Private monaco, p.21
Private Monaco, page 21
“Me?” Justine said in disbelief. “Why would I warn you about an attack I was a part of?”
“That’s something we’ll have to find out,” Wilson responded.
“You’re the one who’s behind this,” Justine said. “You’ve been helping Roman Verde.”
“I knew she’d do this,” Wilson said with an exasperated sigh. “She’s trying to make the people in this room distrust one another. Which is why she needs to be placed under arrest and taken away from here. She’s the outsider. She doesn’t belong. And she’s dangerous. Get her out!”
Obviously tired of talking, he stepped forward and grabbed Justine’s wrist, which was still sore from being manhandled by Greg. She wasn’t about to allow herself to be assaulted by a man she suspected had betrayed his country and employer, and who had likely played a role in her own abduction and the attempted murder of her and her friends.
She slipped his grasp and slapped him hard.
He staggered back for a moment, but when his shock evaporated, he lunged for her, swinging his fists.
Justine ducked and dodged his wild punches, and Greg stepped in and responded to the attack with a right cross that caught the smaller man on the nose and knocked him on his backside.
“What the hell is happening?” Carver asked.
Henry Wilson wiped his bleeding nose gingerly and tried to stand, but Greg pushed him back down.
“Stay there,” he said, before turning to Justine. “You wanted to look at his arm. Which one?”
“No!” Wilson protested. “You can’t do this.”
“Both,” Justine replied.
He tried to resist as Greg came at him.
“Pete, can you get hold of this guy?” Greg asked, and one of his colleagues stepped forward, squatted and put Wilson into a chokehold.
“It’ll be easier on you if you cooperate,” Greg said. “But you don’t have to be conscious for this.”
Henry Wilson stopped struggling while Greg ripped open his shirt and pulled his jacket off to expose his bare upper arms.
There, tattooed on the inside of Henry’s upper right arm, where the skin was at its softest and most sensitive, was the fleur-de-lys inside the Jerusalem Cross, the mark of Propaganda Tre.
CHAPTER 85
“IT’S JUST A tattoo,” Wilson said.
“I know exactly what it is,” Carver responded coldly.
His aide’s indignation and anger melted away to be replaced by shame. He started shaking and seemed to shrink as he cowered on the floor of the store.
“Why, Henry?” Carver asked, gesturing at the tattoo. “What’s going on?”
He didn’t answer. Tears filled his eyes. He looked like a child caught out in a lie, and Justine’s experience told her the shame he felt was for his exposure, not his wrongdoing. Criminals who repented rarely did so immediately, and this kind of reaction was grounded in self-pity and a sense of humiliation rather than genuine contrition.
“I can answer your questions, Mr. Secretary, but right now I need your help,” she said. “Jack’s trying to find someone, and he believes they were in communication with this number.” She held out her phone and showed him details of the most recent call. “I need you to run a trace as fast as you can.”
Carver nodded. “Do it,” he said to the man called Pete, who’d had his arms around Wilson’s neck.
Pete approached Justine and took a photograph of the number displayed on her phone screen.
“Thanks,” she said. He remained impassive.
With the air of someone who rarely smiled, he stepped into the far corner of the room and typed a message into his phone.
Justine turned to Carver. “Jack suspected they were going to use him to target you because he could get close. They gave him a 3-D printed resin gun and bullets to circumvent security. The other shooter was meant to be a backup, but he became their primary after I escaped, didn’t he?”
Her question was directed at Wilson, who didn’t respond.
“But this was a contingent trip. It would only take place if the summit ended early. And it wasn’t known outside your immediate circle, which is why we suspected someone was working against you, feeding information to Philip Duval, who was sending it on to Propaganda Tre. I never expected that person to be a member of the group too.”
Carver looked as though he’d been punched. “Is this true, Henry?”
He couldn’t even bring himself to look at the man he’d betrayed.
“I bet an investigation will find he has a secret phone he used to send coded messages giving information on your movements to another phone in Duval’s possession.”
Wilson’s expression of shame seemed to intensify.
“Your friend and colleague set you up, Mr. Secretary,” Justine said, noting Carver’s pained expression. “The only thing I don’t know is why.”
“They didn’t tell me,” Wilson responded, finally breaking his silence. His eagerness to talk suggested to Justine he was lying. “I’m low down in the organization.”
Carver’s face hardened. It was one thing to hear Justine’s explanation and speculation, quite another to hear a confession. The Secret Service detail closed around the disgraced aide and Justine could feel their anger. She guessed they weren’t just enraged by the betrayal of their principal, but also by the fact the aide had put them in the line of fire.
“I don’t think he’s telling the truth,” Justine said. “I think he’s lying and that he knows why you were targeted, Eli.”
Wilson scowled at her.
“I want him taken into custody,” Carver said. “I want him on the next plane home, and I want him to be given special VIP treatment. And when he’s told us everything he knows, I want him to stand trial.”
Carver pushed his way through the gathered Secret Service agents and stood over Wilson.
“I’m going to make you regret you were ever born.”
Pete looked up from his phone. “We have a hit, sir. The number Ms. Smith gave us was used to call a phone in Monaco. I’ll have a location in a few seconds.”
CHAPTER 86
WE WAITED IMPATIENTLY. I sat at the stern with the outboard motor idling, while Stamp was in the bow of the RIB, holding the line loosely looped around a cleat to keep it connected to the Sunset Prince.
I could feel the determination radiating off him, as though sheer force of will would bring him the location of his wife. I sympathized. That had been me a few days ago, when I’d been frantic and would have done anything to get Justine back. I doubted I could have sat as patiently as Stamp was doing now and could only admire the man’s external stoicism in the face of what I knew was inner turmoil.
I regretted Michel’s death and that of the other guy I’d kicked down the stairs into the galley. It turned out he wasn’t unconscious; the fall had broken his neck, killing him instantly. This meant there was no chance of extracting Angie’s location from either man, and instead of facing justice for their crimes, both had experienced quick and relatively painless deaths, which felt too much like an escape.
My phone rang and I saw Justine’s number on screen.
“Jack, it’s me. We’ve got a location. It’s a villa on the coast in the Cap d’Ail and it belongs to Raymond Chalmont.”
We must have disrupted their plans quite considerably for them to be using an address so clearly connected to one of their principals. Or perhaps it was simply arrogance on their part. Maybe Chalmont believed himself above the law in Monaco?
“I’m sending you a map pin,” Justine said. “It will give you the exact location. Do you want me to notify the police?”
“Yes. Call Chevalier and ask her to bring a tactical unit and meet us there.”
“Jack …” Justine began.
“I know,” I said. “Be careful.”
“No,” she responded. “I was going to ask you to make sure these guys don’t escape. I want them to get what they deserve. For me. For Sci. For Mo.”
“You have my word,” I told her.
“We’re about to move to a more secure location,” she said. “I’ve got to go. I love you.”
“Love you too,” I replied, before hanging up.
I checked my phone and saw Justine had sent me a map pin for a location a couple miles south-west of our current position.
“We’ve got it,” I said to Stamp. “Let’s go.”
He pulled in the line and I backed us away from the yacht.
When we were clear, I twisted the throttle and the RIB gathered speed. The bow rose and the boat bounced against the waves as we raced through wind and spray, engine humming, speeding toward the cruel, twisted men who held Angie Stamp.
CHAPTER 87
THE BOAT WAS fast. We crossed the bay in minutes and made it round the headland to the south-west, leaving the cacophony and turmoil of the race behind us. The waters beyond the headland were quiet, and high above us on the rock bluffs that rose from the sea stood magnificent villas and apartment buildings. A few had pontoons with little sailing dinghies and motorboats bobbing alongside them on the warm, crystal-clear water. It was a paradise on earth and I wondered why a man who had so much would gamble it all. Why would an establishment figure like Raymond Chalmont associate with men like Roman Verde and give his house over to them? Greed? Fear? Or belief? Based on what we knew of Propaganda Tre, I guessed belief, the organization’s emphasis on far-right ideology and supposedly traditional values that were just a thin veneer for hate. But I wouldn’t know for certain until I investigated the man.
Roman Verde was easier to understand. A hardened criminal once motivated by greed, now driven by revenge and whatever corrupting agenda Propaganda Tre had twisted him and his men to believe. I hadn’t thought much about my own beliefs since leaving Rome, and in truth had been afraid to probe them. I’d met good and bad in the Vatican and had left the city resolved to continue with my own way of making the world a better place. It might not involve the dogma and observances of the Church, but I was on the frontline, waging a battle against evil every single day.
I was doing it now, facing down these men, taking Stamp to find and save his wife. He had stayed at the bow, spotting, while I piloted us toward the marker Justine had sent. The spray and fresh air felt good against my face. In any other circumstances, this would have been a beautiful trip, but instead it was darkened by the fact we were trying to outrun death and reach Angie before Roman executed her for Stamp’s failure to complete his mission.
I checked my phone. We were close now. The run of pontoons ended and the hilltops turned wild for a while as we traveled westward. There were no obvious signs of habitation.
“Ahead,” Stamp said, pointing to a lone pontoon that extended into the water like a solitary finger. “Slow down.”
I did as he suggested and could see why. There were two men patrolling the pontoon, tiny figures in black combat trousers and T-shirts, each holding a sub machine gun.
With the engine cut, the RIB soon drifted to a complete stop. Stamp knelt and positioned the rifle against his shoulder. It would be a challenging shot.
“Wind is coming from the west. About fifteen knots,” I told him.
He nodded his thanks and calibrated his sight. There was no gyroscope here, so he would have to compensate for the waves by moving his body and timing his shots perfectly.
The men seemed to be looking our way, but at this distance they couldn’t possibly know who we were, and without field glasses or telescopic sights they wouldn’t be able to see the rifle and scope. To them we were probably a couple of fishermen poaching their waters.
I willed Stamp to take the shot nonetheless, because there was a risk one of them would catch reflected glare off the scope or be sufficiently eagle-eyed to register his sniper stance.
He held his breath and squeezed the trigger.
The man to the right, closest to the beach, bucked, his head snapping back suddenly. He fell to the ground. His comrade to the left, further out to sea, registered the shot, looked at his dead companion and started running.
Stamp tracked him as he ran along the pontoon toward the shore and fired three shots in quick succession. The third struck him in his right leg and sent him tumbling into the water. As he thrashed, trying to make it to the short, sandy beach, Stamp shot him again, striking him in the back of the neck and killing him instantly.
“Good shooting,” I said without emotion.
Stamp grunted, and I turned the throttle and steered us toward the pontoon.
My stomach tightened as I felt a rush of adrenalin flood my body. I’d learned fear was an ally. It was not to be suppressed or fought; it was to be channeled. The most effective warriors used it to heighten their senses; they let it flow around them like electricity, giving them power, an edge over their enemies. Outwardly calm, they mastered their fear to their advantage, and I did so now.
When we reached the pontoon, Stamp jumped out and tied the line to a cleat. He left his rifle in the RIB and grabbed the sub machine gun and spare ammunition from the first man he’d shot.
I was content with Michel’s pistol.
“Ready?” I asked.
Stamp nodded and we ran toward the beach.
CHAPTER 88
OUR FOOTSTEPS HAMMERED a rapid beat across the wooden planks and fell silent when we reached the soft sand. The beach was set in a small cove, with high cliffs enclosing the golden crescent on three sides. We hurried north toward a set of roughly hewn stone steps that curved round the cliffside and led up to the summit.
We moved in single file, me first and Stamp following a few paces behind with his sub machine gun raised and ready for action. We left the beach behind us and climbed the steps, creeping to minimize noise. The stairs became more finely crafted as we neared the top and were set with a decorative inlay. I peered over the last one and saw a path that wound through ornamental woodland. It led to a large lawn, beyond which lay a swimming pool, and behind that a large, beautiful Mediterranean villa. This was the kind of home most people could only dream of, and I wondered why it wasn’t enough for Raymond Chalmont.
I caught movement to our right and saw one of Roman’s men, dressed in black, smoking a vape and kicking the ground absently as he looked at the house. He was about twenty paces away and had his back to us.
I signaled Stamp to wait. He nodded and I climbed the final few steps and crept across the tufty grass at the top of the cliff. The man in black heard me moving toward him and turned. After a moment’s shock he reached for a pistol tucked into his waistband, and I rushed him as he tried to pull it on me. He managed to get the gun out, but before he could bring it up, I hit him with my gun, catching him across the temple. The blow knocked him down and he fell still.
Stamp came up behind me and kicked the unconscious man in the ribs. I understood his anger, even if I didn’t agree with his action.
We moved on through the trees. Sunshine danced between the gently rustling branches. This would have been a beautiful spot for a family picnic, but instead of using his resources for good, Chalmont had diverted them and made this a place of evil.
We reached the end of the wood and peered across the lawn to the house. There was a circular turret to one side of the building that gave the rooms that overlooked the sea almost 360-degree views.
“Lots of open ground,” Stamp remarked, nodding at the rolling lawn.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I’ll go first. You cover me.”
He nodded, and I took a deep breath and started across the grass.
There was no point trying to be stealthy. I was exposed and vulnerable, in the full glare of the sun, and needed to change that as quickly as possible. My heart thundered as I sprinted across the lawn. Fear heightened my senses. I looked around, alert to danger. I was about halfway between the trees and the house when I saw another black-clad gunman rush through French doors at the back and use his sub machine gun to start spraying the garden around me with bullets. The air crackled as the turf ahead of my feet was churned and shredded by bullets. The gunman moved rapidly across the terrace toward the pool house, for some cover and to get a better angle of fire on me.
I shot at him and Stamp joined the effort, lighting up the area around the pool house with heavy fire, forcing the shooter to take cover behind the small structure.
I sprinted over the final stretch of grass, ran up a grand staircase, and crouched on the patio beside the pool, taking cover behind a stone balustrade, aiming my pistol so I was ready when the man broke cover.
Suddenly aware of movement behind me, I turned and fired instinctively, hitting another gunman who’d emerged from the bushes on the far side of the swimming pool.
Stamp signaled to me from the treeline, indicating he was going to make a run for it. I knew he was trying to lure the man behind the pool house out from his protected position. I nodded, and he ran across the lawn, legs hammering at full speed.
The gunman behind the pool house broke cover to target Stamp. I trained my gun on the man and pulled the trigger twice. I shot him in the chest and he collapsed against the pool house wall and slid to the ground, his eyes glassy and lifeless.
Stamp joined me by the pool.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded and we set off around the swimming pool, toward the house.
CHAPTER 89
THERE WERE STEPS up to another terrace that was furnished with a large table, chairs, sofas, recliners and a wet bar. I imagined the parties that could have been held in such a place. Had Chalmont schmoozed Monégasque high society here? Had he used his power and influence to further the aims of his criminal accomplices? Despite the sun-kissed beauty of the place, I couldn’t help but feel it was rotten to the core.
Beyond the broad terrace were some French doors. They stood wide open and led into a lavish kitchen.
As we headed there, the top of the exterior dining table beside us erupted, splintering as bullets hit it. Stamp and I took cover behind a patio sofa, and I peered round it to see a gunman in a second-floor window, inside the circular turret. He opened fire again, shredding the sofa near me, sending fabric and shards of wood everywhere. The noise was deafening and set my ears ringing, and I knew our flimsy cover wouldn’t hold against such an assault for long.
