’s neck, even if the man was twenty years older and weighed fifty pounds less. Simon decided he was going to beat Dragan at the time trial if it was the last thing he did.

He left the Bar Américain in a foul mood.

  

Being an investigator was about contacts, thought Simon as he rode the elevator back to his floor. Who you knew, who you trusted, and who you could count on in a pinch. You never lied. You never misled. You never turned down a request when it might benefit a colleague. And you expected the same in return. It was the professional’s code.

Most important, you left yourself out of the equation. It wasn’t about you. It was about the client.

And so, it was in brazen defiance of this last rule that Simon called one of his oldest and most trusted sources. Her name was Isabelle Guyot. She was Swiss and worked for Banque Pictet in Geneva.

“Salut, Isabelle,” he began.

“You. It’s been a while.”

“I need your help.”

“Uh-oh.”

“You guys have a client I’m interested in. A real piece of work.”

“Don’t go there.”

“Just personal curiosity. I’m not building a dossier on him.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something? Bank secrecy.”

“The name is Dov Dragan. D-o-v-d-r-a-g-a-n.”

“Simon, please…It’s the law.”

“Founder of Audiax Technologies. Israeli citizen. Resident of Cap Ferrat. Chairman of the racing committee of the Monaco Rally Club. And client of Banque Pictet and Cie. The finest private bank in the world. See? I’m practically a family member.”

“You sound funny. What has this guy done to you?”

“He’s got me riled up, but I’ve got a feeling about him. Something doesn’t quite match.”

“And you’re asking me to break the law because…well, just because? Simon, this isn’t like you.”

The elevator arrived at the fourth floor and Simon walked down the corridor to his room. “Indulge me. I’ll take you to dinner next time you’re in London. Bibendum. That’s your favorite place, right?”

There was a long sigh. Simon imagined Isabelle in Pictet’s lavish offices on the Route des Acacias in Geneva. She was a year or two younger but a decade more mature, with straight black hair and eyes the color of topaz. No one looked better in a navy two-piece. As for Pictet, it might not be the finest private bank in the world, but it was one of the oldest and enjoyed a sterling reputation. It was the private banker’s private bank.

“I couldn’t if I wanted to,” said Isabelle. “These days it is impossible to access a client’s account without leaving a record. I’d have to have a reason why. I’m not his PM or his AR.”

“PM” for portfolio manager. “AR” for account representative.

“Didn’t I hear through the grapevine that you were promoted? Directeur adjoint, n’est-ce pas?”

“That’s correct.”

“Air’s pretty thin up there.”

“And the view’s a lot better.”

They laughed and Simon wondered if she was remembering the same things he was.

“So, it wouldn’t be out of place for someone in your lofty position to check Mr. Dragan’s account to make sure he’s being well taken care of…You know, to be sure that Pictet didn’t miss a chance to sell him something.”

“I always forget you used to do this, too,” said Isabelle.

“I just wasn’t as good as you.”

“Ha! If you’d taken the job we offered, you’d be running the place by now.”

“I’d be working for you.”

“Even better.”

There was a pause, a lengthy silence replete with expectations dashed and unspoken hurt.

“Still no Mrs. Riske?”

“The position remains vacant.”

“And always shall…”

He didn’t need to ask if she’d married.

“Goodbye, Simon.”

*****

Charge it to Mr. Riske’s room,” called Dragan to the bartender as he left the Bar Américain.

He jogged across the street and hurried down the incline to the port. He’d poured it on a little thick, but he’d gotten the result he needed. There could be no doubt that Riske was attached to Princess Victoria Brandenburg von Tiefen und Tassis. The nature of the attachment was unclear, as was Riske’s reason for being in Monaco. The time trial was a pretext. For the moment, though, neither mattered. Riske fancied himself the princess’s knight in shining armor. It was up to Dragan to tarnish his shield or knock him off his horse altogether.

At the port, he flashed his badge and passed through the security gate, hardly slowing.

Ratka was sprawled on a couch in the main salon watching a football match when Dragan arrived. “Six million,” muttered the Serb, sitting up. “Last night’s take. Not bad, eh?”

Dragan snapped up the remote and turned off the television. “Haven’t you seen that match enough times? You lost. Remember?” With disgust, he tossed the remote onto the table. “Six million isn’t enough.”

“The hell you say.” Ratka jumped to his feet, instantly defiant. “Our biggest single night’s haul. My boys did damned good.”

“It’s my software that did damned good. Your boys did as they were told.”

“Always you, always you. Jesus, you got some problem.”

“Send in every team tonight. Casino and Sporting Club. I want twelve tables in play.”

“Twelve? You are out of your mind. We can just send up flares telling everyone what we’re doing.”

Dragan was in no mood for dissent. Ratka was a thug who thought his gold Rolex bought him the class he’d never have. Worse, he was a stupid thug. He needed to be told what to do and how to do it. “And double the betting limits. No, triple them. I don’t care who’s looking. It’s all over after tonight.”

“We’ll need a controller at each spot,” said Ratka, frowning.

“And I’ll make sure one is there.”

“How much do we need?”

Dragan told him the exact amount.

“Fuck me.”

“Get your men suited up. Let me worry about the fallout. I’ll talk to him and give him a heads-up.”

“You better.”

Calmer, Dragan walked to the large dining table, where sales brochures for the Lady S were arrayed in a fan shape. “Anyone interested in this bucket of bolts?”

“Not for the price he’s asking. Everyone wants the latest and greatest. The Lady S was built twenty-five years ago. She might as well have oars, benches, and a drum.”

“He won’t have to sell when we’re done.”

“He’s already bought a slot in Italy to build something bigger,” said Ratka. “I’m glad he’s confident.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Confidence got me eleven years behind bars.”

Dragan ran his hand over his scalp. “We have another issue that requires our attention first.”

“First when? Before I send twelve teams in tonight?”

“This can’t wait. It’s Riske.”

“Who?”

“The man with the black Daytona. Your friend from last night.”

“What about him?”

“He’s gotten too close to our princess. He’s certain to complicate things.”

“We take care of him when we take care of her.”

“How did that turn out last time?” asked Dragan, not needing an answer before going on. “He’s got to go now.”

“He’s here to race his car. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“You holding something back from Ratka? Who is this guy?”

“I don’t know. I can tell you one thing. He’s not a mechanic who fixes fancy cars. He was one of you once.”

“Lucky him,” said Ratka.

“I spent my life around people with hidden motives, professional liars, killers. He’s all three. I want him gone.”

“You’re the boss.”

“There’s a cocktail party for the race starting in a few hours at the Salle des Étoiles in the Sporting Club. I’ll see to it he has a reason to go out to the portico. When he does, take him. I’ll arrange for his things to be moved out of his room. It will look as though he left town and disappeared. I don’t want his body washing up in a fishing net.”

“It was a weighted net,” protested Ratka.

“Never to be seen again.”

Ratka glowered at him.

“Twelve teams. Triple bets. Twenty million. Any questions?”

*****

Roger Jenkins left his office on the fourth floor of Thames House, headquarters of MI5, the British security service, with a tight grin on his face. It wasn’t often he got a chance to put one over on Riske. He’d greatly enjoyed hearing the normally unflappable American rebel at the news that Jenkins knew his present location on planet Earth to the last millimeter.

Jenkins took the elevator to six—counterintelligence—and walked to the far north side of the building. Something was up. The hall was teeming with officers, looking even grimmer than usual. Sadly, that was the norm rather than the exception these days. It was MI5’s job to protect Britain against any and all terrorist threats, as well as to conduct policing on a national level. The last years had witnessed a slew of attacks, and a far greater number thwarted. Jenkins didn’t dare ask the cause of the kerfuffle. It was all very much “need to know.”

Jenkins’s work with Box was of an entirely different nature. There was more than one way to stop a crime.

A set of double doors blocked the way. Jenkins slid his badge into the reader, then pressed his right eye to the retinal scanner. He waited for two beeps, then withdrew the badge and opened the door. A guard sitting in a glassed-in office asked to see his ID, though they’d known each other for years.

“Afternoon, sir.”

“Afternoon, Alwyn.”

“Mr. Sethna is expecting you. Not happy about it. Warn you right now.”

Jenkins passed through the second set of doors and continued down the hall. He had to admit to a bit of resentment that his position didn’t demand such stringent security measures. It was whispered that a nuclear bomb could land square on the roof of Thames House, and the counterterrorism offices on the sixth floor would survive intact and unscathed.

“Bully for them,” whispered Jenkins through pressed lips. He was a round, jolly man, pleasant enough to look at, if entirely unmemorable. With thinning hair, watery blue eyes, and an air of perpetual distraction, he gave the impression of being lost and in desperate need of assistance wherever he went.

Roger Jenkins’s title was assistant deputy director of investments. Prior to joining the security service, he’d worked as an equities analyst at Barclays at the same time that Simon Riske was earning his stripes in the City. For Jenkins as for Riske, a life of chasing a bigger office and fatter salary quickly lost its luster. When he saw an advert in the Financial Times looking for experts in finance and venture capital, he jumped.

It was not generally known that the security service allocated a significant percentage of its budget for investing in technologies designed to make the world, and Britain in particular, safer. It was Jenkins’s job to comb the world for those technologies.

Recently, he’d been the one to discover a German company, Wolf Systems, that had patented a means (via an SS7 exploit) to pinpoint a mobile phone’s location anywhere in the world. It was a tool MI5 and its sister agency across the river, MI6, the Secret Intelligence Service, coveted. After a short negotiation, Wolf Systems was acquired by a secretive British investment fund, Trafalgar Holdings. The nation’s combined security and law enforcement agencies had been using Wolf’s technology since.

The sad fact was that once an individual elected to own a smartphone, he or she was as easy to find as the nose on your face…whether the person was using the phone or not. Word on the street was that the Yanks had a more robust version of the same technology and were tracking, recording, and storing away the location of their citizens…every one of them…just in case.

So much for privacy.

“Knock knock,” said Jenkins as he rapped on Zaab Sethna’s door.

“Enter.” A wiry, dark-skinned man looked up from his desk. “It’s you.”

“You were expecting…?”

“Hoping…you wouldn’t make it.”

Zaab Sethna, assistant director for counterintelligence, Middle East, pushed his chair back from his desk and motioned for Jenkins to take a seat. Sethna was Iraqi by birth but had lived his entire life in the UK. He had a Saudi king’s nose and beady black eyes he kept hidden behind tinted Gandhi glasses. As usual, he was dressed impeccably, far better than his government salary would allow.

“Take a look at these.” Jenkins handed Sethna his phone, the photos Riske had sent ready for viewing.

“So?” Sethna betrayed minimal interest.

“Figured you might be able to tell me who they belong to.”

“I’m busy…Don’t you know what’s going on?” Sethna realized his error. “Of course you don’t.”

“Apparently whoever these cuffs belong to may have murdered someone.”

“Apparently?”

“Just have a look, Zaab,” said Jenkins. “Have a pint at the club on me.”

“And a second if I give you the answer?”

“As you wish.”

Sethna took off his glasses and examined the photographs of the cuff links. “A sword enveloped in flames resting on a five-pointed star and surrounded by palm fronds.”

“And check the runes at the bottom.”

Sethna shot Jenkins an evil look. “Honestly, couldn’t you figure this out? Didn’t you read your Bible at that fancy public school you went to?”

“Too busy being buggered by my classmates, I guess. Now shut up and spill.”

“Judges seven. The sword of God. Gideon used it to slay the Midianites. I could be wrong, but it’s along those lines.”

“And the runes…the script at the bottom.”

Sethna squinted. “Ancient Hebrew.”

“Is that so?”

“‘Hear all, see all, know all.’”

“Mean anything to you?” asked Jenkins.

“Not offhand.”

“Go to the next photo. There’s an inscription on the back.”

“Dammit, man. I don’t have time for this.”

“Another minute. That’s all. I promise.”

Sethna swiped right. “Eight two zero zero. There’s your answer. Should have showed me those first.” He handed the phone back to Jenkins. “Now get out of here.”

“You mean you know the answer?”

“Out!”

“‘Sword of God.’ ‘Hear all, see all, know all.’ ‘Eight two zero zero,’” recited Jenkins. “What does it mean? I feel like Indiana Jones.”

The phone on Sethna’s desk rang. It was a special jingle that Jenkins knew meant trouble. Sethna lunged for it as if it might explode after another ring. “Yes,” he said, and his face dropped. “Yes, I understand. I’ll be right down. And Evan, keep it together. It will be all right.”

“What is it?” asked Jenkins. “Another bomb? A truck on the sidewalk? What?”

But Sethna was already rising from his chair and yanking his jacket off the hanger on the back of his door. He bolted from the room, Jenkins trailing him down the corridor.

“Zaab, you were saying: eight two zero zero. The sword of God.”

Sethna stopped on a dime. “Not now, Roger,” he said icily.

His sudden calm was more unsettling than his ire.

“Tomorrow. If we’re still here.”

*****

She still in her room?”

The valet stationed by the third-floor elevator indicated that she was, and Simon continued to Vika’s door, knocking twice.

“Surprised?” Vika opened the door a few inches, making no motion to invite him in.

“I forgot to mention that there’s a cocktail party this evening at seven at the Sporting Club. Part of the events for the Concours. Would you care to join me?”

“No, thank you. I’m sure I don’t have anything to wear.”

Simon was sure that she did. Her flippant manner was the cherry on top of his unpleasant afternoon. “So, now you’re happy staying in?”

“Not happy, but I will be remaining in my room, as per your instructions.”

“My orders,” said Simon, leaning gently against the door. “Let’s keep things straight.”

“Very funny.”

“Do I really have to remind you that it’s for your own safety?”

“When will this end, Mr. Riske?”

“I’m hoping tonight.”

“Does that mean you’ve made progress identifying the owner of the cuff links?”

“I’ve put out feelers.”

“If you’re getting close, don’t you think you ought to contact the police?”

“I’m not there yet. With luck, you and I can pay them a visit in the morning.”

“I’m not feeling particularly lucky, are you?” Vika flashed a mean smile and closed the door in his face.

  

Simon showered and shaved. His shirts had come back from the laundry and were hanging in his closet. The bill was attached. Four shirts, eighty euros. He winced before remembering it was on Lord Toby’s account. He picked out a pale blue shirt and a dark suit, then toyed with the idea of a pocket square, ultimately deciding against it. A sliver of white was acceptable for business; anything else was ornamental. He wasn’t a peacock.

The stainless steel case went onto the bed. He unlocked it and took out his tools. Once more into the breech. He knew how they were stealing; it was a question of gathering the evidence. He wanted the camera, the earpiece, and, most important, the smoking gun, in the form of the software that analyzed the card order and instructed the players when and how much to bet.

He wanted more. He wanted the money back. But first things first.

Simon slid the surveillance instruments into his pockets. To save precious battery life, he’d wait until in position to activate the tracker. Getting his hands on the scoundrels’ hidden camera and earpiece wouldn’t be a problem. The question was how to find the laptop…or whatever device held the software. He needed something able to locate the Bluetooth signal, an electronic divining rod of sorts. He was sure that such a device existed, but not so sure it was available to the general public on a weekday evening in the principality of Monaco.

What now?

He sat down on the bed with a thud. If one were to place a caption above his head, it wouldn’t say “Eureka!” but “You should have thought of this earlier!” Mohammed didn’t need to go to the mountain. He would make the mountain come to him.

Simon jumped to his feet and snatched his phone from the charger, embarking on a frantic search for all the computer stores in Monaco. Unsurprisingly, there were only two. At six o’clock, both were closed. He found a store in Nice, thirty kilometers away, but it didn’t have what he required. The mountain wasn’t getting any closer.

And so? The next step came to him in an instant. No caption required. The nephew of an old friend was a big shot in the tech business, a PhD and ranking executive at a French telecom firm. Simon was certain he’d know where to lay his hands on what he needed. There were two problems. The first was that Simon hadn’t seen the man in years. The second was that the man’s uncle wasn’t really a friend at all. He was a capo in La Brise de Mer, the gang Simon had run with twenty years earlier. The uncle’s name was Jojo Matta. He and Simon had a history, and not the romantic kind. In principle, Jojo didn’t traffic with people on the other side of the law…Simon’s side.

On a wing and a prayer, Simon called him.

The phone picked up on the first ring. “Allo.”

“Jojo, it’s Simon Ledoux. Don’t hang up.” Ledoux was his mother’s married name. He’d taken it when he moved to Marseille to live with her following his father’s death.

“You again?”

“I need a favor.”

“A favor?” said Jojo. “Can’t bother with a ‘Hello, how are you?’? You’ve lost your manners since you started working with the cops.”

“It happens. I’m in a hurry.”

“I guess I better listen if I don’t want to end up doing twenty years alongside Tino.”

Tino Coluzzi had once been a mutual friend. Things changed. Now he was in prison as a result of Simon’s actions.

Simon asked Jojo if his nephew was still at the telecom company and if he lived in the area. He was and he did, said Jojo. Simon told Jojo what he needed, insisting that he write it down. Jojo told him to wait ten minutes while he contacted his nephew, adding at the last moment that there was a chance he was in Paris or Rome, or for that matter the Far East.

Twelve excruciating minutes later, Jojo called back. “Price is five grand,” said the gangster.

Simon hid his relief. “I can get it tomorrow for five hundred in any store on the coast.”

“Go ahead.”

Sometimes you had the cards, sometimes you didn’t. “Two grand,” said Simon, “and you should be happy. Found money.”

“Three and you’ve got a deal.”

Simon agreed, knowing he’d gotten a bargain and that he would have paid ten. They made plans to meet later that night, and Simon ended the call, not quite as elated as he might have been. There was always something shifty with Jojo, an angle you didn’t see coming. It came to Simon that Jojo had agreed on the price too quickly. Jojo was a haggler. He’d nickel-and-dime a guy for an hour over twenty euros.

As Simon left the hotel and headed to the cocktail reception, he wasn’t sure if he’d be met with a shiv or the portable Wi-Fi signal jammer he’d requested.

*****

They had set out the toy soldiers on the large play table in three groups facing one another: the French, the British, and the Prussians. Robby had placed the soldiers as his father had taught him: several lines of infantry up front, cavalry in the back. There were even a dozen cannons.

It was Napoleon versus Wellington and Blücher, though after so long Robby couldn’t remember the details except that it was Blücher and his cavalry that had swept in and saved the day, defeating Napoleon and sending him into exile on Saint Helena, an island that his father had said was “precisely in the middle of nowhere.”

“This one is a grenadier,” said Robby, plucking a kneeling soldier, rifle at his shoulder and awaiting his commander’s order to fire, and handing it to Viktor. “They were Blücher’s crack troops. They could climb mountains, ford rivers, and sneak up on the enemy for a surprise attack.”

Viktor examined the soldier. “Me grenadier, too.”

“You were a soldier?”

Viktor nodded.

“For who?”

“Serbia.”

“Where’s that?”

“Yugoslavia.”

“You were a grenadier?” Robby knew it was smart to make friends with your captors. The more they liked you, the better they treated you. And the more difficult it would be for them to harm you when the time came. He’d seen that in plenty of films.

“Can I see your gun?” asked Robby.

“No,” said Viktor harshly, giving him back the grenadier, and Robby knew better than to ask again. Instead, he picked up a man riding a large brown charger, sword raised high. “This is Blücher,” he said. “He’s a field marshal. You can tell by his funny hat. Prussians are like Germans.”

Viktor looked at the soldier closely. “The big boss.”

“Yes,” said Robby. “The big boss. Like you?”

“Not me.”

“Who?”

Viktor handed Blücher back to him. “Not me.”

“I’m hungry,” said Robby. “We’ve been here for hours. There’s ice cream in the freezer downstairs. Can I go get some?”

“Elisabeth will bring dinner.”

“I’m hungry now. I’ll stay here. I promise. I’d like a scoop of chocolate, please. Get whatever you’d like. You must be hungry, too.”

Viktor considered this. He stood and slipped his pistol into his waistband. “Stay,” he said. “Yes?”

Robby nodded. “Promise.”

Viktor unlocked the door and left. Robby listened as the church key slid home and the door was locked from the outside.

He jumped to his feet and went to the window. The rollladen, a metal shade that went up and down, covered the window. It was old and noisy and had been there for as long as Robby could remember. To raise and lower it, you took a long metal wand and turned one end of it. He began spinning the handle, slowly, slowly. The rollladen groaned as if it was rusted into place. It didn’t move. Robby gave the handle a stiff push. The rollladen shuddered and began to rise. No matter how slowly he raised it, it whined and squeaked. When he’d gotten it up a foot or so, he stopped. He opened the window and looked down. It was a long drop, two stories, but wind had banked the snow against the wall. It was nearly dark. The breeze nipped at his cheeks and he felt a chill run the length of his spine. He put on his parka and slid out the window, lowering one leg, then the next.

He heard the key enter the lock and saw the door open as he lowered himself by his hands and hung on the windowsill.

“You!” shouted Viktor. He held a tray with two bowls of ice cream and two cans of cola. “Stop!”

Robby looked down and released his grip. He landed in the snow and toppled backward, his head striking the ground. Dazed, he stood up.

“Stop! Come back!” Viktor’s head poked out the window. Their eyes met. He aimed the pistol at Robby, then lowered it.

Robby took off.

  

He had a good head start. He had been clever not to open the rollladen any higher. It was too narrow for Viktor to fit through and it would have taken him a minute to open it all the way. He was probably scared of heights. Now he’d have to run downstairs and out the back door to follow him.

Robby headed up the hill, away from the house, away from the road, and into the forest. The snow was ankle-deep but didn’t slow him down. He had on his boots and his parka. He told himself he could go all night. He ran straight up the hill, dodging the pine trees. Somewhere there was a trail that led to the top of the mountain, but he had only a vague idea where.

Among the trees, it was darker. He slowed, already losing his breath. It was colder than he’d expected. Two days ago, they’d had practice in shorts and jerseys.

He’d been running for five minutes when he heard them. At first, their voices were faint, like shouts you hear at night in the city. Soon they grew clearer, though he didn’t understand the language they spoke—Serbian, he supposed. He stopped and concealed himself behind a tree. It was getting more difficult to see. He caught a fleeting shadow far down the slope. And another to his left. He didn’t know how many of them there were. Two or three. They were still a good distance off, but he felt certain that they’d seen him.

From here, the hillside grew steeper. The trees were fewer and there were wide-open spaces where no trees grew at all. Suddenly, he felt hungry—starving, even. He’d been too nervous to eat lunch. He didn’t have the energy he needed. He thought about his mother, lowered his head, and kept going. His pace slowed to a steady march. Viktor hadn’t shot him. That meant he needed him to be alive.

Robby stumbled on an exposed stone and looked up. Before him rose a tall rockfall where there had been an avalanche. The stones at the bottom were as big as boulders, but they grew smaller toward the top. The scree stretched as far as Robby could see to his left and right. If he ran around it, they would catch him.

Without another thought, Robby began climbing. Above the avalanche there was a broad meadow and a hut where hikers could rest and take shelter. When he was little, his mother and father would take him on long treks through the mountains. Often they stopped at the hut. There was a table inside and chairs and blankets. Maybe, thought Robby, there was a place to hide, too.

He scrambled from rock to rock, wedging his feet into gaps, finding handholds, pulling himself up when his feet couldn’t push him higher. The going was easy at first, but quickly grew challenging as the rocks became smaller and less sturdy. Time and again, he kicked a rock loose and felt his stomach shudder as he momentarily lost his balance. It was snowing harder now. His fingers had grown numb long ago and felt hard as wood. The wind came and went, the gusts as frightening as the thought of the men he could not see.

Robby tried not to look down. He kept his face close to the rocks, always seeking the next spot to place his hands and feet. He was moving slower, painstakingly slow, stopping every few feet to gather his breath.

Without warning, a shard of rock exploded above his head. The gunshot came a split second later. He looked down between his feet and saw Viktor below, the gun aimed at him.

“Come down!” the Serb shouted.

Robby gripped the rock harder. There was no chance he was going down—he couldn’t if he wanted to. He glimpsed a man at the far side of the avalanche moving up the hillside. It was the one who’d shot Coach MacAndrews. If Robby didn’t hurry, the man would be waiting for him at the top.

Robby kicked at the rocks below him until one came free and plummeted down the face. Then he kicked another and another. He didn’t look to see what happened. He found a spot for his right foot, then his left. He began moving more quickly up the nearly vertical face. And then the incline grew less severe. Rock turned to scree. He could walk, albeit cautiously. Reaching the top, he came to the meadow, the snow-covered field gray in the twilight. He saw the hut, not fifty steps away. He ran.

There was a combination lock on the door. Windows on every side of the hut were boarded up. Robby circled to the rear and found a pile of cut wood stacked to the eaves of the overhanging roof. An ax rested against the wall. He picked it up and found it heavy and ungainly.

He could think of only one thing to do.

Mustering all his remaining energy, he hefted the ax over his shoulder and hacked at the boarded window. Again and again, he threw the sharpened head against it until the wood splintered, then the glass, too. It was dark inside, but that didn’t matter. Robby threw the ax on the ground and peeked around the corner of the hut.

He saw one man at the far end of the meadow, headed his way. There was no sign of Viktor, and Robby wondered guiltily if he’d killed him.

He discarded the thought in an instant.

Robby had only a minute or two.

It wasn’t enough time.

*****

The Sporting Club sat on a secluded rise at the eastern end of Larvotto Beach, encircled by pepper trees and reached by a private two-lane road. It was at once an open-air theater, a restaurant, and a casino, and it had built its reputation as a last bastion of the glamour that had once made the Côte d’Azur the glittering playground of the world’s rich and famous. Jackets were required for gentlemen, cocktail dresses for ladies. Its elegant, tastefully wicked atmosphere harked back to the era when words like “jet set” and “playboy” and “heiress” filled the society pages alongside names like Agnelli, Rubirosa, and the Aga Khan.

During the summer, acts of a certain niveau performed beneath the stars. The finer pop stars, jazz musicians, and big bands. Entertainers whose reputations preceded them the world over. This evening, the music was delivered by a discreet jazz quintet playing beneath an eave of poplars. Stars of a different variety held center stage. A perfectly restored 1939 Mercedes 770K, an exquisitely polished black and chrome dream screaming for Marlene Dietrich to extend one sublime leg from its door, sat on one side of the stage. The other was occupied by a gleaming yellow 1948 Citroën Traction Avant, reeking of danger and calling out to be driven by Bob le Flambeur.

The main floor had been cleared of dining tables. White-jacketed servers passed amongst the guests, offering champagne and canapés, and screens on either side of the stage showcased photographs of the automobiles that would be participating in the Concours d’Élégance and time trial.

Simon Riske plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray and exchanged pleasantries with his fellow drivers. He was the only man without a woman on his arm and, on the job or not, it bothered him. Sooner or later, it was no longer amusing, exciting, or interesting to be playing the field. A woman was the measure of a man. Her character spoke to his. What did it say that nearing forty he was alone and without prospects?

To be sure, he’d had his share of companions, most often choosing partners for their looks, availability, and willingness not to demand too much of him. As well as for other, more private skills. His longest relationship had lasted six months and ended badly. Since then, he’d justified his behavior as requisite for his profession, or, to be perfectly honest, he hadn’t justified it at all. It suited him. That was enough.

No longer.

Simon finished his champagne. Defying his better judgment, he took another glass, enjoying much too big of a sip. His manners were slipping. He wished he could say it was a delightful Perrier-Jouët brut, just dry enough, with a hint of oak, but his palate was untrained. It was cold, bubbly, and not too sweet. Ninety-five points on the Riske scale.

He spotted a magician plying his trade from group to group, entertaining guests with his sleight of hand. From a distance, Simon judged the man’s tricks outstanding and his aplomb such that the magician could have easily made a handsome living on Jojo Matta’s side of the law. The man picked a pocket. He lifted a watch. He discovered a king of hearts inside a woman’s pocketbook. (Yes, it was her card.) Naturally, he returned his spoils. His reward, besides a round of applause, was three hundred euros in tips. Not bad, but he could put his skills to better use.

Simon felt a familiar tingling in his fingertips. He shouldn’t…really.

He approached the magician, hoping to appear wide-eyed, ignorant, and desperate to be fooled. In short, the perfect mark.

“Pick a card,” said the magician, a slim, dark-haired man with Satan’s neatly trimmed goatee and arched eyebrows to match. Make no mistake: he was a professional.

Simon chose a card.

“Give it to a friend,” said the magician. “And please, do not let me see it.”

Simon handed the card to a Middle Eastern gentleman. Ace of clubs.

“And another,” said the magician.

Simon picked a second card. Ten of diamonds. The magician asked him to show the card to the others. Simon turned toward several men and women gathered nearby and showed them the card. Afterward, the magician asked Simon to put the card back in the deck. He did so. The magician then asked the Middle Eastern man to do the same.

So now both Simon and the Middle Eastern man had replaced the cards at different spots in the deck.

The magician fanned the deck, faces up, so the audience could see them. He asked if everyone saw the cards that had been chosen, but to be sure not to tell him which cards. The ten of diamonds and the ace of clubs were at seemingly random spots in the deck.

Then came the trick.

As the magician straightened the cards, he “flew” the top card in a boomerang, meaning he launched the top card with his thumb and then caught it as it returned faceup between two halves of the deck. In itself, it was a formidable display of legerdemain.

The magician then split the deck to reveal that the two cards that had been chosen—the ten of diamonds and the ace of clubs—were on either side of the card he’d “flown” and recaptured.

The audience gasped, then broke into applause. It was a nice trick requiring thousands of hours of practice. But Simon had caught it all. The Herrmann pass. The Charlier cut. The pinkie jog.

Simon handed the magician a one-hundred-euro note. The others followed suit.

“One thing,” said Simon as the magician pocketed his tips. “I think you dropped something.”

“Oh?” the magician said, immediately on edge.

Simon bent over and let the magician’s watch slip into his palm so that it appeared he’d picked it up from the ground. “Omega,” he said, studying the face. “Wouldn’t want to lose that.”

The magician took back his watch.

“And this,” said Simon. “Not sure how you lost it.” He handed the magician back his wallet. “Money’s still in it.”

“How?” one of the onlookers asked.

“Don’t ask me,” said Simon. “It’s magic.”

The sleight of hand artist was no longer smiling. Simon whispered an apology in his ear. “Road not taken,” he said. “Wanted to remember what it felt like.”

André Solier, president of the Rally Club, mounted the stage to give information about the time trial. Where and when they were to meet. Number of assistants allowed to prepare the car. The medals to be given in each class. Last, he gave the order of start. Simon was to go immediately after Dov Dragan.

“There you are,” said Vika. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Simon opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. Dressed like this, she was definitely Victoria, and as she’d told him the day before, he might as well add “princess.” Her dress was black and sheer and simple, cut low to reveal her décolletage and falling to her knees. She wore freshwater pearls, knotted at just the right spot, daring the eye to dive lower. Her hair was up, at once elegant and playful. He’d never seen her made up to go out, and now he knew why. She turned every head in the place. He wasn’t the only one choking on his roasted brussels sprout.

“Quite the affair,” she went on. “You should have told me. This is far more than just a cocktail party.”

“I didn’t…I mean, I wasn’t sure what…”

“Are you all right?” She angled her head, a concerned party, but the effect was to only make her more beautiful.

“You found something,” he managed, finally. “To wear, that is.”

“Amazing what a girl can do in an emergency.”

“This is an emergen—” he began to ask.

“Shh.” She put a finger to his lips, then kissed him. “Do you forgive me?”

The kiss brought him back to his senses. Surprise gave way to anger. She had no business leaving the hotel. “How did you get here?”

“I borrowed a friend from Albert.”

“Albert who?”

She whispered in his ear. “Prince Albert. We blue bloods stick together. One of his bodyguards escorted me. His name is Philippe. He’s standing ten paces behind me.”

Simon’s eyes darted over her shoulder. A tall man with broad shoulders and a crew cut was looking directly at him. “You should have asked me first.”

“Then you wouldn’t have been surprised. I couldn’t have that. I actually had an entire speech prepared.”

Simon crossed his arms. “I’m listening.”

It was Vika’s turn to be angry. Or pretend to be. “You don’t really want to hear it.”

“The moon is out. It’s a lovely evening. I may even hear a violin playing somewhere.”

“Well, then…” Vika swallowed and drew herself up, equal to the challenge. “I was going to say that I behaved terribly today and that I should never have said the things I did. They were awful and untrue. You frightened me…I think you know how I mean. Maybe I frightened you, too. Anyway, I feel quite the—”

“Shh.” Simon kissed her softly. He felt her body push against his. “Words,” he said, “are overrated.”

They stood close enough that their waists brushed against each other. His hand rested on the swell of her back, a finger feeling the rise of her buttocks. She smelled of roses and desire, and when he looked into her eyes, she looked back. Something happened. Something that he couldn’t put into words.

At that instant, a poisoned premonition sullied his joy. If he were to lose her, he’d never recover.

“Simon?”

The thought vanished as if it had never come to him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not entirely composed. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Do you mind?”

“Mind? You’ve made me very happy.”

She took his hand and squeezed it. The band had launched into a bossa nova rendition of “Summertime.” “Is this work or pleasure?” she asked.

“Very much work.”

“Don’t let me interrupt.”

“I was headed into the gaming room. Join me.”

“I don’t gamble.”

“Bring me luck, then.” Hand in hand, they crossed the floor. There at the bar in front of them stood Dov Dragan, dressed in a tan suit and black shirt and bloodred tie. He was staring at them, caught unawares, and the expression on his face was one of simmering fury.

Simon looked away, disconcerted, and continued into the building.

“What shall we play?” asked Vika.

“I only play baccarat.”

“Really? I would have thought poker more your style. Baccarat is a game of luck…Oh.” She caught herself. “I see. Work.”

“Quick learner.”

“Can you talk about it?”

“Some bad people have been cheating the casino out of a lot of money. I’m here to find out who they are.”

Simon held the door for Vika and they passed into a large, high-ceilinged gaming room, very much in the Vegas style: tables to the right, tables to the left, slots on their own in an adjoining room. The lights were dim, but not too dim, oxygen pumped in to keep everyone awake and tossing away their savings. It was 8:30. The tables were exceptionally crowded. Simon hadn’t expected this level of activity. He found his earpiece and, in a deft motion, tucked it into his ear canal. A flick of the thumb activated the scanner. A humming tone filled his ear. No pings.

“Sure you can leave the party?” Vika asked, her arm threaded through his.

“I put in an appearance. That should suffice.”

“The Concours is your excuse to be in Monaco.”

“In a manner of speaking. It’s window dressing—in case someone suspects why I’m really here.”

“What would happen if they did?”

Simon didn’t think it was the right time to tell her about Vincent Morehead or the inspector who’d ended his days with a sea bass in his mouth. “Look,” he said. “Let’s sit here.”

They took two places at a baccarat table and he asked for five thousand in chips. They played several hands, betting the minimum.

“See anything?” she asked after finishing her second dulap.

“No,” said Simon.

“How do you spot them?”

“I have some help.”

“You mean assistants? Are there others here”—she brought her head close to his—“undercover?”

Simon didn’t answer. He was listening to a pinging in his ear that hadn’t been there a second before. “Stay here,” he said.

He left the table and, nodding to Philippe, walked across the room. The pinging grew more rapid. Simon stopped a few feet from a table ringed with spectators. By now the pinging was faster than his pulse and his pulse had just jumped a few beats. A man seated at the table looked familiar. He was balding, bland to look at, dressed in a plaid shirt, with spectacles and a mustache. Simon looked over his shoulder and noted that Vika had placed a mountain of chips on the betting ring. While the cat’s away…

He shouldered his way closer to the table. It was him, the same man whom Simon had sat with two nights earlier. Not only was he wearing the same shirt, but he had the same air of fevered concentration. The pinging reached the speed of a sweeping second hand. Simon circled the table, getting a look at the other players, doing his best to pinpoint which of them had the camera and how many of the five men and three women playing were professional criminals. He stayed to watch two hands played, noting who won and who lost and the size of their bets.

Three of the players, all men, placed large bets, ten thousand euros each, then at the last moment doubled them. All three bet on punto, the player. The cards were dealt. Punto received a five and a four. A perfect nine. The bets paid off at seven to one. Each player had won one hundred forty thousand euros. And then they did something that no professional would do. All three let the full amount ride and bet again on punto.

A pit boss stood at the dealer’s side, one hand to his earpiece, unable to hide his consternation. Simon had found himself in the right place at the right time. This was happening now. Where the hell was Jojo?

The dealer slid the cards across the baize surface.

Eight for punto.

Seven for banco.

Punto wins.

In the space of two minutes, the casino had lost nearly one million euros.

Simon felt his phone buzz. He checked the caller and was disappointed. Not Jojo, but someone as important, if for different reasons. “Hello, Toby.”

“They’re at it again,” said Lord Toby Stonewood. “It’s a bloody tsunami tonight.”

“I’m at the Sporting Club,” said Simon.

“So am I. Came for the cocktail party and the big event tomorrow. Didn’t see you round. Can you free yourself up and meet me outside?”

Simon watched the crooks place their bets. He disliked reporting to a client midway through a job. Anything shy of completion came off as an excuse. Toby couldn’t have called at a worse time. “Sure,” Simon said. “But quickly.”

“You sound vexed. Are you onto something? Goddammit, I hope so. Listen, I won’t keep you. Front entrance. Far right side. Valet’s stand.”

Simon slipped the phone into his pocket and hurried back to Vika, explaining that he had to step outside to speak to someone.

“Who are you meeting?” she asked, barely looking up from her chips.

“My employer.”

“Who’s that?”

Client information was sacrosanct. “One of you. A blue blood. I’ll be right back.”

Simon left the building the way he’d come, crossing the open-air Salle des Étoiles. Dov Dragan was deep in conversation with André Solier, the Rally Club president, but Simon felt his acid gaze as he passed by. He continued out of the Salle des Étoiles and into the forecourt, stopping when he reached the Sporting Club’s main entrance.

He didn’t see Toby’s gray hair or square jaw and walked to the valet booth. He looked this way and that. By now the cheats had probably won another hand or two. He checked his phone in case he’d missed Jojo’s call. Nothing. A screech of tires called his attention to a Mercedes driving recklessly into the forecourt. He stepped away from the curb as the car drew to a halt. Two men stepped out. Dark hair. Suits. Possessed of urgent purpose.

“You Riske?”

At the mention of his name, Simon turned to face a pale, stocky man, taller by an inch, with dark hooded eyes and a pronounced widow’s peak. Simon had seen the face before, and maybe the car, too, on Pharmacie Mougins’s surveillance video. He quickly checked the Mercedes. Serbian plates.

“My name is Ratka,” said the man. “You come with me.”

Before Simon could answer, before he could give a thought to escape, Ratka pressed a stun gun against Simon’s chest. Fifty thousand volts flooded his body. His every muscle seized. He collapsed. The two men caught him and threw him into the back seat.

Simon’s last image before losing consciousness was of the indigo sky and the palm fronds hanging over the drive. A cloud had blocked the moon.

The storm was arriving ahead of schedule.

*****

Robby stood in the center of the hut. One room. Benches along two walls. A plank floor. He blinked, willing his eyes to adjust to the fading light. A table. A chair. A coil of climbing rope. Walking sticks. A folded Swiss Army blanket. He made a circuit of the room, not knowing what he should be looking for, near sick with fear and desperation. He found a first aid kit in a cupboard, scissors, moleskin, and a bottle of spirits with twigs and leaves floating inside it and a label that read GÉNÉPI—IL FAIT DU BIEN POUR LA MADAME QUAND LE MONSIEUR LE BOIT. Translated: GÉNÉPI—IT MAKES A WIFE HAPPY WHEN THE HUSBAND DRINKS IT. Robby didn’t understand what that meant, but he knew what was inside. His father used to drink something like it. He called it “eau-de-vie.” Robby yanked the cork and put his nose to the bottle. His eyes watered. He took a drink all the same, wincing as the viscous liquid burned a path to his stomach. He exhaled, half expecting to breathe fire. Almost instantly, he felt better, warmer, and strangely hopeful. He continued his frantic search. Also in the cupboard were a clear bottle marked KEROSENE, a hurricane lamp, and a box of safety matches.

For a moment, he stopped what he was doing and stood as if frozen. He wasn’t listening for the man he’d seen far across the meadow, Coach MacAndrews’s killer. He was thinking, imagining, plotting.

The pieces of a plan fell into place on their own.

He grabbed the bottle of kerosene, the hurricane lamp, and the box of safety matches from the cupboard and set them on the table. He laid the musty army blanket on the floor, dumping the contents of a small trash bin onto it—candy wrappers, an empty packet of cigarettes, paper napkins, tissues—and then dousing all of it with the kerosene. What was left of the flammable liquid he poured all over the hurricane lamp.

Done.

Lamp and matches in hand, he crawled out the window and stood unsteadily atop the woodpile. He put the items on the roof, then pulled himself up. Lying flat, he had a clear view across the meadow. He stifled a gasp. The man he’d seen at the far end of the meadow was barely ten steps away. Robby had gotten out just in time. He heard the man try the door without success, his steps trudging through the snow as he circled the hut. It was then that Robby saw he’d cut himself. A shard of glass extended from the parka halfway up his forearm. Blood flowed out of the sleeve and across the top of his hand, dripping onto the rooftop. He felt nothing, only the cold and the wild beating of his heart.

The man had reached the smashed window. Robby knew he could not see inside the hut, not all of it. The window was too high. Robby imagined him searching for footprints in the snow, determining if there was anywhere else Robby might have gotten to. There were no footsteps, no trail to follow. Robby could only be hiding in one place.

“Boy,” the man called out. “You there? Boy?”

Robby held his breath. There came an exasperated sigh. A grunt. The rustling of wood as the man climbed the woodpile to see through the window. More scratching as he slid through the window and into the hut. Robby felt him land on the plank floor. He turned himself around and slid toward the edge of the roof, then farther, his head poised above the window. He saw the man’s figure inside. He lit a match and held it to the hurricane lamp, which caught fire immediately. With a swing of the wrist, he tossed the burning lamp into the hut. The lamp shattered. Flames burst from the doused blanket, shooting up toward the ceiling. A cry of alarm.

Robby had brought one last item with him. He took hold of a knotted piece of wood the length of his arm and twice its width. The man’s head popped out of the window, a hand extended to pull himself clear. Robby swung the log harder than he’d swung anything in his life. The blow landed squarely on the man’s forehead and cheekbone. He faltered. Robby swung again, the force of the blow traveling the length of his arm, aching in the bone. The man toppled out of the window and lay still.

Robby lowered himself to the ground. He looked at the immobile figure. There was a gash across his forehead that was bleeding profusely. Robby’s first instinct was to help him. Then he remembered what the man had done to Coach and the thought vanished. He hoped the man would bleed to death. He remembered his own wound and glanced down to see his left hand covered in blood.

A voice inside his head shouted for him to run. Instead, he lowered himself to a knee and freed the man’s pistol from his waistband. The gun was heavier than Robby had expected, the cold steel against his palm filling him with dread and possibility in equal measures. He noticed that the air was still. The snow had stopped. He gazed up and saw a small patch in the clouds. A single star was visible. A moment later, it disappeared. Suddenly, the air filled with snowflakes, smaller and wetter than before.

He started across the meadow. He picked out headlights below in the valley, driving along the highway. He didn’t know how far it was—an hour’s walk, at least—only that he was shivering, bleeding, and couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. He certainly wasn’t going to continue up the hill. He’d freeze to death or die of exhaustion.

He set off down the mountain, soon entering the stand of pines that belted the lower slope. He could feel the temperature falling. It was windier, too, the branches bending and groaning under the force of gusts. Whatever hope or courage the alcohol had provided had fled. He wanted someone to look after him, to lead him down the hill and take him inside a warm home and feed him. He wanted his mother. His eyes grew warm and wet.

She’s not here. She can’t help you. You’re a big boy. It was the voice that had told him to run. He’d never heard it before. It was confident and fearless, and a little frightening. He knew that he must listen to it for his own good. The reason you ran away from those bad people was to help her, remember? You have to warn her. Now go!

Robby wiped his nose and stood taller. He pressed the palm of his hand against his wound to stop the bleeding. After a moment, the tears ceased altogether. He redoubled his efforts. His pace grew steadier. His only thought was of reaching the road and signaling for help.

Time passed. He forgot his fatigue and hunger. He was aware of his feet rising and falling and the snow wet against his cheeks. Something shone in his eye. He glanced up, annoyed. Not a hundred yards away, a car zoomed past on the highway. He began to run, leaving the cover of the trees. Another set of lights approached. Robby shouted and jumped up and down, waving his arms madly. The car flashed its brights, then turned off the highway onto a feeder road. The car had seen him. He was safe.

Robby bent at the waist, hands on his thighs, gathering his breath. He tried to think of what to say, how to explain everything that had happened.

The car drew nearer. He could hear the engine downshift, the tires crunching the snow and ice. The fog lamps on the car’s grille came to life, blinding him. They were yellow lamps like those on his mother’s car. Robby squinted, raising a hand to deflect the high beams. He noted the luggage rack on the car’s roof. He took a step, and another. The car drew closer still. It was a Range Rover. Racing white. The engine quit and the door opened. Elisabeth got out.

“Hello, Robby,” she said. “Or would you like me to call you Fritz?”

Robby held the pistol with both hands, pointing it at her chest. He placed his finger on the trigger. The metal was smooth and inviting. “Go away!” he shouted. “Now. I mean it.”

“I can’t do that,” said Elisabeth. “Is that George’s gun? Look…Viktor is in the car. You hurt him badly. He’s quite upset, but he’ll be all right.”

Robby looked past Elisabeth. He made out a vague silhouette in the passenger seat. A flash of white hair. A bandage over one eye.

“He was chasing me. He wanted to hurt me.”

“No one wants to hurt you, Robby.”

“He shot at me.”

“To scare you. If he wanted to hurt you, he could have. Believe me.”

“Go away,” Robby repeated, less forcefully.

“I’m going to take you home. You’re going to have a nice warm meal and a bath.” She was walking toward him, closing the gap between them.

“Stop.”

She smiled her warm smile. “No one wants to hurt you. I’ll tell you all about what we had planned once we get home. Come, schatzi.”

Shoot her, said the voice in his head. She’s going to kill you. Then she’s going to kill Mama.

Robby pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He tried again, then turned the gun on its side, searching for the safety.

Elisabeth snatched the gun from his hand.

Robby stared at her.

She slapped him across the face. “Get in the car.”

*****

It was ten o’clock in the evening when Isabelle Guyot finished preparing her reports for her meeting the next morning. The client was an English film director who kept nearly two hundred million euros on deposit with Banque Pictet and thought it gave him the right to pinch her bottom and call her “honey.” She’d disabused him of both notions.

She finished her coffee and straightened her papers. There on top of the rest was the note she’d taken while speaking to Simon Riske.

Dov Dr—

At that point, she’d stopped writing.

Without considering what she was doing, she typed the letters into her computer, completing the family name. He was not her client, but she knew who Simon had been talking about. Banque Pictet was not a large organization. Dov Dragan had visited often enough to be a personality. Secrecy began outside the front door.

Isabelle stared at the letters, then positioned her finger above the SEND button. Her gaze lifted to the window and the lights of Geneva burning with verve and promise. A spotlight illuminated the jet d’eau, the magnificent plume of water sent skyward hundreds of feet. She’d always viewed it as a symbol of hope, of a future that would grant her her every wish and lift her fortunes every bit as high. Not any longer.

Isabelle was well on the downslope to forty, with a fat bank account, a fancy title, and a fabulous wardrobe. All that was meaningful when she was inside these four walls. When she left for the day, she confronted a different reality. She was unmarried and unconnected and, with each passing year, increasingly unmoored. She had suitors, plenty of them, from her trainer at the gym to the director of a rival bank. None had captured her heart. She was beginning to fear that no one would.

There are rules, she’d told Simon. Le secret bancaire was only one of them.

They’d met ten years earlier at a financial conference in Paris when she’d sat next to him during a presentation on portfolio diversification. Upon its conclusion, he’d looked at her and touched her hand. He might as well have hypnotized her. Without a word, he’d led her out of the room and out of the hotel. She missed the last scheduled talk. It was a contravention of her duties and the first rule she’d break that weekend.

The next thing she knew it was Sunday evening and she was in a taxi heading to Charles de Gaulle for her flight back to Geneva. In between, they’d had dinner at Le Drugstore, danced half the night at Castel, visited the flea market in Clichy, ran through Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, and eaten ice cream while contemplating Rodin’s The Thinker. There wasn’t a place where Simon didn’t know someone, and always someone who mattered. Nice places and not so nice places.

And of course there was the sex. He knew her body as if it were his own. Nice places and not so nice places.

A weekend in London followed a month later. Another whirlwind tour with the best guide she’d ever known.

Then the real world raised its head above the sheets.

First, she turned down a trip to Amsterdam because of a corporate retreat she absolutely had to attend. Then she missed a weekend closer to home in Gstaad for a reason she couldn’t remember but that she had sworn was all-important at the time. The last straw was a planned weekend in London to celebrate his birthday.

Simon had reserved a table at the restaurant Bibendum in Michelin House. It was their favorite place, mostly because it was there that over a dinner of linguini and white truffles they’d realized they were in love. For an encore, he’d procured tickets to a show in the West End.

At the last minute, she’d called to cancel. A client had arrived without warning and demanded to see her. He was a big client, a billion-dollar client, and when the boss told her she had to stay, she didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.

Rules were rules.

Simon never made a show of being disappointed. He told her he understood and that she was only doing what her job demanded. They both valued their careers. It took her a while to realize what had happened. The calls when they came were polite and professional. No more whispered nothings about sexual transgressions past and to come. No more intimations of how she brightened his life. And no more invitations.

Then the calls stopped coming altogether.

Isabelle caught her reflection in the mirror. She was still attractive. Beautiful, maybe. But the circles under her eyes were darker than in the past. She noted a line at the corner of her mouth that hadn’t been there the day before. The Botox didn’t eliminate those pesky frown lines for as long as it used to.

Rules.

Isabelle hit the SEND button hard enough to break it.

The screen filled with the particulars of Mr. Dov M. Dragan’s account at Banque Pictet. She continued on to the second page, then the third.

She read all the pages, confused. Then read them again. Nothing made sense. How could any of this have happened without raising a flag?

She made a note to call Simon Riske first thing in the morning.

He’d been right to worry.

*****

A kick in the gut opened Simon’s eyes.

Everything was blurry. A collage of colors dangled above him. Reds and blues and oranges. He lay on a marble floor beneath a chandelier made from hundreds of cut glass pendants. His head throbbed. His body felt sore and jittery, as if the current from the stun gun hadn’t fully dissipated.

Strong hands lifted him to his feet. The two men from the Sporting Club let him go. He bent double and retched. Someone slapped him across the face.

“Control yourself.” Ratka stood facing Simon. Ratka who’d politely introduced himself before throttling Simon with enough juice to light up Frankenstein’s monster and his bride. Ratka who’d murdered Vika’s mother and, Simon was reasonably sure, had tried to rape Vika. Ratka who’d beaten a defenseless woman to within an inch of her life to guarantee her silence.

Simon spat a gob of blood and phlegm onto the toe of Ratka’s shoe, then looked up. “Sorry. Won’t happen again.”

Ratka buried a fist in Simon’s stomach. Simon felt his stitches tear. Time passed and he could breathe again.

“Why are you here?” asked Ratka. “Why are you helping the princess?”

Simon took his time answering. He’d just landed in the last act of a play and he wasn’t in a hurry to get to the end. “I just met her,” he said. “I’m here for the Concours, for the time trial. I’m not helping her at all.”

“Bullshit.”

The two men who’d thrown him into the car held lengths of lead pipe in their hands, and each tapped one end threateningly in his palm.

“What do you want with her?” asked Ratka.

“Nothing,” said Simon. “She’s a friend. That’s all.”

“And so you follow her around all over the place, to the top of the mountain, to her apartment at night, to her apartment in the morning, to see her friends. Who are you really?”

“I was worried about her. I don’t want anything from her. I barely know her.”

Ratka took this in, his mouth curled skeptically. “Where did you learn to fight?”

“What do you mean?”

Ratka came closer, face-to-face, tilting his head to make sure Simon was looking at him, looking into his eyes. “You know who I am. I know who you are. You think I’d forget a guy who had his hand on my balls? I’ll kill you for that alone.” He paused to examine Simon and didn’t like what he saw. “My friend says you were like me once. Me, I’m not sure.”

“How like you?”

“Businessman. You know: tough guy.” The words were said with pride.

“What friend?”

Ratka sighed, looking to the other two and throwing up his hands. “I’m going to give you one more chance, Mr. Simon. Maybe you tell me something, I’ll let you go. I don’t want to hurt a nice guy. Ratka isn’t like that.”

It was a sham, a charade. Simon knew it. Ratka knew it. What surprised Simon, however, was the Serb’s disinterest in the proceedings. He didn’t care if Simon was helping the princess or what his motivations might be. Nor did he have any idea about Simon’s true reason for coming to Monaco. It wasn’t just that Simon’s fate was already decided. Ratka was going to kill him. That part was clear. It was that he didn’t view Simon as a threat. There was nothing Simon might know that could strengthen Ratka’s hand. Everything had already been decided and it had been decided in Ratka’s favor.

“Okay, listen,” said Simon, addressing him tough guy to tough guy. “Whatever happened happened. I don’t want any trouble. I don’t care about the princess. She’s pretty. I was trying to help.”

“Talk, talk, talk.”

“A man like you can understand what I was really after,” Simon went on. “There’s nothing more to it than that. I just want to drive my car, then go home. You and me, we’ll never see each other again. I swear—”

Ratka shot a jab into Simon’s throat, knuckles curled. Simon hit the floor, and Ratka kicked him repeatedly with everything he had. “You think I got nothing else to do? You think I like you wasting my time? Ratka has plans. When he asks you a question, you answer. You don’t give him any bullshit. Why aren’t you answering me now? Where’s all your talk?”

Ratka knelt next to Simon. He held a pistol in one hand, and with the other he forced Simon’s mouth open and rammed the muzzle into it. “You’re lying to me. I don’t know what you want with her…maybe the tiara, I’m thinking. You’re some kind of thief, maybe something else…but listen to me, we’re gonna get it. We’re gonna get all of it. We’ve been working a long time and we’re not going to let some Mr. Slick like you come from England or wherever the fuck and mess things up. Not going to happen. Ratka has plans.”

He dragged Simon to a sitting position, the gun, tasting of smoke and iron, rattling against his teeth. Simon looked at him, eye to eye, daring him.

“See you later, Mr. Slick.”

Ratka pulled the trigger.

Metal struck metal.

The chamber was empty.

Ratka pulled the gun from Simon’s mouth and stood. “You think I’m going to make a mess in my house? Marble’s hard to clean. Carrara marble. From Italy. Just like in the old lady’s bathroom.” A last kick, arms flailing like a drunk sailing a beer can down the road. “It doesn’t matter anyway. My friends here will take care of you. Outside. It’s cleaner that way. Bye-bye.”

Simon collapsed to the floor, his heart pounding. He gasped, blinking, trying to make sense of what had happened, why he was still alive. Pain directed his thoughts to his person. He knew that at least one rib was cracked. His throat felt like a crushed soda straw. He was having difficulty breathing, or even swallowing, for that matter. He heard Ratka fire off instructions to his men in Serbian. He caught the words Benzin, pozni, and nista, nista, nista. Gasoline, fire, and nothing, nothing, nothing. He didn’t like the sound of any of it.

Ratka stopped at the front door. “Mr. Simon, I’m gonna tell my friend he was wrong. You’re not like me at all. Not a tough guy. You’re a pussy.”

The door closed. Simon eyed the two men. His perspective on his situation changed. He was alive. He had a chance. Maybe it wasn’t the last act.

“Up, up,” said one of the men. “Hurry.”

Simon struggled to his feet. He looked at the men with the pipes in their hands.

He thought of Vincent Morehead. He thought of Elena Mancini. “We’re gonna get it. We’re gonna get all of it.” Mostly he thought of Ratka, and what Simon was going to do when he caught him.

“Give me a second.” He raised a hand to signal that he was complying and stood up more unsteadily than he felt. “Belgrade,” he said, remembering the transit ticket he’d found in the cheat’s wallet. “Žarkovo. I knew a girl who lived there. A beauty. You’re Serbian, right?”

The men shared a look. “Žarkovo…You been?” asked the slimmer one.

“Beautiful city. Great beer.”

Booze and broads. The common denominator among males under eighty.

“You like Jelen?” asked the stockier one, naming a brand of beer.

“The lager,” said Simon. “Liv…Lev…”

“Lav?” suggested the slimmer one, with the slicked-back black hair, Elvis.

“That’s it,” said Simon. “Lav.”

“Lav no good,” said Elvis. “Like water.” He pointed to Simon. “Americans don’t know shit about beer.”

“You’re making me scared standing there with those pipes.”

Elvis shot the bully a look and muttered something.

“That’s right,” said Simon. “This is a mistake. Like I told Ratka. Let’s figure this out. I’m one of the good guys.”

“Maybe,” said Elvis.

More words were exchanged. The stockier man’s jaw hardened and Simon realized he’d lost the argument. The bully came at him with lethal intent and swung the bar at his head. Simon shook off his false stupor, his hand rising with blinding speed to catch the man by his wrist. “I told you,” he said, matching the man’s strength with his own. “Wrong guy.”

The bully fought to free himself, unable to gain the leverage necessary to strike Simon with his free hand. After a moment, Elvis came to life, circling to find the best position to belt Simon.

“No, wait!” Simon swung a foot to knock the feet out from under the bully. The bully jumped back. Distracted, Simon didn’t see the pipe cut through the air behind him and strike his back. The blow wasn’t delivered with full force, but it was enough to leave him stunned and winded. He released the bully, who shouted at once, “Tommy, Ubij ga!”

Simon knew what “Kill him!” sounded like in any language. He flicked open the switchblade he’d lifted from the bully’s pocket. It was a big knife with a big blade.

They circled him, the bully smiling, ashamed to have been bested, eager to finish him off, or just plain rabid. Seeing the knife, Elvis, or Tommy, or whatever his name was, dropped his pipe and dug into his jacket for something more efficient.

The bully charged Simon, waving the pipe like a madman. Simon dodged the first blow, then slid to the floor as if taking home plate, thrusting the knife upward. The blade entered the underside of the bully’s thigh, burying itself to the hilt. Simon spun his grip around so that he clutched the knife overhand and ripped it downward, carving through flesh and muscle. The blade severed the femoral artery. Blood sprayed across the room, a garish plume of gore. The bully collapsed to the floor, writhing. The accompanying scream made the hair on the back of Simon’s neck stand up.

One down.

Simon snapped up the pipe as Elvis cleared his pistol and fired, not bothering to aim. Ten feet separated them. He was not a trained gunman and the shots went high, the muzzle blast close enough to burn Simon’s cheek. In desperation, he chucked the pipe at the man. Elvis ducked, loosing a bullet into the ceiling. An arm of the chandelier crashed to the floor, dozens of pendants scattering across the marble, shards of glass ricocheting everywhere.

Simon bolted for a large, well-furnished room to his left. At the far side was a sliding glass door leading to a terrace. It was his only chance. He jumped over the mortally wounded man. By now blood covered half the floor. Landing, he slipped and lost his balance. A hand reached up and took hold of his ankle.

Not mortal yet.

Simon kicked to get free, but the grip only tightened. Elvis straightened his arm, sighting down the barrel.

Simon struggled harder.

And then several things happened at the same instant. A black dot appeared on the gunman’s cheek. The window behind Simon shattered. Somewhere behind him a pistol fired.

Simon freed himself from the bully’s grip, only to slip again, his hands catching his fall. When he looked up, Elvis was dead. He lay on his stomach, eyes open, a bit of brain peeking out from behind his ear.

Simon clambered to his feet as a familiar figure stepped through the broken window.

“Still got it.” The man was wiry and sixty, and very, very tan, dressed in chef’s whites. “First time I’ve fired a gun in a year. What do you say to that?”

“Hello, Jojo.”

*****