Crown Jewel Page 8

  Suddenly, the man looked directly at Simon, catching him in flagrante, staring right back at him. Simon smiled awkwardly, but it was too little, too late. Without delay, the balding man pushed his chips to the dealer, who issued him a marker to take to the cage for payment. It was a jarring decision. He left the table seconds later.

  Simon had no idea what the man had been doing, but he’d been doing something. He didn’t know if the man thought he was a floor boss or security, but there could be no doubt that Simon’s presence had rattled him. He waited until the man was out of sight and followed. The main hall was a swirl of activity. Simon stopped at the head of the stairs, surveying the scene. He spotted his man leaving the cashier’s cage and heading in the direction of the front door.

  Simon studied his purposeful gait, his hunched shoulders, his air of anxious flight. He decided to follow the man. He had no reason, other than that the man had won six hands in a row and Simon had come all this way to find the individuals who were stealing from the casino. True, he had not picked up any electronic signal indicating the presence of a camera, but anyone who wins six hands in a row is guilty of something, even if it’s just being too damned lucky.

  There was another reason. He was no surveillance expert—a “pavement artist,” in the words of a favorite author. Given the crowds out and about, it might be a safe time to practice.

  With a renewed sense of purpose, Simon hurried down the stairs and across the main hall, halting outside the front door. The Place du Casino was in full swing. A line of cars leading all the way up the hill made their slow circuit. It was a pleasant evening. There wasn’t a table to be had at the Café de Paris. Simon looked to his left and spotted the man. He was dodging past several couples, arms linked and taking up the sidewalk. The man was headed down the incline to the port.

  Simon slipped his hands into his pockets and followed, sure to keep a safe distance. Keeping the same driven pace, the man continued to the bottom of the incline, not once looking behind him. He crossed the Boulevard Albert 1er and walked along the port, presenting himself at one of the guarded entries. He showed a badge and passed through the gate. Simon jogged ahead but lost the man as he disappeared into the canyons of giant ships.

  He pulled up, deciding he’d done as well as could be expected. It was doubtful the man belonged to any gambling ring. Why would anyone who owned a boat worth tens of millions need to cheat? On the other hand, Simon couldn’t ignore the small voice inside him telling him that he’d been witness to wrongdoing.

  It was after eleven. He yawned, feeling the events of the past few days catching up with him. It would be wise to log some rack time. The attractions of the city could wait. He set off back up the hill, looking forward to slipping his feet between the sheets and picking up his book, the latest Philip Kerr novel set in World War II Berlin, and simply relaxing.

  Then he saw her and all thoughts of bed, book, and slumber vanished.

  Chapter 16

  Simon followed her, telling himself it was for no other reason than that he was also going to the hotel. His natural stride was longer, and in due course, he passed her, offering a nod, no more. A gentleman didn’t force himself on a woman, even conversationally.

  He looked at the port, lit by row after row of fairy lights strung across the docks with impeccable care. He recalled reading that all yachts less than two hundred feet in length had been banished to a port down the coast for the duration of the show. The smallest yacht moored was 250 feet, the biggest too big for any private individual. He made an approximate count of the vessels and decided that the fair value would come to something close to six billion dollars.

  “Here you are again. The valet thief.”

  Simon looked over his shoulder. It was her. “I only steal from those who can afford it,” he said. “Or deserve it.”

  “A regular Robin Hood.”

  “I’d prefer John Robie.”

  “‘The Cat.’”

  “You know him,” said Simon, pleased.

  “Of course I do. But you’re not quite that handsome.”

  “Who is?”

  “And I hope you’re not after my jewels!” She laughed and he slowed so she could catch up. “Do you have one of the big ones?” she asked, looking down at the port and the boats.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Some are so enormous. I really can’t imagine.”

  “You don’t like the big ones?” Simon asked.

  “I prefer a more moderate size. Something manageable.”

  “But not too small?”

  “Of course not,” she said as if her pride were insulted. “But with a wide beam. For comfort.”

  “Width is important. The bigger ones are harder to maneuver, anyway.”

  “Not for a skilled captain.”

  “No?”

  She shook her head. “Not one that knows his vessel. They welcome the challenge.”

  “Ah,” said Simon. “It’s boats we’re talking about.”

  “What did you think—” The woman broke off midsentence. She put her hands on her hips and gave Simon an appropriate scowl. “You are quite the devil.”

  “I had a long day.”

  “I had a longer day, believe me. And English is my fourth language. It wasn’t fair.”

  “In that case, I apologize.”

  “Accepted.” They came to the top of the incline. A broad plaza offered pedestrians a promontory for looking over the port and across to the palace. “Well, it is nice to end the day with a laugh, isn’t it, Mr. Riske?”

  “You remembered.”

  “I did,” she said.

  A soft breeze was blowing off the sea, feathering the woman’s hair, scattering strands across her face.

  “Shall we start over?” said Simon.

  The woman stepped closer, close enough that he could see the flecks of amber in her eyes and the white-blond hairs in her eyebrows and linger in the delicate wash of her perfume. “Why not?”

  “Simon Riske.”

  “Victoria Brandt.” She offered a hand and gave a firm shake. “My friends call me Vika.”

  “Vika,” said Simon. Vee-ka. “That’s unique.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Time for a nightcap?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Herbal tea?”

  “Do I look like a woman who drinks herbal tea?”

  The answer was final, but she did not seem in a hurry to go.

  “Shall we go back, then?” he suggested.

  Victoria Brandt—Vika to her friends—nodded. They walked side by side without speaking. Once inside the hotel, Simon summoned the elevator, and when it arrived he allowed her to take it alone. “Good night, Ms. Brandt.”

  “Good night, Mr. Riske.”

  Chapter 17

  Simon rose at dawn. He threw on his athletic gear and took a run down the hill past the port, the array of giant yachts distracting him from his exertions until he reached the far side. From there it was an uphill slog to the Palais des Princes. He made a circuit of the grand square and then called it quits. Five kilometers was enough for any reasonable human being. He rewarded his discipline with a warm chocolate croissant and an espresso at a café overlooking Port Hercule. The weather was holding nicely, the sea air crisp and invigorating. According to his weather app, the first chance of rain wasn’t until Saturday, the day of the rally. It figured.

  He walked back to the hotel, wandering onto the docks, not to admire the boats but to size up security measures. A tall white mesh fence ran the length of the port. He counted five entrances, each manned by guards. If there were real police in the vicinity, Simon didn’t see them. The gates were left open, the atmosphere one of relaxed, convivial authority. Everyone was among friends here. The flow of men and women in and out of the docks was constant. Crew, technicians, repairmen, press, and of course the owners of the yachts, their family and friends.

 
He wondered which boat belonged to the unremarkable bland man with the remarkable run of luck. One thing was for certain: the boats were neither bland nor unremarkable. Something about this observation rankled him, no matter how random it might be. The man didn’t go with the boats—any of them.

  The bells of the cathedral tolled eight o’clock. He had an hour before the rally briefing was set to begin. The location was the Sporting Club at the eastern end of the principality. He’d have to hurry to make it on time. Still, he made no move to return to the hotel.

  Simon jogged across the street and entered a storefront selling nautical supplies. He purchased a cap with the name of a prominent shipbuilder on it and a flashy navy and white windbreaker. On his way back to the dock, he stopped at a kiosk to buy a coffee.

  “Large.”

  He poured out half and replaced it with milk. He had no intention of burning anyone.

  Cup in hand, wearing his new purchases, Simon moved to the nearest entrance. Several young men dressed in pressed khaki shorts and white short-sleeved shirts—ship’s crew—were passing through the gate. All wore their entry badges on lanyards around their necks. Simon aimed for the shortest in the group. Head down, he collided with the man’s shoulder, spilling his coffee onto the man’s shorts.

  “Pardon,” exclaimed Simon, playing up his Gallic roots, arms waving. “Désolé.”

  “Crap,” said the sailor, retreating while brushing the liquid off his shorts.

  Simon remained uncomfortably close to him, making ineffectual gestures to help clean up the mess.

  The sailor’s friends erupted into laughter. They were Australian and immediately set about ribbing their unlucky shipmate, calling him a “bloody blind donkey” and making other comments about him wetting his pants, or worse, while assuring Simon that it was their friend’s fault, not his.

  After a minute, Simon parted company with the group. The first rule of pickpocketing was to put as much distance as possible between you and the mark with the shortest possible delay.

  Tucking the sailor’s badge into his pocket, he headed to the opposite end of the port, skirting the public swimming pool before stopping to check that the Aussie crew wasn’t following him. Satisfied that he’d pulled off the theft, he put the badge around his neck, picture facing his chest. He continued to the security checkpoint at the western end of the port, flashing his badge and giving a thumbs-up, not for a moment slowing. The guards waved him past without a second look.

  Inside the fence, he made a sharp left and essentially retraced his steps. There was the usual dockside traffic. Crew members on errands to get hold of one part or another. Mechanics driving ATVs loaded with pumps, valves, driveshafts, and propellers. The air smelled strongly of diesel fuel cut with salt and bacon. Representatives from firms maintaining booths at the show hurried to their appointments and stood in tight knots, conversing with ship captains. Simon fit right in.

  He reached the eastern end of the port and turned right at the first dock extending into the harbor. It was his aim to follow the path taken by the balding man the night before. The yachts were moored cheek by jowl, fantail facing the dock. The megayachts—three hundred feet and up—were moored farthest out, hugging the contours of the port. Those a class smaller had spots in the center of the harbor. Simon came to a dock extending to his left and slowed. It was here he’d last seen the balding man. He put his phone to his ear, feigning conversation as he studied the boats moored nearby. Five yachts shared this section of the dock. Pulling his cap a shade lower, Simon walked past them. The Alexis out of Hamburg, the Magnum Opus out of Porto Cervo, the Golden Crown out of Piraeus, the Czarina out of Nassau. Not a modest name among them. Then again, there was nothing modest about a three-deck motor yacht measuring the length of a football field. The Magnum Opus boasted a landing pad with a black Bell Jet Ranger tied down and ready for service. The Golden Crown carried four Jet Skis on its rear deck. Simon preferred the Czarina’s vintage Riva motorboat with its lacquered wooden hull, shiny as the day it was made, hanging from davits on the afterdeck. But nowhere did he see anyone resembling his friend from the casino.

  Simon came to the end of the dock. The last boat was named the Lady S, out of Biarritz, the only one with a navy-blue hull. A gangway was lowered from the aft sundeck to the dock. He saw no one on deck or inside the cabin. He zipped up his jacket, put down his coffee. Sitting on the dock across from him was a coil of rope with a small pump, most likely broken, set atop it. He picked up the pump, examining it to see if there were any visible flaws. He saw none.

  With confidence, he walked up the gangway onto the boat. The glass doors to the salon stood open. It was a large room, leather couches running along each side, a polished wooden table in its center, plush white carpeting. An enormous flat-screen television took up the far wall. Closer, a young woman clad in a T-shirt and shorts, hair a mess, face puffy, lay on a chaise longue, engrossed in the mysteries of her phone. She glanced up at Simon, then returned her attention to the phone.

  “Where’s the captain?” he asked first in French, then in English. The woman shrugged, not giving him another look.

  So much for security.

  Simon advanced to the back of the salon. Stairs led down to the guest quarters and the engine room. Belowdecks was off-limits for a ship’s chandler delivering a pump. Another set of stairs led up to the second level. He climbed them to the dining room. The table wasn’t set for breakfast. Sales brochures, a photograph of the Lady S on the cover, were strewn over the surface. He picked one up and turned it over to see the name of the broker and the price. Eighty million euros, knocked down from one hundred twenty.

  “Can I help you?” The ship’s captain addressed Simon from a sliding door leading to the deck. He was tall and bronzed and wore his uniform well.

  Simon held up the pump. “From the chandlery. Your replacement bilge pump.”

  “Wrong boat.”

  “This is the Lady S.”

  “We didn’t order a new pump. Our bilge pump is ten times that size. That’s for a sailboat.”

  Simon held his ground. “You’re certain? I was told the Lady S.”

  “Boat show,” said the captain, shaking his head. He was Italian, though his French was near perfect. “Everything is a mess. Can’t wait till it’s over. Good luck with that.”

  “Thank you. Nice boat. Who’s the owner?”

  “It’s on the account. But if you’re looking for work, you’re on the wrong vessel. We haven’t put to sea in a month. Owner can’t afford the fuel. I hope he’s paying your bills, because he isn’t paying my salary.”

  Simon left the boat, dropping the pump where he’d found it. He might not know the owner’s name, but he’d learned plenty more. Under his arm, he held one of the sales brochures. Amazing the things people will tell you if only you keep your mouth closed.

  Chapter 18

  A group of thirty men milled around the auditorium on the second floor of the Sporting Club. Most were over forty and there wasn’t a woman in sight. A slim formal gentleman in a blazer and gray trousers moved to the lectern and introduced himself as André Solier, president of the Monaco Rally Club. He spent fifteen minutes giving a history of the club before reading off the names of the drivers participating in Saturday’s race and the automobiles they would be competing in. Each man in turn raised a hand and offered a hello. Simon recognized two of the drivers as clients whose vehicles he’d restored, though neither was driving a Ferrari on this occasion.

  “And a last-minute entrant, Simon Riske, of London, England, racing in a nineteen seventy-two Ferrari Daytona.”

  Simon kept his gaze straight ahead as all eyes turned to him. So much for keeping a low profile.

  “This is Mr. Riske’s first time racing with us. Let’s be sure to offer him our warmest welcome.”

  The president of the Rally Club went on to discuss the details of the event: arrival time, prerace judging, and the order of start. Simon drew place fifteen, squarely in the midd
le. The rally was a time trial. The cars were far too valuable to race head-to-head.

  The lights dimmed and a map of the course appeared on the screen. Solier spent an hour going over the circuit. He pointed out three areas of concern. The first was a hairpin turn just past the town of La Turbie that fed immediately into another sharp turn—“a real dipsy doo,” according to Solier. “Slow down. This is not the place to gain time.” The second was a steep descent at the fifteen-kilometer mark that ended with a ninety-degree right-hand turn. “Do not test your brakes,” Solier warned. The last area of concern was a section he called the “camel’s back,” a series of subtle dips and rises where excessive speed would cause the vehicle to catch air. “And if you do, perhaps our new friend, Mr. Riske, will have the pleasure of repairing your vehicle.”

  The course measured thirty kilometers, or eighteen miles. Drivers made three circuits. Prizes were awarded for the fastest time overall, the fastest single circuit, and the fastest short course, a section of the circuit where drivers could let it all hang out. Each winner received a gold cup and an invitation to a private cocktail party with Prince Albert of Monaco, the club’s patron.

  “I look forward to seeing you all at the Dîner de Gala on Thursday night,” said Solier in closing.

  There was a smattering of applause as the lights came up. Simon gathered the folder he’d been given and headed for the exit.

  “Riske, isn’t it?” A slim, rugged man intercepted him at the door.

  “Hello.”

  “Dov Dragan. I chair the racing committee. Have a moment?”

  “Of course.”