Crown Jewel Read online

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

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

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

  “Did you follow them?”

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

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

  “No, sir.”

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

  “Yes, Ratka.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You will obey me from now on, yes?”

  Tommy nodded, perspiration dripping from his forehead.

  “Now, you may speak.”

  “Yes, Ratka. I will obey you.”

  “Always?”

  “Always.”

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

  Tommy sighed, sensing he had escaped his punishment.

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

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

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

  Pavel really did keep his knife nice and sharp.

  Chapter 24

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Go on.”

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

  “What kind of increase are we talking about?”

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

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

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

  “Stop with the good news.”

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

  “Thank you, Michael.”

  “Dov, you can still reconsider.”

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

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

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

  Dragan was an immigrant himself and no one had ever given his family a shekel. In the aftermath of the Second World War, the Dragans had fled Yugoslavia for the safer and warmer confines of Israel. He had grown up on a kibbutz in the driest corner of the Negev Desert. After his national service and time at university, he’d joined the Mossad, the Israeli foreign intelligence service. I
t was there that he’d spent the next twenty-five years of his life, moving up through the ranks, seeing every dark corner of the Israeli spy apparatus, performing every dirty job, until eventually he became its deputy director for covert operations. Nearing fifty, tired and disillusioned, he’d left his country’s employ, taking with him a top-secret surveillance software program he’d spent years developing. With that software, he’d started Audiax Technologies. Two years later, he’d sold the company for just over one billion dollars.

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

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

  Another phone call, this one from Dragan.

  “Double the teams on duty this evening.”

  “Why?”

  “And double the betting limits.”

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

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

  “Dov, what’s going on?”

  “We’re short.”

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

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

  “How much? How much are we short?”

  “Fifty million.”

  Chapter 25

  At the hotel, Simon accompanied Vika to her room.

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

  “It’s four p.m.”

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

  “I refuse to be a prisoner.”

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

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

  “No,” said Simon, without the smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Which is?”

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

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

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

  “I don’t need you to keep me safe.”

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

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

  “I have plans.”

  “What’s her name?”

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

  “Really?” said Vika, still playing coy.

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

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

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

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

  But murder?

  Murder was a bridge too far.

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

  Going to the police was out.

  So was a nap.

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

  Simon continued reading.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Simon cleared his throat. “Medium well.”

  Somewhere Auguste Escoffier was turning over in his grave.

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

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

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