Private monaco, p.4
Private Monaco, page 4
I showered and dressed, choosing the lightweight blue suit and white shirt I’d bought in Rome.
I walked across the city, taking in the early-morning sea breeze, the cawing of the gulls, the building traffic and all the pre-race activity.
The Grand Prix was organized by the Automobile Club of Monaco, which had staged the event so many times it was now a well-oiled operation. The city became a giant racecourse every May, and to make that happen there were rigging teams and cranes everywhere, preparing barriers, stands, pedestrian walkways and other crowd-control measures. The prefabricated buildings and elevated bridge tunnels had been installed weeks previously, bringing a contemporary touch to the waterfront and other spots around the city.
I avoided the Fairmont Hairpin and approached Avenue des Citronniers from the east. I didn’t want to revisit the scene of yesterday’s struggle, though couldn’t help but spy it from a distance as I neared Philippe Duval’s building. There was a team of people setting up race barriers, hoardings and stands at the bend, making it almost unrecognizable as the place Justine had been taken the previous day. I tried to suppress the memory of seeing her being hauled into the van, but couldn’t shake off the desperation I’d felt when she was taken from me. I hoped she was okay.
I hurried along the broad sidewalk, past the boutiques, the sweet-smelling flowerbeds, and a cafe that filled the air with the scent of coffee and fresh pastries.
Duval’s office was accessed through a colonnaded entrance at the end of the terrace. I stepped through the baby-blue double doors, presented myself to the security guard who sat behind a plywood desk in a cramped lobby, and was directed to the second floor.
A broad marble staircase doubled back on itself to take me to the upper story, and I found Duval’s suite marked by a sign on the second door to the left. I could see an expansive reception area through the part-glazed door, and a woman in her late thirties sitting at a large desk.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” she said, when I entered.
“I’m here to meet Philippe Duval,” I replied.
“One moment,” she said, before disappearing into another part of the office hidden from view behind a partition.
The reception area was bright thanks to the large windows overlooking the street. I could see trees in the park opposite, their branches swaying lazily in the breeze.
“Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” Duval greeted me when he appeared from behind the partition moments later.
He approached and shook my hand enthusiastically. Mo-bot’s team had declared him clean as a whistle, with no question marks over his integrity, and none of our European offices could find so much as a whisper of criminality or corruption. He was a vanilla former minister from a tiny wealthy principality who was figuring out what to do after a lifetime in state politics.
“Any news?” he asked, but before I could answer my phone rang.
“Excuse me,” I said, glancing at the screen and seeing Mo-bot’s name. “I have to take this.”
“Of course,” he said, and I stepped away to answer the call.
“Sci and I just arrived in Paris. I’ve got a location from the phone you took from the biker,” Mo-bot said without so much as a hello. “It’s a hotel in a place called Menton, just along the coast from Monte Carlo.”
“You’re a genius,” I replied.
“I’m in the mood for compliments,” she said. “It’s been a long day. Let me know what you find.”
“Will do,” I assured her, before hanging up. I turned to Duval. “Do you have a car?”
CHAPTER 13
MONACO WAS WELL known as a wealthy city state, but the roads still needed to be cleaned, hotels staffed, utilities provided and the wheels of society kept running. The wealthy residents weren’t going to waste their time on such menial tasks, so they drew their workforce from less affluent neighborhoods across the invisible border with France.
Known for its pastel-colored medieval buildings, Menton was a few miles from Monte Carlo. Away from the beaches and gardens, the bell tower and museums, back toward the northern reaches of the town where the sea breeze was rarely felt and fewer tourists ventured, there were post-war apartment blocks and social housing that spoke of poverty.
The Hôtel Athos was a two-star dive located in one of these poorer neighborhoods. Duval’s classic black Mercedes G-Wagen looked completely out of place when he parked it a short way down the street from the hotel, at the end of a line of rusted, dented and tired old automobiles that couldn’t have cost more than a couple thousand each.
Duval didn’t speak much during the drive, focused on getting us to the address as quickly as possible. But as we left the car, he said, “You know, the law obliges me to inform my former colleagues at the Monaco police of anything relevant to an ongoing criminal investigation.”
I tensed, very aware I was walking alongside a former government minister.
“However, if I do, there will be administrative delays notifying the French authorities, and anyone who knows anything about kidnapping realizes time is of the essence. So we will pretend you didn’t tell me why we came here and that I thought you were looking up an old friend.”
I smiled. “Thank you.”
“With pleasure. I can’t imagine what I would do if my wife or children were taken from me.”
I looked at Duval with new eyes and saw a loving father, a human being trying to do his best.
“How old are your kids?” I asked as we neared the entrance to the hotel.
“Ten and twelve. Monique and Charles. They are terrors,” he said. “Amazing terrors whom I love with all my heart.”
I smiled, touched by his sentiment.
The metal canopy outside the Athos was rusting and letters were missing from the hotel’s name. One of the double doors had been boarded up, making it look like the kind of place that rented out misery and bedbugs by the hour. Inside, the lobby did nothing to counter that impression. The floor tiles were cracked and filthy. Two leather couches were brittle and worn through to the hessian webbing, and the walls were grimy.
A large man in a straining white shirt and limp black tie stood in a reception kiosk. He took a sip from a large mug as we approached, and foamy liquid collected on his thick mustache and beard. He wiped it off with the back of his hand.
“Bonjour, Messieurs,” he said. “Comment puis-je vous aider?”
“We will speak English for the benefit of my friend,” Duval said, nodding at me.
“Of course,” the receptionist replied.
“We’re looking for a man,” Duval revealed.
“Police?” the receptionist asked nervously.
“Private investigators,” I said. “This man is believed to have been involved in a kidnapping.”
“In Monaco?” The receptionist took another sip of his milky drink and wiped his mouth. “I saw it on the news.”
I nodded.
“Wow,” he said. “We get troublemakers here, but never someone like that. Who are you looking for?”
“Those things work?” I asked, pointing at the surveillance cameras in the corners of the lobby.
He nodded, and minutes later we were in a cramped, messy office behind the kiosk, reviewing footage from the previous morning.
I saw the biker emerge from the solitary elevator just before 7 a.m. He smiled when he was met by a man at the hotel entrance. His confederate kept his back to the cameras and stayed at the very edge of the frame.
“That’s him,” I said.
“Room twenty-one,” the receptionist replied. “On the second floor.”
“Did he come back after this?” I asked, pointing at the man leaving the building.
“I don’t think so,” the receptionist replied. “Not unless he returned when the night shift was on.”
“Can we take a look at the room?” Duval asked.
The receptionist led us upstairs and took us into a musty single room, which contained a bed, rickety wardrobe and cracked bureau.
There was no luggage, litter or any sign that the room had ever been occupied, and the bed was perfectly made.
“Tidy,” Duval observed.
“Or careful,” I suggested. “Someone with something to hide.”
I opened the wardrobe and found a pair of jeans and a shirt hanging inside.
“How did he pay?” I asked.
“Cash.” The receptionist’s reply didn’t surprise me.
“Passport?” Duval asked.
“Spanish ID in the name of Pablo Cortez.”
“We’ll need a copy,” Duval told him. “The police will too.”
The receptionist looked exasperated. I imagined a lot of his clients wouldn’t want cops sniffing around the place, but he had the wisdom not to share any such thought with us. My tolerance for people who took cash and looked away from wrongdoing was extremely low.
I focused instead on searching the room. The bureau and bedside cabinet drawers were empty, but when I got down on my hands and knees and checked under the bed, I saw something flat and gray just beyond the edge of the frame.
A keycard.
It was blank and could have belonged to the biker or a prior guest, but it was all I had, so I feigned a close search under the bed. As I was patting around, I palmed the card and slipped it into my pocket as I stood up.
“Anything?” Duval asked.
I shook my head. “We should notify Monaco police. See if they can identify the guy from his photo or pull anything useful off those clothes.”
CHAPTER 14
THE ANCIENT STONE was already starting to bake, and Justine was sweating as she used a broken chair leg to gouge a gap out the mortar between two of the big stones forming part of the outer wall. She’d chosen a stone roughly the diameter of her shoulders and had moved the table against the wall to obscure what she was doing. The angle of the tabletop to the door meant her work wouldn’t be seen by a guard performing a casual check on her.
And such checks had happened every couple of hours. A masked man would unlock the door, poke his head inside and leave quickly, satisfied all was as it should be. What they didn’t see was the growing mound of mortar dust beneath the table and the deep groove around the stone. She prayed the wall was only a single course thick. The thought of moving even this one stone was daunting, but she pushed that problem from her mind and focused on the task at hand: removing every inch of ancient mortar, one millimeter at a time. She was grateful that age and the long hot summers had made it brittle and relatively easy to erode.
Justine had been working on one spot and had dug about twelve inches deep, creating a sharp, narrow dip in the binding around the stone. She could feel a change in the composition of the mortar as she worked, hunched under the table. She crouched forward and when she’d removed the chair leg from the depression, she peered into it and saw glints of light shining through a thin mesh of mortar. One more push and she’d be on the other side. She now knew how thick the wall was and that she wouldn’t have to dig through another layer of stone, and that lifted her spirits. She started on the mortar immediately next to the deep grove, but her excavation didn’t last long. She heard the sound of the padlock on the other side of the door.
She’d been disturbed in the night and had immediately leaped into bed and pretended to be asleep, but she was drenched in sweat and if they saw her sleeping during the day, they might become suspicious, so she decided on another approach.
She scurried out from beneath the table and strode toward the door. The moment it opened, she said, “I can’t take it in here! It’s like an oven. I need a fan or a cooling unit. Fresh clothes too.”
She stopped when she saw the face of the man who’d stepped into her cell. He was lean, with short black hair and about a week’s stubble. He had piercing eyes that looked devoid of pity, and his scowling face suggested a festering, ever-present rage, but the most concerning thing about him wasn’t his features, it was the fact he wasn’t wearing a mask. She’d seen his face and she knew from experience working abduction cases that being able to identify the perpetrator wasn’t a good thing. Her chances of survival had just dropped. The need to escape was now even more pressing.
“I will see what I can do, Ms. Smith,” the man said, glancing around.
Justine noticed he was carrying a newspaper.
The chair was propped against the wall on the far side of the table. The missing leg would not have been immediately apparent but he was walking closer to it.
“What do I call you?” she asked, trying to distract him.
“Roman,” he replied, casting his eyes over her. “You may call me Roman. We shall get you clothes and washing supplies. The fan may be more challenging, but we will see what we can do. In the meantime, I need something from you.”
“What?” she asked, trying to conceal her anxiety.
“Proof of life,” he replied. He tossed the newspaper at her feet and pulled a phone from his pocket. “Mr. Morgan wants to know you are alive and unharmed.”
Justine’s heart leaped at the mention of Jack’s name. She stooped to pick up the paper, and Roman held the phone in front of him.
“Please send Mr. Morgan a message telling him you are in good health,” he said, before he started to record.
CHAPTER 15
INSPECTOR CHEVALIER ARRIVED at the Hôtel Athos an hour after Duval had made the call. She said that we weren’t permitted to search the room without permission from the French authorities, and that the Police Nationale were obtaining the necessary clearance.
A folded fifty-euro note had convinced the receptionist to play along with the story Duval and I had agreed: that we had never been in the biker’s room. It staved off any bothersome questions about contamination and removal of evidence.
I’d placed the keycard I’d found in my wallet and would claim it was for the Private building in LA if I was searched. Technically, I was interfering with an investigation, but I knew I’d be quicker than the cops and that no one could analyze and trace the card faster than Mo-bot. If I’d left it to the police, the card would still be on the floor of the biker’s hotel room, waiting for a search warrant.
“Are you sure you can’t just go in?” Duval asked the inspector between calls. She seemed to spend most of her time on the phone. “The receptionist is most eager to cooperate.”
We’d learned his name was Guillaume. Hearing Duval speak, he nodded enthusiastically. I think he was keen to let the cops do their stuff then vacate the premises. The assortment of guests who’d shuffled through the lobby didn’t look like people who stayed on the right side of the law.
“And if this is an innocent man? Or the case goes to trial?” Chevalier asked.
She was being very conscientious and thorough, perhaps beyond what was reasonable, I thought, but my experience of the European judicial system was limited.
“You gentlemen can go,” she told us. “I thank you for the lead, but we’ll take it from here. I will have official approval and a forensics team on site before midnight.”
I had to resist the urge to smile wryly. It was currently a little after 1 p.m. She was allowing herself almost twelve hours.
“Thank you, Valerie,” Duval said.
I couldn’t bring myself to respond and joined the former minister outside.
“What now?” he asked.
“Could you take me back to my hotel?” I replied. “Or I can get a cab if it’s out of your way.”
“Nonsense,” he replied. “Monaco is a small place. It is no problem to me at all.”
Forty minutes later, I was walking along the wide corridor to the suite Justine and I had shared. As I approached, I heard music playing through an open door to my left. It was the sort of heavy metal I’d come to associate with one man. I knocked before pushing open the door to see Sci and Mo-bot on their feet, heading toward me.
“It’s good to see you, Jack,” Mo-bot said. She gave me a warm hug. “I’m so sorry. It must have been … I mean it must be … I’m sorry, I just don’t know what to say.”
I stepped back and saw tears in her eyes. It was a rare event that left Mo-bot speechless and tearful, and her emotions moved me. I swallowed the hard lump in my throat.
“It’s okay,” I assured her. “They say she’s well and unharmed. I’m waiting for proof of life.”
Sci shook my hand. “Come in, Jack.” He patted my shoulder as he led me into their suite. “We asked for a room near yours. They gave us this two-bedroom suite. Said it was the last one available. Something about the Grand Prix.”
“Only the biggest and busiest week of the year. You’re lucky they had anything left,” I replied. “You guys got here quickly.”
They had already started transforming their living room into an operations center. Mo-bot had her computer workstations on the dining table and Sci was unpacking surveillance and analytic gear from a collection of large flight cases.
“LAX to Charles de Gaulle,” Mo-bot replied. “Then a connection to Nice. Pretty smooth. You get anything from the Hôtel Athos?”
I nodded and took the keycard from my wallet. Nondescript, gray, with no distinctive markings.
“I found this under the bed in the suspect’s room.”
I produced a color photocopy of the passport he’d presented at the hotel and gave it to Sci. “Passport is in the name of Pablo Cortez. I’m guessing it’s fake, but worth running.”
Sci nodded and went to a laptop on the dining table.
Mo-bot studied the keycard briefly before reaching into a flight case and producing a card-reader, which she connected to her workstation. She inserted the card into the reader. Moments later, a prompt appeared on-screen. Mo-bot typed a series of commands to interrogate the reader.
“Some keycards are anonymized, but law enforcement asks manufacturers to make identifiers where possible,” she explained. “It’s like metadata and can be used to identify people or locations in an emergency. Some manufacturers comply, others …” Her voice trailed away and then resumed with a note of excitement in it. “Automobile Club of Monaco! This card opens something at the Automobile Club.”
