Crown Jewel 6

 

After five minutes, Vika was curious. After ten, she was nervous. Twenty-two minutes after Simon left the table she was nearing a Category 4 meltdown.

She stood and abandoned the baccarat table, leaving her chips where they were. “Did you see where he went?” she asked Philippe, her bodyguard.

“Toward the Salle des Étoiles, ma’am.” He pointed at the table. “Your chips?”

“Who cares?” Vika made a beeline for the double doors leading outside. More than anything, she was angry. Simon had to realize that she’d worry if he was gone too long. It was inexcusable not to text or even put his precious employer on hold for a moment to call and let her know that he’d be a while. A gentleman didn’t leave a lady seated alone at a gambling establishment.

Vika stopped abruptly, her breath leaving her. One thing she knew about Simon: he was a gentleman. If he hadn’t returned, if he hadn’t taken a moment to let her know he’d been delayed, it was because something had happened. Something unfortunate.

She threw open the glass doors and embarked on a hectic search of the outdoor area. Half the guests had left. Those remaining milled in islands of four or five. Nowhere did she see a dark-haired man dressed in a navy suit and possessed of an unstoppable momentum. She arrived at the far side of the floor, looking around desperately for where to continue her search.

“May I be of service?”

Vika looked over to the bar, where an older, weathered man with steel-gray hair sat alone, nursing a glass of brandy. “Excuse me?” she said.

“I saw you earlier today with my friend, Mr. Riske.”

“You did?”

“At the hotel.”

“Have you seen him recently?”

“Have you lost him, or is it vice versa?” The man chuckled. “My name is Dov Dragan. I’m a steward with the Rally Club.”

“Simon…Mr. Riske…stepped outside a few minutes ago and now I can’t find him.”

“I can’t imagine he’d leave without saying goodbye. He said you were close friends.”

“He did? When?”

“We shared a drink this afternoon at the hotel. After you’d returned from Italy.”

“He told you about Italy?”

“He said he was ready to go back to London. Something about finishing his real job and letting other people solve their own problems.”

“Really?” Vika put a hand on the bar, suddenly unsteady. “He said that?”

“And more, my dearest princess. You look peaked. May I offer you a cocktail? I believe your mother quite enjoyed martinis.”

“How do you know my mother?”

“I thought everyone did. Didn’t she throw a martini ball all those years ago at the Adlon in Berlin? She made her entrance swimming in a giant martini glass.”

Vika blushed. It was true. It was one of the stories from her childhood that she’d done her best to repress. The party had made news across Europe (as intended) and had landed her mother on the cover of all the gossip glossies: Hello!, Gala, and even Paris Match.

“So you haven’t seen him in the last few minutes?” asked Vika, determined to be pleasant.

The man waved a hand toward an empty stool. “Have a seat. I’m sure he mentioned me. He’s convinced he’s going to beat my Bugatti tomorrow. I told him it was impossible, but he’s a stubborn one.” Dragan leaned in, his blue eyes pouchy and bloodshot with drink. “Does he really just restore cars? Surely there’s something he’s not telling us?”

Vika had a strong urge to slap this impudent and ill-bred troll. “I wouldn’t know,” she managed. “You must excuse me.”

“But no, please stay.” He placed a hand on her arm.

“Good night.” The hand lifted, but only after she glared at him.

Vika left the grand floor and hurried along the leafy entry corridor to the forecourt. A line of guests waited for their cars to be brought up. She saw no sign of Simon. She dug her phone out of her purse and called him. After eight rings the call went to his voice mail. “Simon, would you please—”

A hand landed on her shoulder. “Victoria, is that you?”

She spun to face a tall, handsome gray-haired man dressed in his trademark double-breasted navy blazer, the gold buttons shiny as ever. “Tobias…Hello.”

“I’m so sorry about your mother.”

“So sorry you couldn’t phone?”

“My apologies,” he said graciously. “It’s been a difficult time. The Société des Bains de Mer is having a hard go of it.”

They spoke in German, as was their custom. “Too bad,” she said, looking over his shoulder, combing the sea of faces.

“Have you set a date for the service?” he asked.

“Not yet. But it will be at Schloss Brandenburg. I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Stefanie had many friends in the principality. It might be nice to have a small get-together here. A ‘celebration of life.’ Maybe at that Italian place she loved so much.”

“You are her ex-husband and you do live here, at least some of the time. May I impose on you to arrange it?”

“It’s been ten years. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“The divorce was never finalized. Technically, you are still married.”

“Your mother refused to sign.”

“She said it was you who refused.”

“Let’s not start this. Are we really going to rely on her word?”

Vika put on her most polite smile. She’d been unprepared to see Lord Toby Stonewood, born Tobias Holzenstein, a.k.a. “Bismarck.” Like the Battenbergs before them, who’d inverted their name when they’d fled Germany to become the Mountbattens, Toby’s great-grandparents had made a change in order to better fit in. “Holzenstein” became “Steinholz,” which in turn was translated to “Stonewood.” Ever so English.

After all this time, she’d never come to terms with how to view him. Certainly not as family, despite the fact that he’d been married to her mother for many years and had, Vika was the first to admit, given her much happiness, if only in the form of the status his English title bestowed. (Mama had never gotten over being born poor, even with a title of her own.) And yet, Vika realized, besides Robby, Toby was the only family she had left, like it or not.

“You all right?” he asked. “You look distracted.”

“I’ve lost someone. He must have gone back to the hotel.”

“A new beau? It’s about time someone helped you run things.”

“I’m more than capable,” said Vika, “as you well know.”

“Of course you are, my dear,” said Lord Toby, smooth as ever.

It would take more than a mention of their past disputes to upset him. All that English reserve and cool. Stay calm and have a gin and tonic. Or, in Toby’s case, a dozen. He hid his alcoholism better than anyone she’d known. It was one of the things Mama had loved best about him. He could match her drink for drink and somehow maintain a semblance of sobriety. Vika imagined that his liver looked like a withered grape.

She studied the ruddy cheeks, the legion of burst blood vessels hiding below the surface. The only time she’d seen him lose his temper was one day a few months before he’d married her mother. The subject was money. He didn’t want to sign prenups, either for him or her, arguing that it was beneath them. Everyone knew that the Holzenstein dynasty was one of the richest in Europe. His English holdings alone were worth more than the Brandenburgs’. On her mother’s behalf (and her own), Vika had insisted on the prenups. She’d seen how fortunes waxed and waned.

Toby smiled decorously. “I’m heading out. Busy day tomorrow. Give you a lift?”

An idea popped into Vika’s head. Then and there, she decided that she’d never have a better opportunity. God knew she was anxious to show Simon that she was capable, too. She drew Philippe aside and told him that she would return to the hotel with her stepfather and that she couldn’t be in safer hands. The bodyguard exchanged words with Toby. The men shook hands.

A minute later, the valet arrived with Toby’s Bentley. As they left the main drive and turned toward the hotel, she placed a hand on Toby’s arm. “Let’s go to church,” she said.

“Church?” said Toby, the devout Anglican who regarded Catholicism as one step removed from voodoo. “Whatever for?”

“Église Saint-Marc. It’s just around the corner. I believe there’s an evening Mass.”

*****

I know these two. Tommy and Pavel.”

Jojo Matta circled the floor, looking at the men with interest, careful not to poke the toe of his white loafer into the lake of blood.

“You missed their boss,” said Simon. “Ratka.”

“You mean he missed me. I had to hide as he came out of the house.”

“You took your sweet time.”

“Thought you deserved to get to know them better, with all you done. I saw you at the Sporting Club. Followed you. Hey, what are you doing?”

Simon had taken off his belt and was applying a tourniquet to the bully Pavel’s leg. “He’s alive. Maybe he can tell me something.”

“Why’s everyone trying to kill you?”

“They have their reasons.”

“What are you doing down here, anyway?”

“Ratka has a crew stealing from the casino. Sophisticated, organized. I was brought in to find out what’s what, get rid of them.” One minute with Jojo and Simon was talking like the old days.

“Sophisticated? Ratka? Not a chance. He’s a strong-arm man. Fucking war criminal.”

“He’s gotten smarter. They’ve taken the casino for millions over the last six months.”

Simon realized he was saying too much, but Jojo had been family once, and Simon needed to talk. He was rattled. Too much had happened in too short a time. At some point, he was going to have to have a long sit-down and think everything through, make sure his head was still screwed on straight. This wasn’t the time.

He notched the belt just below the man’s groin, though he wasn’t sure what good it would do. Simon tapped his cheek. The Serb’s eyes fluttered and he grunted.

“Pavel, listen to me. Why did Ratka kill Princess Stefanie? I saw you in the car following him.”

Pavel’s eyes opened wide. “Fuck off.”

“Who was with Ratka?”

Pavel shook his head.

“Please,” Simon continued. “Who do you have inside the casino? Someone’s helping you. I know it. Give me the name.”

Pavel tried to push Simon away, and when he failed, he made an effort to undo the tourniquet. Simon restrained his hands. “Pavel, talk to me. Why did Ratka kill Stefanie? Who else was with you?”

“I never say shit to you.” Pavel glared at Jojo. “Fuck you, too.”

Before Simon could stop him, Jojo came closer, put the gun to Pavel’s forehead, and shot him. Simon jumped back, splatter all over his face. “What the hell? Jesus—”

“Fucking Serbs,” said Jojo. “Piss me off. Don’t look at me like that. Get water from a stone sooner than these guys snitch.”

Simon half walked, half stumbled into the living room. Only when he’d sat down on the couch did he see the trail of bloody tracks he’d left. He didn’t care about the carpet. The shoe prints were evidence.

“This Ratka’s place?” asked Jojo.

“That’s what he said. You have it, right? The jammer?”

“Think I followed you here to save your ass? Come all this way, I want my money.”

“You’ll get it.”

“What does the thing do, anyway?”

“Blocks phones and computers from talking to each other. Stops their signals.”

Jojo wasn’t interested. “Three thousand,” he said.

Simon handed over the money and Jojo peered greedily into his wallet. “How much you got there?”

“I don’t know. Ten grand.”

Jojo’s gaze shifted from the wad of bills to Simon. “I could shoot you like that and take it. What’s stopping me?” He stepped back and pointed the pistol at Simon. “Not like anyone would know. How ’bout it, Ledoux? Give me the money.”

Fast as lightning, Simon snatched the pistol out of Jojo’s hand and pointed it right back at him. In the same motion he was up off the couch, clutching a fistful of Jojo’s tunic. “You were saying?”

“It was a joke. You know that. We’re family. La Brise forever.”

Simon jammed the muzzle into the skin hanging from Jojo’s jaw. He’d had enough of tough guys for one night.

“Ledoux, please. I’m sorry.”

“Save it.” Simon gave him a good tug before releasing him. Jojo brushed off his tunic, the color taking a while to return to his face.

“I’m talking about real money,” said Simon. “Couple hundred thousand at least.”

“You serious?”

“What do you think?” said Simon. “I need someone to help me sort things out. Go in heavy. You remember what that means. It’s the drop house. It might get messy.”

“We talking about Ratka?”

Simon nodded.

“And you’re serious about the hundred thousand?”

“More than that.”

“I’d about pay you to take that asshole out,” said Jojo. “Fucking Serbs. Come down here. Make like they own the place. Russians are one thing. I mean, Russia’s a real country. But Serbia…it’s smaller than Corsica. Someone’s got to send them home. When are you thinking?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight? It’s already eleven. It’ll take me some time.”

“I have some work to do first.”

“At the casino?”

“Yes.”

“With that gizmo?”

“Yes, Jojo. With that gizmo.”

Jojo considered the proposition, then nodded his agreement. He returned to the front door, tiptoeing around the perimeter of the foyer, which was now entirely covered in blood. There was red marble, too, thought Simon. Carrara rosso. He didn’t think it was quarried in Serbia.

“Let’s go,” called Jojo, standing at the door. “Too many dead people in here.”

“I’m not done.”

Jojo appeared confused. “There someone else here you want to kill?”

“Wait here.” Simon went upstairs. He was more or less certain there was no one else in the house, and he wasn’t interested in killing such a person should he find him or her. It was Ratka’s words that prompted him to search the place, his vow not to let Simon mess up his “big plan” or allow Simon to stop him from “getting it all.” Big plans left a trail, and if Simon wasn’t sure which of Vika’s things Ratka wanted, he understood his intent loud and clear.

It was evident that Ratka was not planning on staying in the house. Packing boxes, taped shut, lined the upstairs corridors. Rooms were empty or nearly so. Almost all the furniture had been removed. Only large pieces remained—oak armoires that dated from the nineteenth century, squat chests that would have looked at home in a Spanish galleon, and a white grand piano with an elaborate candelabra on top. Who knew Liberace was big in Belgrade? Each box was marked with Ratka’s real name, Zoltan Mikhailovic. An hour of phoning freight companies would yield the forwarding address.

Simon came to the end of the hall. The door was locked. He kicked at the fixture, once, twice; the second time, his shoe rendered a hole in the wood laminate. Easy does it, he told himself, yanking his foot clear. Drawing a breath, he entered Ratka’s study.

A heavy wooden desk facing a stone fireplace held pride of place. The bookshelves were empty. The only decoration was a tall flag draped from a stand, the kind of thing Simon had seen in diplomats’ offices. Out of curiosity, he lifted the corners. The colors were scarlet, black, and white. He didn’t know what country it represented, but he recognized the angular geometric symbol at its center. The design was an adaptation of the hakenkreuz, the ancient Aryan symbol that the National Socialist German Workers’ Party had made into the swastika, and that of late had been adopted by other equally vile nationalist groups across Europe. A scroll running across the bottom of the flag read SERBIA USTAJ.

A hefty binder sat on the desk. Simon noted the image of the flag on its cover and picked it up. Inside were photographs of different men. Close-ups, long shots, alone and with others. It was clear to Simon that they were all criminals. He knew the look. Each man had his own see-through sleeve, his name typed on a label affixed to the lower right-hand corner. On the back of each sleeve a page listed the men’s activities and associates and the region of the city from which they operated. Simon was right. All the men were criminals. It was his guess that Ratka was going to kill them. Ratka hoped to return to Belgrade in style.

Big plans.

  

Before heading downstairs, Simon stopped in Ratka’s bedroom. Simon’s clothing was crusted with blood, sleeves stiff as cardboard. He tore off his clothes and washed up as quickly as possible. From Ratka’s closet he picked out the suit he considered the least awful. It was two sizes too large, but it would have to do. Finished changing, Simon washed his face, then rolled up his soiled clothing and brought it with him.

Simon found Jojo in the garden out back. He pointed to a dented jerry can. “They were going to burn you up, Ledoux,” he said. “You owe me.”

A second jerry can was at his feet, as was a black body bag. Nearby, a spade stood in the dirt next to a neatly dug pit.

Benzin, pozni, nista, nista, nista.

Simon turned to look at the house, and the rage he’d been working so hard to stifle bubbled right back up. The gun in his mouth, Elena’s battered face, Vika fighting for her life. He was at the edge. Maybe a step beyond it.

“What did you say?” asked Jojo.

Simon came out of his trance, unaware that he’d spoken. “Pick up the jerry can and follow me,” he said. “You still smoke, right?”

Gasoline. Fire. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

*****

A church’s doors are always open.

Vika stepped inside the vestibule of the Église Saint-Marc and pressed her back to the door. The nave was dark, a dimmed spotlight illuminating the altar and chancel. The air was cool and dry, smelling pleasantly of plaster and beeswax. Her eyes lifted to the dome and the painting of Saint Paul on the road to Damascus decorated with gold leaf.

There was no liturgy on a Thursday night. She’d lied. While Catholicism was the state religion of Monaco, most of the principality’s residents were a few “Hail Mary”s and “Our Father”s short of devout. The Église Saint-Marc satisfied its parishioners with a daily morning Mass, a late afternoon service on Saturday, and two high Masses on Sunday.

A moment passed and Vika advanced down the aisle. She stopped at the third pew. Following Elena’s instructions, she slid to the far right-hand side. Her hand fell to the kneeler and she lowered it into place before clasping her hands. By long habit, she recited the Lord’s Prayer and made the sign of the cross upon herself. Having completed her proper hello to God, she ran her fingers below the hymnal rack, leaning forward as she sought a touch of velvet. She prayed again, this time asking that she find what she’d come for, and that Elena had not only hidden the family ring but hidden it well.

“Victoria, everything all right?”

Vika looked over her shoulder to see Toby Stonewood standing at the back of the church. “Fine,” she said awkwardly. “I’ll just be a minute.”

She groped beneath the rack, fingers probing every which way, discovering a wad of gum hard as rock, and another, not so hard. Come now, Elena, I’m right where you said I should be. What have you done with Mama’s ring? She looked back again. Toby hadn’t moved. He stood with hands clasped and head bowed like a proper English schoolboy. Vika lowered her shoulder, stretching her arm as far as it would go. She touched something soft and smooth. Her fingertips danced across its surface. Velveteen. Hallelujah! A moment later, she’d pried the jewelry bag free and held it in her hand. She couldn’t help but open it to make sure the ring was inside. A round piece of gold fell into her palm. She took it between her thumb and forefinger, eyes embracing the family crest.

Footsteps approached. “Finished?” asked Toby. “I always say my prayers beside my bed.”

Vika fumbled with the strings to the jewelry bag. The ring fell to the ground, the tinkle of metal sounding to her ears like a tray of cutlery crashing onto the kitchen floor. She bent and scooped up the ring.

“What have you got there?” Toby eyed her questioningly. She’d been caught red-handed.

“Mama’s ring.”

“The diamond solitaire? Goodness me. Let me help.”

Vika shook her head. She saw Toby’s expression of concern and felt ashamed for her subterfuge. “The family crest.”

“Did Stefanie lose it?” he asked. “Here…in church?” For all his wealth and experience, he was always a step behind.

“She hid it. Or rather, Elena did.”

“Now I am confused.”

Vika rose and made her way to the aisle. “We need to talk.”

“What about?”

“About Mama.”

“Seems as good a place as any to talk about the dead.”

Vika turned and put her hands on his arms, looking into those handsome blue eyes. “Mama didn’t drive herself off the road.”

“What do you mean? Of course she did.”

Vika shook her head. “It wasn’t an accident.”

Toby took a step back, as if frightened of what might be coming. “What was it, then?”

“She was murdered.”

*****

A tired Harry Mason wiped off his wrench and dropped it into the toolbox. The first rule of garage etiquette demanded that you leave your tools as clean as you found them. He’d learned it fifty years earlier and hadn’t disobeyed it since. Taking the hand spot off its hook, he shone the light over the engine, making one last visual inspection.

It was something to look at. A quad cam Colombo-designed 4.4-liter V12 topped with a bank of six twin choke carburetors, six gleaming valves set in a straight row that sparkled more brightly than the Queen’s silver. Back in its day, the Daytona was the fastest production car in the world, with top speeds of 175 miles per hour and a monstrous 352 horsepower, with enough torque to make you feel like a fighter pilot pulling ten gs in a negative roll.

Of course, Simon wanted more. More speed, more horsepower, more torque. He’d come to the right man. If anyone could find an additional hundred horsepower, it was Harry Mason. The older the car, the more difficult the task, but he’d managed. He’d had to recalibrate the carburetor and modify the headers, and Simon would need to gas up with hundred-octane fuel, but he’d have his extra horsepower, goddammit…for all the good it would do him.

Harry closed the bonnet with care, then went to the washroom to get cleaned up. His love affair with automobiles had begun a half century ago. He’d grown up in the slums of Limerick (more or less the whole damned city), the fifth of six boys, the shortest, the plumpest, and the one with the reddest hair. In truth, he was a fine little scholar and enjoyed school until the bigger lads had taken it upon themselves to beat up the “wee tomato” day in and day out. He was as tough as any and took what they dished out, certain it would all sort itself out when he stopped being so “wee.” The problem was, he never grew. He was the wee-est in kindergarten and the wee-est in sixth form. When he turned fourteen and remained the shortest in his class, he’d had enough. Tough was tough, but only a mental deficient put himself through that kind of punishment. He wanted to have a few teeth left when he turned eighteen. School was out for Harry Mason.

Every day, he left home with his book bag and gave his ma a kiss on the cheek, but instead of turning left to walk down Island Road to St. Mary’s National School, he turned right and spent the day wandering the streets. For some reason, he found himself coming again and again to a new car dealership. He’d spend hours staring through the window at the shiny Austins, imagining himself behind the wheel. It was a pipe dream. No Mason had ever owned a car, and a man without a proper education didn’t stand a chance of earning enough to buy one. Harry didn’t know it, but someone had noticed his loitering.

One day, a sturdy red-haired man not much taller than he asked if he’d like to have a look around. Harry Mason started work in the dealership’s service bay the next day. Years passed. He moved from working on Austins to Rovers to Jaguars, then made the leap overseas (figuratively speaking) to Mercedes, and finally, one hallowed day, to Ferraris. His textbooks were written in grease and sweat. His final exams drove out of the garage and fulfilled other people’s dreams. The work must have agreed with him because over the years he grew. Not much. But five foot seven was a hell of a lot bigger than five foot two.

Harry checked that the garage was spic-and-span, then made his way to the back door. Another car occupied the slot adjacent to the black Daytona. It was a shiny silver contraption with a bulbous nose and great big tires. More of a rocket ship than a sports car. It was a Bugatti Veyron and it had rolled in sometime after five for a tune-up. The car was rare enough that Harry knew it must belong to one of Simon’s fellow competitors.

Harry loved Simon like the son he’d never had, but fact was fact, truth was truth, and horsepower was horsepower. There was no way on God’s green earth that a Ferrari Daytona could beat a Bugatti Veyron in a flat-out race. The great Eddie Irvine on his best day couldn’t bring it off. And Simon Riske, bless his soul, wasn’t even an Irishman.

Leaving the garage, Harry jumped into a waiting taxi. He had a few more things to look at in the morning. A mechanic’s work was never done.

“Hôtel de Paris,” he told the driver with a pat on the shoulder. “Et vite…très vite!”

*****

Simon sat in the passenger seat of Jojo’s old Peugeot, phone pressed to his ear as they rattled down the mountainside.

“Vika? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. You’re the one who went missing.”

“The call went longer than expected.”

“What happened? I looked everywhere for you.” Her voice jumped from relief to anger to worry in the course of a sentence.

“I had a little run-in. That’s all.”

“You sound funny. Are you sure everything is all right?”

The car hit a pothole and Simon’s head knocked against the ceiling. Hoods, he thought to himself. They spent all their time figuring out how to make a score, and when they did, they couldn’t even afford a decent set of wheels. He looked behind him. Flames shot above the trees, turning the sky a warm, smoky orange. He covered the phone. “Faster,” he said to Jojo. Then to Vika: “I’m fine. Where are you?”

“Didn’t you get my message? I’m back at the hotel.”

“At the hotel?”

“Yes. In my room, safe and sound.”

Simon hadn’t had time to listen to his messages. Besides the one from Vika, there were six from Toby Stonewood, all of which, he imagined, had to do with just where the hell Simon was. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said. “Stay there.”

“When will you be back?”

“Not for a while. I’m trying to finish up my job tonight.”

“And get back to London?” she asked sharply.

“Eventually,” he said, struck by her tone. “Why are you asking?”

“A man at the Sporting Club told me. Dov Dragan. He said he was your friend.”

“Dov Dragan is not a friend. He’s a…a…”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Vika. “He introduced himself as I was looking for you. I don’t know when I’ve met a more unsavory individual.”

Simon hadn’t thought it possible to dislike the man more than he already did. “I’ll tell you everything when I get back to the hotel. You have my word.”

“Stop by my room when you return. I don’t care the time. There’s something I need to tell you, too.”

“It might be late.”

“Simon…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t want to lie to you anymore. I found what they were looking for at my mother’s house. You don’t have to worry about me any longer. It’s all going to be all right.”

She ended the call.

A moment later, there was a large explosion behind them. Then a second, even larger, that shook the car’s windows. A shock wave rattled the car. Simon looked over his shoulder as a fireball rose in the sky.

“What the hell was in that house?” asked Jojo.

Simon didn’t answer. Ratka had done more than compile a binder of his hometown enemies. He’d already begun stocking up on the tools he’d need to take them out. From the sound of the explosions, it was going to be a big job. “Shut up and drive.”

  

Jojo dropped Simon back at the Sporting Club. It might not be as busy as the Casino de Monte-Carlo, but Simon knew who to look for and where to look. A hunter couldn’t ask for anything more. It was a question of flushing the pheasants from the tall grass. Instead of hounds, he had his portable Wi-Fi signal jammer. Slim enough to fit in his coat pocket, the device looked identical to a handheld recorder, only with three blunt (foldable) antennas extending from its top. Turn it on, and all communications on the Bluetooth bandwidth within fifty meters would be interrupted. The birds would fly. All he wanted was a clear shot.

Inside the casino, he quickly located the team of cheats. They had switched tables, but by the looks of the chips in front of them their fortunes hadn’t suffered as a result. Every seat was taken. The crowd watching had thinned, however. Even winning gets boring after a while.

Simon stopped at the bar. “Vodka,” he said. “Triple.”

“Sir?”

“Need something to kill the pain.” Simon winced. His pain was real, not a by-product of bad luck at the tables. A smarter man would have been in bed with enough ice wrapped around his ribs to flash-freeze a steer.

He drank the vodka in a single go, then ordered a champagne to show that he belonged in the place despite Ratka’s baggy suit and permanent-press shirt. He shoved off and headed to the table. He had set the jammer to block a 2.5-gigahertz signal, nothing higher, thus not interfering with cell phone traffic. He stopped a fair distance from the cheats and observed as two hands were played. From the pattern of betting, he confirmed that they were still at it. He suspected the dealer of being in on it, too.

Dropping a hand into his pocket, Simon activated the jammer.

The dealer called for bets. Two players ponied up immediately, dropping their chips on banco. A South Asian woman followed suit, sliding a thousand euros onto punto. A fourth player was more judicious, betting the minimum, also on punto. All eyes fell on the three men who had yet to place their bets.

“Gentlemen?” said the dealer.

Until now, none of the men had said a word to one another. It wasn’t uncommon to strike up momentary friendships with tablemates, just as one often speaks to a seatmate on a plane. Gambling, like air travel, has a shared sense of urgency that breaks down social barriers and encourages honest, often intimate conversation. Who cares what you say to someone you will never see again? But even now, none of the men said a word. Not a peep.

“Bets?” said the dealer, too patiently.

One of the men shook his head, then the second, and the third.

“Very well,” said the dealer.

Cards were dealt; the hands played out. Two for punto. Six for banco. Banco won.

All this time, Simon studied the cheats. None betrayed the slightest indication that their equipment had failed. They were slick, all right. Simon imagined that there must be confusion on the other end of the operation, too. But it was apparent something wasn’t right. None had yet to place a bet.

The next hand began.

To speed up matters, Simon leaned closer to the table and said, “If you’re not going to play, give up your seats. Some of us would like to take them.”

The dealer shot him a dark look. “Place your bets,” he said.

The cheats all placed minimum bets on banco. The hand was played. Punto won.

One of the cheats left the table and headed toward the main entry. Simon held his ground, and a moment later, a second man left, following his partner. Only then did Simon give pursuit.

He followed the men out of the room and took up position near a bank of slot machines as the two, deep in conversation, left the building and hurried down the long driveway. One of them had a hand to his ear. He was out of the jammer’s range and Simon was certain he was speaking to his controller.

He allowed them a few more steps, then left the casino. A median with palm trees planted every ten steps divided the road into two lanes—coming and going. Simon ducked onto the opposite side, staying in the trees’ shadows. A car idled at the foot of the driveway. The men climbed into the back seat. The car zoomed away, and there was a moment when Simon thought he’d blown it, and that they were taking off for good. Twenty meters farther, the car pulled to a halt so as not to block the exit.

A few minutes passed. The doors opened. The men left the car. Simon observed both men placing what were surely new receivers into their ear canals, checking that they worked, then heading back to the casino to resume their assignment.

Crouched in the shadows, Simon watched them pass, then ran to the car. He didn’t know how many people were inside. He didn’t care. Pistol leading the way, he threw open the door. There were two men: a driver behind the wheel and the controller in the back, laptop open, images of cards about to be dealt visible in one of several open windows. Simon spun the pistol in his hand, held it by the muzzle, and clubbed the driver with its butt. One blow to the temple was enough. The man slumped to one side, unconscious, head resting against the window.

Simon dropped into the back seat and pulled the door closed. All throughout his career as an investigator, he’d forsworn the use of guns. Not tonight. The pistol was a nine-millimeter SIG Sauer, courtesy of Elvis. There were six bullets remaining in the clip. Simon had one chambered and thumbed the hammer as he placed the barrel against the second man’s cheek.

“Don’t say a word.”

An earpiece with an attached microphone was plugged into the laptop. Simon yanked it free and inserted the earpiece.

“Who are you?” the controller asked, his accented English depressingly familiar. He was thirty, pale as soapstone, with two days’ stubble and shaggy black hair that fell into his eyes.

“Police,” said Simon. “You’re parked in a red zone.”

“Bullshit,” said the man.

Simon slammed his head against the glass. “We take traffic violations seriously.”

The man shrunk back, properly warned. “How much do you want?” he asked.

“All of it.”

The man shook his head. “Fuck off.”

Simon was beginning to understand why Jojo hated these guys so much. “How much are you up tonight?”

“Up? What you mean? What you talk about?”

“Where’s Ratka?”

“Who?”

“Your boss. I’m wearing his suit. Recognize it? I was just up at his place with Tommy and Pavel. Nice chandelier. By the way, they’re dead.”

“You’re crazy.”

Simon dug out his phone and showed him a picture of the two men. It had sickened him to take the photo, but he’d reasoned that it could have some persuasive value. At the sight of the blood and the bodies, the controller turned an unpleasant shade of green.

“What’s your name?” Simon kept the gun to his cheek.

“Radek.”

“Okay, Radek. Now that we know who’s who and what’s what, I’m going to ask you a few questions. Rue Chaussée four seventy-six. Is that the drop house?”

Radek stared straight ahead. He was loyal and he was brave. Simon gave him that much. “I’ll count to three, then I’ll blow your friend’s brains all over the front window. One.”

“No! He’s my brother.”

“All right, then. I’ll kill you first, then him. Two.”

“Yes,” said Radek, spitting out the word. “Rue Chaussée is the drop house. Tonight is last night. Everyone stops at two a.m. Deliver money.”

“And Ratka?”

“He’ll be there. He’s in charge.”

“Who else is with him?”

“Usually Tommy and Pavel. We go, give him money, then get out.”

“When does he pay you?”

“No one paid till it all over.”

“When what’s all over?” Radek’s words didn’t ring true. Crooks didn’t wait to get paid.

“Ratka keeping the money for now.”

“All of it?”

Radek nodded.

“He hasn’t paid you in all this time you’ve been robbing the casino?”

“Little bit. We split it later. There’s more then.”

“More than you steal from the casino?”

“Lots more.”

“Tell me.”

“One million,” said Radek.

“For all of you?” asked Simon, purposely misunderstanding him.

“Each,” said Radek, pridefully. The male ego was an amazingly simple instrument to manipulate.

“Why is tonight the last night?”

“We got enough.”

“How much is enough?”

“I don’t know. Lots.”

“Who’s the one who decides how much is enough?”

“Ratka. Who you think?”

“And he’s paying you a million?”

Radek nodded.

Simon thought of Jojo’s crapped-out Peugeot. Yes, he decided, for a million euros Jojo would wait, too. Everyone wanted a shot at the big money, a spin of the wheel of fortune. A million went a long way back home in Serbia. All of which begged the question: If a soldier like Radek stood to earn a million, how much was the man in charge looking to take down? Ten times that amount? A hundred? Big plans cost big money.

If Ratka and his gang had already stolen over two hundred million euros, how much more were they looking to earn?

The answer came to him courtesy of a striking German blonde with more brains than he’d ever have, and, he was beginning to suspect, more backbone.

The family is worth twelve billion dollars, Vika had said over lunch in Èze.

And Ratka wanted to get all of it. Taking control of all organized crime in a big city was expensive.

“And what about the princess?” asked Simon.

“What princess?” demanded Radek, evidently concerned that Simon might know more than him. Honesty stuck out like a neon sign in the dead of night. Simon was pretty sure Radek didn’t know anything about Ratka’s big plans.

So, thought Simon, there were two operations, and they were connected. The first involved stealing from the casino, the second from Princess Victoria Brandenburg von Tiefen und Tassis, and it had required killing her mother. Going to get all of it. Ratka might not have been sophisticated, but he was ambitious and without morals. If Vika had found what Ratka wanted, she was in more danger, not less.

Looking at the laptop’s screen, Simon noted that the two cheats had returned to the table in time for a new shoe. The laptop was his front row seat to watching how the bad guys played their game.

A window in the corner broadcast a live feed from a camera planted in one of the cheats’ sleeves—the man who had not left the table. The dealer offered him the shoe to cut the cards. The cheat ran the yellow plastic cutting card across the entire shoe from bottom to top before pulling the card away and sliding it into the center of the deck. All this the hidden camera filmed and transmitted to the controller.

The dealer took the shoe back and cut the cards accordingly, then followed his defined practice of burning the top five cards and playing two mock hands. Now official play could begin.

“What exactly do you have to do?” Simon asked Radek.

“First, I input where our players sit at the table, give them betting limits. The software give a probability to every hand. It never always right, who wins, who loses—punto or banco. I tell players how to bet. Bet heavy if this number high”—he pointed to a figure indicating the ratio of success—“bet less if smaller. Sometime we have to lose, so it looks okay. Like I say, software not right all the time.”

“Who wrote the program?”

“A friend of Ratka, I think. I don’t know. Whoever it is, he’s a mathematical genius.”

Simon studied the screen, putting it all together. Custom software, trained controllers, disciplined teams to hit the casinos. Something didn’t jibe. Jojo had been right when he said that Ratka wasn’t sophisticated. So, if he wasn’t running the show, who was?

“From now on, you work for me,” said Simon. “Do what I say and I’ll let you and your brother go. Do not fuck with me.”

Radek nodded eagerly. Simon didn’t believe his sincerity for a minute.

On the screen, a new hand was dealt. Immediately figures showing the probabilities for punto and banco appeared in separate windows.

“Go ahead,” said Simon. “But this time make them lose.”

“Lose?”

“Lose big.”

“Ratka won’t like it.”

“He can see?”

“Sure. Everything goes to a central unit, so he can see who’s winning and how much.”

Of course Ratka could see, thought Simon. If a genius had designed the software, he’d certainly make sure to keep track of their winnings on a real-time basis. Simon wanted that computer. Evidence from day one.

Ten minutes later, the three cheats had forfeited two hundred thousand euros of their winnings. One of them could be heard muttering through the receiver.

“Tell him to keep playing,” said Simon.

Another hand was dealt. Another loss for Team Serbia. Fifty thousand back to the Société des Bains de Mer. Simon looked forward to giving Toby Stonewood the good news.

“He’s coming,” said Radek.

“Who?”

“Team leader.”

“Good. I’d like to meet him.”

The driver stirred, moaning as he came to. Simon glanced in his direction, immediately on guard, ready to give him another lump if necessary. Radek saw his chance. He threw himself at Simon, knocking the pistol away, forcing him against the door. Simon grunted, the pain from his ribs making his eyes water. He tried to push Radek off him, but the man had him pinned. Radek fought for the gun, hands battling to pry it from Simon. The Sig had a hair trigger. The gun fired, blowing a hole in the car’s roof. Simon drove his fist into Radek’s jaw, but the blow had no effect. If anything, Radek fought harder. The noise had roused the driver. Seeing what was going on, he clambered over his seat, arms extended, hands grabbing Simon’s arms. Simon kicked him in the jaw and kicked him again. The driver’s head caromed off the roof. His eyes rolled back in his head and he slid, limp, back into his seat.

Radek closed his fingers around Simon’s fist. He was very strong and Simon felt himself losing his grip on the weapon. His left hand closed around Radek’s windpipe, fingers digging into his flesh. Blood dribbled over his fingertips. The Serb’s face grew red, his eyes unnaturally large in their sockets. Another shot exploded in the confined space, shattering the window. Simon dropped the weapon onto the street and took hold of the door frame, drawing his knees to his chest and thrusting Radek off him. Radek lunged at him like a rabid beast. Simon wrapped his legs around the Serb’s head, locking his ankles, and turned his torso viciously to his right. Radek’s neck cracked like a twig but did not break. He continued to struggle, but Simon was too strong. Leaning forward, he grabbed a handful of Radek’s hair, yanked his head back, and hit him with a closed fist, shattering his nose. He hit him again. Moaning, Radek covered his face and slumped against the door.

Simon fell back against the seat, physically and emotionally spent. His hand throbbed and his knuckles were scraped bloody. He sat up, recalling Radek’s words that his colleague was coming, no doubt to inquire about what was going on. Looking out the rear window, Simon spotted a man hurrying down the drive. It had to be the team leader.

With no time to spare, Simon hauled the driver out of his seat and messily folded him into the passenger seat. Simon slid behind the wheel, started the car, and drove away from the Sporting Club, careful to keep his speed reasonable—nothing to cause alarm.

Behind him, the team leader started running, then gave up, throwing his hands in the air.

Simon rolled down the window and waved.

*****

A firm hand knocked three times. “Victoria, it’s me.”

Vika hurried to the door, looking through the peephole to make sure it was Toby Stonewood. “There you are.”

“Sorry, dear. Business. Had to take a call. Several, actually. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting, especially when we have so much to discuss.”

“I’m sorry to drop this on you out of the blue,” said Vika. “I can understand it’s a shock.”

“Nonsense. If there’s been foul play we need to get to the bottom of it. I hope you won’t mistake my surprise for disbelief. As you said, it’s a shock.” Toby dropped into a club chair and exhaled. “Mind making me a drink? You’re scaring the hell out of this old man. A double, if you don’t mind.”

Vika mixed Toby a stiff gin and tonic and handed it to him. He thanked her and proceeded to drink half of it. “That’s better,” he said. “Now I can think. Murder? That’s a serious word.”

Vika sat down in a chair beside him. “It is.”

“You’ve gone to the police?”

“I brought it up with Commissaire Le Juste when I arrived.”

“Good man. Head of the criminal department.”

“I told him that something wasn’t right,” Vika began. “Mama hadn’t driven at night in years. She couldn’t see out of her right eye. In fact, she barely drove at all. Elena took her everywhere.” She gazed at Toby inquisitively. “Didn’t you ask yourself what she was doing on the Grande Corniche at midnight all by herself? And in the Rolls? She hadn’t taken it out in a year.”

“I may have,” said Toby, “if I’m entirely honest with myself. But you know…I wrote it off to drink. I’d seen her around town a few times over the past year and she wasn’t looking herself.”

“I’m not blaming you,” Vika was quick to add.

“Of course you’re not. It’s just that it’s your mother we’re talking about. Murder? Hard to wrap my mind around the idea.”

“Think of her as a princess with a fortune and what I have to say will make more sense.”

“I’ll try. Go on, then.”

“Le Juste felt the same as you. He said there was no reason to think it was anything other than an accident. He asked if I had any evidence that might give weight to my suspicions.”

“Did you?”

“Not then.”

“You do now?” Toby leaned forward, cupping the drink in both hands. Vika looked at his firm jaw, the inquiring eyes. His easy manner was gone. He looked ten years younger, formidable, and more than a little intimidating.

“After meeting with Commissaire Le Juste, I drove up to the site of the accident. I had to see for myself. Of course, they’d picked the perfect spot.”

“‘They’?”

“At a sharp bend, no streetlights,” continued Vika. “Easy to see how a car driven by an older person, supposedly drunk, could go off the road. If I were Le Juste I’d think it was an accident, too. I had a look around, and I found something, something that to my eye didn’t belong there.” She noted the skeptical glint in Toby’s eye. “I’ll come back to that,” she said. “And that was the first time they tried to harm me.”

“Harm you? What happened?”

“A car tried to run me over.”

“Good God!”

“I was standing by the side of the road when out of nowhere a car appeared around the curve and came straight at me. The driver didn’t look frightened or out of control. He stared right at me and kept on coming. If it wasn’t for Simon, I’d be dead.”

“Simon?”

“An American,” said Vika by way of explanation. “We’d met the night before as I was checking into the hotel. He’s here for the Concours. He’s driving in the time trial, or that’s what he said then. As luck would have it, he was previewing the course when he saw my car. He stopped to see if I was all right.”

“And saved you?”

“He pushed me out of the way.” Vika noted a change in Toby’s manner, his eyes keener than before. “What is it?” she asked.

Toby waved away her comment. “Continue.”

“That night I went over to Mama’s place at the Château Perigord. I wanted to have a look around.” Vika drew herself up, hands clasped. “Actually, that’s not entirely true. There’s something I forgot to tell you. When I was given Mama’s personal affairs at the police station—her watch, wallet, jewelry—something was missing. Her ring with the family coat of arms.”

“You thought the police might have taken it…Le Juste?”

“No. Her diamond solitaire was there. It’s worth a thousand times more. I was puzzled. She’d never taken off the ring in her life. You know that. I wanted to have a look around her place to see if it was there. The apartment was in shambles. At first, I thought she’d gone on a bender. God knows some of the parties she’s thrown. But then I realized it wasn’t a party or a drunken fest. Someone had searched her apartment. Ransacked it.”

“For the ring?”

“At the time I wasn’t sure. Now I am.”

“But why? Who could know its value to the family?”

“That’s what I don’t know,” said Vika. “There’s more, and please, promise me you won’t get upset.” Toby nodded sternly and she continued. “While I was there, a man broke in and attacked me.”

“Victoria!” Toby raised his hands, beside himself. “We should be at the police station this minute.”

“I’m all right, Toby, but thank you. Maybe later. He tried to…well, he tried to rape me. I’m sure he planned on killing me, too. But he didn’t…rape me, I mean.”

“Thank God you fought him off.”

“I didn’t. I tried, but he was far too big. An animal. He was Eastern European. A Slav, I think.”

“He spoke to you?”

“A few words.”

“You said you didn’t fight him off. What happened?”

“My friend saved me.”

“The same one?”

“His name is Simon Riske.”

“The American here for the time trial.”

“He’s actually here on a job. He’s been hired to look into a gang who’s been cheating the casino out of millions.”

“And he just happened to come along?”

“He was concerned about me after what happened earlier.”

“The car trying to run you over…”

Vika nodded. “He’d called my room to see if I was all right, and when I didn’t answer he came looking for me.”

A quizzical expression crossed Toby’s face and she could see he was wrestling with the same questions she’d had: How had he found her mother’s apartment? How had he gotten in? Instead of asking, Toby finished his drink and walked to the bar for another. “Simon Riske,” he said, half laughing. “I’d say I owe the man a bonus. A bloody big one.”

Vika turned in her chair. “Pardon?”

“Riske. Ought to double his salary. Least I can do seeing as how he’s doing two jobs.”

“You know him?”

Toby nodded. “Of course I know him. I hired him. I’m chairman of the Société des Bains de Mer. I took over the post last year. Who do you think brought him down here? I take it he didn’t tell you.”

Vika shook her head. “And he didn’t tell you about me? About what happened?”

“Why would he? Not part of the job.” Toby took a long pull of gin, no tonic. “I was supposed to meet him tonight, but he didn’t show.” He raised a finger in the air. “That’s who you were looking for at the Sporting Club earlier.”

Vika nodded.

“You have feelings for him?”

“Please, Toby. I just met the man.”

“He has a checkered past. Not quite up to your usual standards. That’s all I’ll say.”

“You hired him,” she retorted, betraying her feelings.

“He’s meant to be good at what he does, though I’m beginning to wonder. He’s up and vanished. Between you and me, I’m damned angry. Last thing I need is for another of our investigators to get himself killed. The board will be all over me. I didn’t want to hire another in the first place. Told ’em we could solve the problem in-house.”

“‘Another’?”

Toby brushed past her, distracted. “It’s not your business, Victoria. You have enough to concern yourself with already.”

“He’s alive,” she said. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“He is?” said Toby from across the room. After a moment, he raised his glass and drank an extraordinary slug of gin. “Well, thank goodness for that, at least.”

“I spoke to him just a little while ago,” Vika explained. “He phoned while you were downstairs.”

“I don’t suppose he told you if he’d found out who’s stealing our money.”

Vika said that he hadn’t and that he’d called to apologize for leaving the Sporting Club without telling her. “He did mention that he hoped to have his business concluded by later tonight.”

Toby brightened. “I’ll take that as good news.”

Vika went on to explain what they’d found when they returned to the Château Perigord the next day.

“A cuff link,” said Toby. “That’s your proof?”

“It matched one I found at the crash site. Simon’s trying to determine to whom it belonged.”

“But how is that evidence of murder?”

“It’s not. But it is a clue to who may have done it. Mama certainly didn’t wear cuff links.” Vika crossed her arms. “There’s also a video.”

Toby took a pull of his drink and waited for her to go on.

“We checked the security cameras at the pharmacy across the street,” she said. “They show Mama’s Rolls leaving her building late that night not long before the accident. She wasn’t driving. There were two men in the front. We can’t really identify either one, but it’s enough to prove that Mama didn’t drive herself off the cliff.”

Toby crossed the room, eyes narrowed. “Do you have this tape?”

“It’s at the pharmacy.”

“And the cuff links?”

“Simon has them. There were strange markings on them. He’s asking a friend of his if he can figure out what they are.”

“You’re certainly keeping him busy,” said Toby, shooting her a look of displeasure. “I’m beginning to understand why he hasn’t found our gang of thieves.”

“He saved my life, Toby. Twice.”

“Of course he did. And I’m grateful. Don’t misunderstand me, dear. It’s just that I have two hats to wear. I’m not paying Riske to look into your mother’s death.”

“Mama’s murder is a far bigger matter than the casino losing a few dollars.”

“Two hundred million isn’t a few dollars, Victoria.”

“It’s nothing compared to Mama’s life.”

Toby finished his drink and set his glass back on the bar. “You’re right, of course. You must excuse me. At least now we can go to the police and let them take things over. I don’t want you in the middle of this. You’re a mother and a businesswoman. You’ve got Robert to worry about, not to mention your investments and the trust.” He fixed her with a no-nonsense stare. “I take it that’s the real reason you came down. Make sure there are no difficulties in transferring the estate to your son.”

She met his gaze, held it, then nodded.

“Where’s the ring now, anyway?”

“Why?”

“Someone’s got to keep it safe. I’m going to march it downstairs straightaway and put it in the hotel vault. And you, young lady: you are getting on the first flight out of here in the morning. I won’t hear a word otherwise.”

“I drove.”

“Then you’ll drive back. And with a bodyguard. That man, Philippe, or another. I don’t care. I’ll pay Riske to go with you if he’s really finished his business.”

Toby buttoned his blazer. “Well,” he said. “I’m waiting. Give me the damned ring.”

*****

Jojo’s beat-up Peugeot sat parked on an incline on the Rue Gauthier, one block over from the drop house. Battered stone villas lined the road. Centuries-old trees hung over their rooftops. It was after midnight. Few lights burned in windows.

Simon flashed his brights, then killed his headlamps as he pulled up behind Jojo. Two men stood with Jojo. One was young, lean, and dark. The other was middle-aged at best, bald, and very fat. Seeing the two, Simon knew he had made a mistake.

“Where did you get the wheels?” asked Jojo as Simon climbed out of the car.

“Borrowed them.” Radek and his brother were in the trunk with instructions to keep quiet or else. Simon hoped they’d suffered enough to mind his warning. He had no choice but to keep them hostage. He couldn’t allow Ratka to know he was alive.

“Over here.” Simon collared Jojo and walked ten steps away from the others. “Who are your friends?”

“You didn’t think you and me were going to hit the Serbians alone? You said you wanted to go in heavy.”

“Firepower. Not people.”

“I got both. So what?”

“The kid is still in diapers. The other one can’t make it up a flight of stairs.”

“You were a punk once, too. A pretty tough one, if I recall.” Jojo returned to the car and opened the trunk. “Besides, give anybody one of these and he’s Superman.”

Simon looked at the pile of Kalashnikov machine guns strewn one over another and at the stack of magazines. He picked up one of the rifles and put it to his shoulder. He rubbed his finger on the trigger guard and lowered his cheek to check the sights—not that anyone had ever sighted a Kalashnikov. With twenty-five bullets spraying a target in three seconds, accuracy was overrated.

“Fair enough.” Simon marched up to the two men and introduced himself. The young one was Salvatore, the fat one Toto. Their accents gave them away as Corsicans and not long off the boat.

“How much?” asked Salvatore, bouncing on his toes. “Jojo said there’s a treasure chest in there. Millions, maybe.”

“Maybe,” said Simon, not sure if the kid’s eyes were dilated or if he was imagining it. It was hard to tell in the dark.

Toto rammed a magazine into the machine gun and chambered a round. “I’ll go in first,” he said. “Clear the place out, let you do your work.”

Simon put his hand on the barrel, forcing it toward the ground. He could smell the booze on Toto’s breath from five steps away. “Slow down. Before we do anything, I need to scout the place.”

“Why?” asked Salvatore. “It’s a house. We bust in the front door. Take care of business. Get the take and leave.”

“That’s the ticket,” said Toto. “Hit ’em hard and fast.”

Simon had forgotten how they’d done things in the old days, when they’d take down a Brink’s truck with ten guys blasting it with their AKs, the police too scared to come within a block. Things hadn’t changed.

“Steal money from a thief and no one goes to the police,” he said with as much calm as he could muster. “Kill a thief and the police will get involved. Ideally, we surprise them, get the money, and get out.”

“Right,” said Toto, clearly not buying it.

“They’re not just going to give us the money,” said Salvatore. “Why take chances? You think they have guns like ours?”

Simon was in a bad place. A cokehead and a drunk. The hits were coming fast and furious. “Get in the car,” he said, holding the door open. “I’ll be back in ten. Jojo: no one moves a muscle. Clear?”

“Sure thing,” said Jojo, offering a smile by way of consent, his white teeth gleaming against his too tan face. “You’re the boss.”

  

Simon walked down the hill, slowing every few steps to allow the pain in his back to dissipate. The street view on his phone’s map showed the house on Rue Chaussée to be two stories with a tile roof and a steep brick driveway leading to an attached garage. Some steps led to the front door. Google Earth offered a bird’s-eye view and revealed a tight backyard with a pool and a shed set against the house. The city’s sprawling botanical garden abutted the property to the rear, and its exotic species had broken out of their boundaries and encroached on the yard. Simon saw the shed as a means of helping him break into an upstairs window…assuming the pictures were still accurate.

As he walked, his mind returned to his confrontation with Radek. Seeing the mechanics of the operation from the inside had given him a clearer perspective on the overall plan. Again, he saw it as two operations. One involving theft from the casino, the other taking control of the von Tiefen und Tassis fortune. It wasn’t a stretch to understand how an organized criminal like Ratka might come up with a plan to cheat at baccarat on a large scale. But how did he come to the idea that he could steal a German aristocrat’s family wealth? A man like Ratka didn’t mix with the likes of Vika. The two were oil and water. Someone had to have told him about her and her family. But telling wasn’t enough. That someone had given Ratka explicit instructions not to pay off his soldiers so that they could put the winnings to better use. Not only that, but he’d convinced Ratka to trust him with the money. No small feat.

And then?

Confounded by his inability to connect the dots, Simon did his best to deconstruct all he knew about Ratka’s activities. He saw three distinct events. First came the cheating operation at the casino. Radek had blurted that after tonight the game was over. Ratka had all he needed. Toby Stonewood had stated that the casino had already lost two hundred million euros, and he’d said they were down even more in the last few days.

The second event involved gaining access to Vika’s family fortune. Here Simon came to a roadblock. Should someone kill Vika and her entire family, the money would pass to the next relative…a cousin, a nephew, whoever. When twelve billion dollars was in play, you could count on plenty of people popping out of the woodwork.

Which left extortion of some kind…a plan to force Vika to sign over her assets. That didn’t jibe either. Wouldn’t it have been easier to put pressure on the old woman? Why had they killed Stefanie, and what had they been looking for in the apartment?

Simon kept coming back to the same issue: Why did Ratka need two hundred million euros and change to get his hands on Vika’s fortune?

One person knew the answer…and he or she was the one calling the shots.

It always came back to Vika. It had to be someone close to her. Simon felt the answer floating just beyond his fingertips. He was close…oh so close.

Simon put away the problem as he reached the corner and looked up the Rue Chaussée. There were no cars in any direction. The only noise was the gentle rush of the wind and the swaying of the trees. Living in London, he had forgotten that elsewhere most people were safely tucked into bed by midnight.

Not seeing any approaching headlamps, Simon jogged up the hill. He stopped twenty meters from the house, ducking into the driveway of a neighboring villa. Alone among its neighbors, the drop house appeared lived-in and awake. Lights glowed from windows on all floors. Two cars were parked in the driveway. A Mercedes and a Renault. As Simon watched, the front door opened. A man left the building and descended the steps. He went to the second car, the Renault, climbed in, and drove away.

Simon used the sound of its departing motor to cover his approach. Instead of taking the steps, he navigated his way up a cut of earth beside the garage, all vines and loose dirt, arriving at the rear of the villa. He imagined the layout of the home to be similar to that of others from its era. A kitchen to the rear of the ground floor, the dining room adjoining, with a door leading to the yard. The storm shutters on the ground floor were closed. He crept closer. Through a crack in the wood, he observed two men seated at a table. One wore a shoulder holster with the butt of his weapon visible. Where there’s money, there’s muscle. Simon tried the back door. Locked.

He backed up a few steps. A window on the second floor was open and he caught the scent of tobacco. Voices carried on the still air. A heated conversation in a language he did not speak.

Simon checked his watch, thinking about Jojo and his friends waiting for him in the car. Salvatore worried him the most. Simon had been gone just seven minutes, but seven minutes felt like seventy when you were coked up. Simon recalled the reckless ambition fueled by alcohol, drugs, and mostly youth itself. Salvatore wouldn’t wait in that car forever. Jojo wouldn’t either, despite his promises. Simon guessed it had been a rough summer for the boys in Marseille. Jojo and his friends could smell the feeding trough.

Ten steps took him to the shed. The second-floor window was above and to the left. It made sense that the counting room was upstairs in the most secure room in the house. He extended his arms to the shed’s roof and he recoiled in agony. His hands could go no higher than his head. Stubbornly, he tried again. The pain was worse still and he vowed to take revenge on Ratka.

A drainpipe ran up the side of the house. A firm tug established its sturdiness as fair to middling. Tonight those odds sounded good. Simon wedged a foot between the building and the pipe and managed to work his way to the top. An arm’s length separated him from the open window. He could hear the conversation as if he were in the room himself.

Two men were engaged in a frank exchange of views. They were speaking Serbian, but Simon would have known one of them if he were speaking Chinese.

Ratka.

Simon listened, trying to catch a word here or there. He was vaguely aware of an engine approaching, tires complaining as brakes were applied too firmly. He was perched too precariously to give it much thought. He held his phone in one hand, arm extended, hoping it would record the conversation.

A door in the house slammed and the men stopped speaking. A chair slid across the floor. The door closed again, this time more quietly.

Simon leaned closer to the open window. He was just able to make out a faint reflection in the glass of two persons facing each other.

“What are you doing here?” said Ratka.

The answer was delivered in a crusty stentorian voice made softer by a plummy English accent.

“You fucked up,” said Lord Toby Stonewood. “Simon Riske is alive.”

*****

Riske is dead. We took him to my house. My men killed him. I was there.”

“You saw it? With your own eyes?”

Ratka regarded the tall Englishman standing in his house, challenging him, all but accusing him of making the mistake himself. One day, he told himself. But after. Only after. “I left before to go to the casino and pick up the money. Our money. Why are you telling me this?”

“Riske called Victoria at the hotel not long ago. I don’t know what happened, but your men failed to carry out my instructions.”

“Wait.” Ratka turned his back to the Englishman and telephoned first Tommy and then Pavel. Neither answered. He’d suspected something was wrong for the past hour or so. Earlier, he’d received a call from the team at the Sporting Club saying that Radek was acting strange and had disappeared before they’d finished for the evening. Radek hadn’t answered his phone either.

“I’ll find him,” said Ratka. “I’ll kill him. And with my own hands.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Toby. “He can’t hurt us. I’ve found it.”

“The ring? She gave it to you?”

“You scared her sufficiently. But tell me this: Why did you go to her apartment? That was bloody stupid of you.”

Ratka stared at the Englishman, despising his notions of right and wrong. There was only strong and weak. He offered no reply.

Toby Stonewood moved toward the desk, turning the monitor toward himself. “How much are we up tonight?”

“Sixteen million,” said Ratka.

“That’s four short. I told you we need twenty.”

“Still two hours to go. Relax.”

“We can’t be a penny shy. The law is the law. You can’t cheat the taxman.” Stonewood sat down and unbuttoned his blazer. “Get me a drink, will you? A bloody big one.”

“Maybe you’ve had enough tonight already.”

The Englishman fixed him with a liverish gaze. “I’m not asking.”

“Yeah, sure.” Ratka went downstairs to the kitchen. In a cabinet, he found a bottle left over from the Englishman’s last visit. He held it up to the light. It was half full. Short visit. He put a few cubes of ice in a glass and filled it to the top. Then he spit in it.

His phone rang as he climbed the stairs. Le Juste.

“What do you want?” said Ratka.

“Do you know that your house has burned down?”

Ratka stopped, putting a hand to the wall. “Burned down? How? I was there two hours ago. What are you talking about?”

“It appears to be arson. Several gasoline cans were found nearby.”

The shock of the news robbed Ratka of words. He thought of Tommy and Pavel, at a loss to imagine how they’d failed so horribly. And what about Radek and his brother? Where had they gotten to? Was that Riske, too? Maybe Stonewood was right about him having been a criminal.

“Two men were found inside,” Le Juste continued. “They did not die of burns or smoke inhalation. Both were shot in the head. They have been identified as Pavel Katic and Thomas Pupin. They’re your men, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“There’s more. A prosecutor has been assigned to your case.”

“Already?”

“Already.”

A fire…the police…a prosecutor—it was all moving too fast for him to get his head around.

Ratka ran a hand across the back of his neck, angered at his men’s incompetence. “Do something, dammit.”

“It’s out of my hands.”

“How is that possible? You are the chief of the criminal division. You’re responsible for arson and homicide.”

“No one cares about the fire, or the dead men. They’re more interested to know what you had hidden inside your house. The pompiers couldn’t get close to it because of all the explosives going off. One man was injured by an exploding grenade. Another was hit by shrapnel and may lose a leg. This is now officially a terrorist investigation. The national police have taken over.”

“Terrorism?”

“Apparently, there was enough matériel to bring down an entire city. Bullets, grenades, RPGs. Every man on the force is looking for you. I suggest you go back to Serbia at once.”

Ratka hung up the phone. He was getting out of the country, all right. But he was not headed to Serbia. Not yet. He drew a breath to gain a measure of calm. He decided it was better not to say anything to the Englishman. The less he knew the better.

Ratka returned to the counting room and delivered the drink.

“Took your bloody time.” Stonewood drank down half the glass as if it were water.

“You’re welcome.” Ratka checked the computer. “Another two million came in. I told you not to worry.”

“Get all the cash and checks you have in this place together.”

“Now?”

“This minute,” said Stonewood. “Have your men bring me the rest later.”

Ratka opened the safe and stuffed the evening’s take into a leather satchel. The Englishman finished his drink and rose. “You can get her now.”

“At the hotel?”

“Here’s the key to her room. Go in the back way. I’ve warned off security. Keep an eye out for Riske. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s there. He has a thing for my stepdaughter. If he’s fucking her, shoot him in the balls. And Ratka, you can knock her around a little—she deserves it. But try anything else and it’s you who’ll get the bullet.”

Ratka stepped closer to Stonewood. Enough of this arrogant talk. Maybe it was he who needed to be knocked around a little.

“Well?” said Stonewood.

There came a shout from downstairs. A door banged against a wall. Automatic weapons fire exploded inside the house.

“What the hell is that?” Stonewood had gone pale as a ghost.

“It’s a machine gun. What do you think?”

Ratka’s first thought was The police: somehow, they’d discovered he was renting the home on Rue Chaussée from an absentee Frenchman. He shoved Stonewood against the wall and drew his pistol. Then he remembered that his name wasn’t on the rental agreement. The barrage continued. So loud that his brain shook inside his skull. A man screamed. Paintings crashed to the floor. Glass shattered. Ratka recognized the sound of the weapons. Not the police at all. No cop had ever fired a Kalashnikov on duty.

“Stay here,” he said, rushing into the hall.

Ratka looked over the railing. Two of his men were down. A fat man he’d never seen was reloading his machine gun and having difficulty doing so. Ratka shot him in the chest. He dropped like a pauper on the gallows. Ratka shot him again.

The second shooter was younger, with shiny dark hair. Seeing Ratka, he spun and fired, the weapon on full automatic. The bullets carved an arc in the ceiling above Ratka’s head. Kalashnikovs kicked high and to the right. You had to aim at the left knee of the man you wanted to kill. The machine gun ran out of ammunition. The shooter was quick to drop his magazine and replace it with a fresh one. Not quick enough. Descending the staircase, Ratka shot him three times. The man dropped his weapon but stubbornly remained standing.

Once on the ground floor, Ratka approached him with caution. He was young, not even twenty. Ratka looked around the room. There was no sign of Riske.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“For the money, asshole. Why do you think?”

“And who told you?”

The shooter’s lips parted in a defiant smile. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth.

Ratka put the pistol to his eye and fired.

Just then, a man ran out the front door. Ratka spun, caught a flash of white and gray, and took cover against the wall, expecting the man to turn and open fire. When nothing came, Ratka checked the rest of the ground floor. Two of his men were wounded but not dead.

“Come down!” he shouted to Stonewood. “Bring the money and the computer.”

“Is it safe?” asked the Englishman.

“Now! I’m not asking.”

Ratka knew that they needed to move fast. The gunfire had been loud enough to be heard all the way in Italy. If the police were already on alert, they’d have extra patrols on duty. It would be a matter of minutes before they arrived. Ratka frisked the fat man and found his wallet. His driver’s license gave his name as Theodore Randisi of Ajaccio. Ratka rolled up the man’s sleeve and saw the anchor and skeleton tattoo. La Brise de Mer.

Fucking Corsicans.

Ratka dropped the man’s arm to the floor. The dead man grunted. A gob of blood flew out of his mouth and into the air. Ratka jumped to his feet. He fired two shots into the man’s chest. He’d had enough surprises for one night.

Toby Stonewood stood at the bottom of the stairs, eyes wide.

“What?” said Ratka. “You’ve never seen a dead guy before? Get the fuck out of here. Now. I’ll find you later.”

Stonewood didn’t answer. He hurried past Ratka and out the front door.

Ratka returned to his wounded men. He knelt by each and made the sign of the cross over them. There was no question what had to be done. The men knew too much. It was that simple. Serbs gave no quarter and asked for none in return.

He shot each man in the head.

Then he left.

*****

At the sound of automatic weapons fire, Simon slid down the drainpipe to the ground. He’d been right to worry about Jojo and his friends. As his feet touched the lawn, bullets from inside the house tore apart the shutters, spraying him with wood splinters and glass. He dropped and hugged the earth, a hand freeing the pistol from the hem of his pants. His eyes found the back door. There was no way he was going to put himself in front of Salvatore and Toto and who knew how many of Ratka’s men. Only a fool ran into a shoot-out.

The harsh rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire ceased. Simon got to a knee only to hear the higher-pitched crack of a pistol. He dared a glance through the ruined shutters, saw no one, then ran around the side of the house. There was no time to think, only to act. He stopped at the front corner. He ventured a look and saw Toby Stonewood, satchel in hand, climbing into a white Bentley parked close behind the Mercedes.

Lord Toby. He was the connection. He’d called Vika his stepdaughter. Simon recalled seeing a headline about Princess Stefanie remarrying, but he hadn’t looked further. He’d been more interested in Vika. By then she was making her own impressive headlines. Simon rued his oversight. If only he’d looked closer. It was all right there. The day before, Vika had referred to her stepfather as “Bismarck.” Simon hadn’t thought anything more of it.

He took aim at the Bentley. If he put a few rounds into the engine block, maybe he could stop Toby from getting away. The sights drifted up a notch. He closed an eye and drew a bead on the man behind the wheel. Or maybe he could stop him altogether? Before he could fire, a bullet struck the wall above his head. A spray of cement stunned him. He saw Ratka emerging from the house’s front door, a laptop computer clutched to his side.

The Bentley reversed down the driveway much too quickly, sparks flying as the rear bottomed out onto the road. The car continued in reverse down the Rue Chaussée, demolishing a mailbox and running over a trash can.

Simon poked his head around the corner of the house. Ratka raised his pistol and pulled the trigger, but his pistol was out of ammunition.

“Stop,” said Simon, moving into the open, pistol aimed at Ratka’s chest. He had every right to shoot. Here was the man who’d killed Vincent Morehead and beaten Elena Mancini, who’d attacked Vika with the intention of raping her, who’d stolen millions from the casino, and who’d, if in fact he was a war criminal, killed untold others. But Simon didn’t pull the trigger. He wasn’t an executioner.

“Don’t move,” he said.

“Fuck you.” Ratka ran down the steps. Simon slid down the cut of earth and crossed the driveway to the foot of the steps, blocking the Serb’s path.

“Stay right there or I’ll shoot you.”

Ratka backed away. “What do you want, anyway? First you are with the princess, now you are here? Who the fuck are you?”

Simon said nothing. He wanted to ask Ratka a dozen questions. How had he met Toby? Whose idea was it to rob the casino? What was the two hundred million for? And what had Toby meant when he said they couldn’t “cheat the taxman”? All that would have to wait. Right now, he needed proof.

“The computer,” said Simon. “Give it to me.”

Ratka held it closer. “Did you burn down my house, too?”

“Hand me the computer.”

“You want the computer? You have to shoot Ratka.”

Simon slipped the pistol into the back of his pants and stepped toward him.

Ratka frowned. “You think you can just take it?”

Simon threw a jab. The Serb was slow to react and the blow landed on his jaw. His head snapped back, but the punch had little power. Simon could barely extend his arm. The punch cost him more than Ratka.

Ratka tossed the computer onto the ground and threw Simon against the car, slugging him in the gut, following with an uppercut. Simon parried the blow, just, and Ratka’s fist glanced his jaw. He grasped Ratka’s wrist, and with his free hand applied an arm bar, locking the Serb’s elbow. He spun to his left, forcing the taller, heavier man to bend at the waist, then kneed him in the torso. Ratka fell to the ground. To maintain his hold, Simon had to step forward. With perfect timing, Ratka thrust an open palm upward, squarely catching the underside of Simon’s jaw. Teeth gnashed. A molar cracked. Simon saw stars. Dazed, he fell against the car. His pistol clattered to the ground, landing under the chassis.

Ratka leapt to his feet and tossed Simon aside, crouching to pick up the gun. Simon stumbled but didn’t fall. Catching himself, he regained his balance as Ratka’s fingers closed around the weapon. The Serb stood, bringing the gun to bear. Simon spun and delivered a roundhouse kick, connecting flush with his cheek. Ratka’s head caromed off the roof of the car. The pistol flew from his hand. He took a step toward Simon, eyes glazed, and said, “You!” His knees gave out and he fell forward. Simon moved aside to let his face meet the driveway.

Barely had Simon recovered when an approaching automobile drew his attention. Headlights appeared at the bottom of the street. In seconds, the car raced up the driveway. Doors opened. Three men stepped out. Even in the dark, Simon recognized them as the cheats from the Sporting Club. They looked at him. He looked at them. Simon’s eyes flitted from the pistol to the computer. The pistol was closer.

He dove for the gun and fired a shot over their head, scuttling to his right in hopes of grabbing the laptop. One of the men fired back and Simon felt the bullet cut the air beside his cheek. The men fanned out, the leader keeping up his fire as Simon ducked behind the car, the garage at his back. He was trapped. He couldn’t go down the drive. He couldn’t run up the steps into the house. His only hope was to make a run for the hillside and hope the foliage and vegetation would be enough to give him cover.

He gave a last glance at the laptop and swore under his breath. A bullet struck the garage door. He darted into the bushes, staying low, knocking aside branches and danglers blocking his path. After a while, he stopped. He crouched, ear to the wind, listening. No one pursued him. He heard voices and crept back toward the house until he was able to make out the silhouettes of the men.

The three were lifting Ratka to his feet and helping him to their car. A moment later, the car backed up and drove away.

  

Toby was gone. Ratka was gone. The laptop was gone. And the satchel was gone.

Simon entered the house. Salvatore and Toto lay on the floor of the living room. Two of Ratka’s men were nearby. There was no sign of Jojo, and Simon figured he’d been the first one out once things had gone south. It was a messy scene. Simon hoped he never had to look at another dead man in his life. He ran upstairs but found nothing besides some clothing, empty beer bottles, and a power cable for the laptop.

There was a man at the bottom of the driveway when Simon came out of the house. Several others stood behind him, a few holding flashlights. Simon guessed they were neighbors and he noted that lights in windows up and down the street burned brightly. The poor people probably thought World War III had just been fought in front of their homes.

“Bouge pas!” the man shouted. Don’t move. Simon saw that he held a rifle in his hand, probably a shotgun.

Simon raised his hand in greeting. “Allo,” he said. “I’m a friend.”

The man leveled his shotgun at him. So much for the honest approach. At the same time, Simon heard a siren. Check that: sirens, plural. The cavalry was coming.

Unable to see an alternate course of action, he climbed into the one remaining car. It was a Mercedes-Benz, brand-new, meaning it relied on electronic ignition. There was no hope of hot-wiring it. It was Ratka’s car, the one with the Serbian plates captured on the pharmacy’s surveillance camera as it left the Château Perigord.

Simon put his foot on the brake and hit the starter button. The engine roared to life. He opened the center console. The key fob lay inside. The only person who didn’t worry about his car being boosted was a crook.

Simon slipped the car into reverse and backed down the driveway at speed. The crowd scattered and he sent as many sparks flying as Toby had as the chassis scraped the road. Like Toby, Simon reversed all the way to the bottom of the Rue Chaussée, head turned, looking over his shoulder, half out of his seat, doing his best to stay in the center of the road. The neighborhood had sustained enough collateral damage for one night. As he swung onto the Rue Pierre, a broader two-lane street, a dozen blue lights flickered in his rearview. He shifted into drive, only to see another column of police cars barreling toward him.

The lead cop car braked and turned at an angle, blocking the right lane. The car following it cut off the left lane. There was no sidewalk, no median, no shoulder where he might run the gauntlet. Simon slammed the car into reverse. The police blocked his egress in that direction, too.

Simon knew he should stop, step out of the car with his hands held above his head, and turn himself in. He would be taken to the station and thrown into a cell. In due course, he’d be interrogated. He would have a chance to tell his side of the story, to inform the authorities of the reason for his coming to Monaco, and to explain the events of the past few days.

In time, charges would be brought against him. France was governed by the Code Civil, a watered-down descendant of the Napoleonic Code. Habeas corpus, his right to be promptly charged and released, belonged to the other legal system. If luck was on his side, he’d be released in a week. More likely, he’d be looking at the inside of a cell for a month.

Or longer.

There were four dead bodies inside that house. Two more at Ratka’s. Simon had fired a pistol. Gunpowder residue was all over his hands. Someone would discover his police record. Twenty years earlier, he’d been convicted of felony armed robbery and attempted murder of a police officer. He’d served four years. An ambitious prosecutor didn’t need more than that to see him convicted of murder.

All this he played over in an instant.

“You can get her now,” Toby had said to Ratka.

“Her”—meaning Vika.

Giving up was out.

Simon spun the wheel left and drove the Mercedes back up the Rue Chaussée. He tried to remember where the street led, if it might take him to the Moyenne Corniche, where at least he’d have a fighting chance of eluding the police. In his mind’s eye, he saw the map and a windy road leading up, up, up, eventually coming to a dead end. There was always the chance that he was mistaken.

He punched the gas. The car shot forward, the torque shoving him into his seat. He neared Ratka’s house, horn blaring to warn the neighborhood watch committee. Blue lights sparkled in his rearview mirror. A check of his sideview dampened his hopes. A police cruiser nipped at his tail.

Simon made the sharp left-hand turn, the driveway to the drop house passing to his right. The band of neighbors had failed to heed the horn’s warning. Headlamps illuminated a half-dozen persons standing in the road, frozen immobile like rabbits on a midnight moor. The man with the shotgun stood resolutely in the center of the street. Simon hit his brights. There was a flash of orange. He ducked, the car veering left as a rain of pellets struck the hood and peppered the windscreen. When Simon returned his eyes to the road, he saw an old woman and a young child square in his path. He threw both feet onto the brake pedal. Tires howled. The car stopped on a dime. His seat belt locked, the restraint nearly crushing his sternum.

The police car following him had no time to react. It struck the Mercedes with ferocious force. Airbags deployed. The Mercedes spun ninety degrees. When the airbags deflated, Simon saw that he’d come to a halt only feet from the woman and child. He was done driving. A shadow appeared to his left. He turned his head. A pane of glass separated him from the barrel of a shotgun.

Simon didn’t have time to close his eyes.

The gun fired.

*****

It was called the Chesa Madrun, and it had been built 130 years earlier as the mountain retreat of the ill-fated Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria. Set high in an isolated valley among the towns of Pontresina, Samedan, and Zuoz in the Swiss canton of Engadine, the Chesa Madrun had begun life as a modest hunting lodge comprising four rooms: a great room, a kitchen, a communal sleeping area, and a curing room for air-drying meats.

Since then, the chalet had changed hands numerous times. Upon Franz Ferdinand’s assassination in June of 1914, the chalet passed to his brother, who was forced to give it up four years later, when Austria surrendered to the Western alliance and the Hapsburg dynasty fell from power. The next owner was a friend to the Hapsburgs, an Italian, the Count Melzi d’Eril, who kept the lodge until another European conflict robbed his family of its fortune. Melzi sold it in 1946 to a Frenchman, Le Vicomte de Foucault, who, it was discovered, was neither French nor a viscount but a Russian swindler, Serge Stokovsky. The affair ended with Melzi d’Eril dead by suicide and the Russian imprisoned. The Chesa Madrun was put up for auction and purchased in 1948 by a Luxembourg-based lumber concern controlled by a German businessman with a taste for discretion named August Wilhelm Brandenburg von Tiefen und Tassis.

With each new owner, the chalet grew in various and odd ways, so that what had started as a spartan lodge meant to rekindle the values of manliness, modesty, and self-sufficiency ended up a fifteen-thousand-square-foot pleasure palace with ten bedrooms, an Olympic-sized indoor swimming pool, and an authentic German kegelbahn alley.

As each renovation, remodel, and addition was designed by a different architect and overseen by a different contractor, it was to be expected that the Chesa Madrun ended up with a few hidden hallways, stairways to nowhere, and bonus rooms that served no purpose other than to give the children who lived there an exquisite territory for playing hide-and-seek.

The last addition was built in 1963, at the height of the Cold War. In keeping with a new federal law, a fallout shelter, or luftschutzbunker, was constructed to safeguard the chalet’s residents in case of nuclear attack. As the fallout shelter took up too much space to sit empty, and the risk of nuclear annihilation was on the decline, the room had recently been put to different use. It currently housed the chalet’s auxiliary water and power plants, a gasoline-powered generator, and an industrial boiler, all necessary in the event that water and power were cut off due to an avalanche, storm, or other unforeseen occurrence.

All this raced through Robby’s mind as he lay on his side, trying to keep from falling asleep. He was no longer being held in his bedroom. Elisabeth had taken him to the library instead. It was a cavernous room, his least favorite in the entire house, the ceiling two stories high, shelves and more shelves lining the walls, every inch taken up by books and more books. The only thing he liked at all was the ladder that reached to the very top shelf and ran on a track so that nothing was out of reach. Otherwise, there was a large desk with an old-fashioned reading lamp, several leather chairs, and a giant antique globe set on a spindle. The entire place smelled like a wet blanket.

Most important, though, Robby figured, was what wasn’t there: windows. There was no way out except through the door.

At least that’s what Elisabeth thought.

Elisabeth was evil. Robby hated her more than any person he’d ever come across. When they’d gotten back to the house, she’d made him take off his jacket and shirt and had whipped him with her fat leather belt. First, she whipped him for Viktor, who’d been hit on the head by the rocks that Robby had kicked loose. After, she whipped him for George, who had had to leave because his nose was broken and he needed stitches for the gash on his forehead. Robby didn’t feel bad for either of them. They deserved it. Robby hadn’t known that anger could make punishment less painful. Every time Elisabeth had landed the belt on his bare back, he’d sworn that he was going to escape and that he was going to hurt her. He wasn’t sure if he could kill her, but he wasn’t sure he couldn’t either. He only knew that he wished she were dead.

As Robby’s eyes closed and he fell asleep, he was thinking of one thing and one thing only. Escaping.

There were other ways to get out of the house. Lots of them.

And Robby knew every last one.

*****