Liberation Day

Chapter 22

My eyes stung more and more and my face got colder, which kept me checking my watch. It was still dark. I retrieved the addresses from their hiding place and moved along the hedge before jumping over, then walked along the road to the entrance, down to the traffic circle, and past the stores and cafés. Everything was still closed; the odd light could be seen behind the blinds of a couple of the smaller boats as they put the kettle on for the first coffee of the day.

I got my washing kit from the car; there was a freshwater shower by the beach on the other side of the parking lot. I washed my hair and gave myself a quick once-over with the toothbrush. I’d spent a third of my adult life out in the field, sleeping rough, but today I couldn’t afford to look like a bum. I wouldn’t last five minutes in Monaco if I did. Also, I couldn’t walk around in swimwear, or go bare-chested anywhere but the beach. No camper vans, either.

A comb through my hair and a brush-down of my jeans and I was ready. I went back to the Mégane and hit the road, with the heater going full blast to dry my hair. Monaco was twentyish minutes away if the traffic was good.

I hit Riviera Radio just in time for the eight o’clock news. The Taliban were fleeing the bombing campaign, Brent crude was down two dollars a barrel, and the day was going to be sunny and warm. And now for a golden oldie from the Doobie Brothers…

I disappeared into a couple of mountain tunnels, the bare rock just a few feet away from me, and as I emerged into the gathering daylight I put my hat back on and made sure the brim was down low for the trip into the principality. The first people I saw were policemen in white-brimmed caps and long blue coats down to their knees, looking like they’d come straight from the set of Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang.

The road was quite congested, with a hodgepodge of license plates. There was a lot of French and Italian traffic, but just as much from the principality, with red-and-white diamond checkered shields on their plates.

As I reached the small traffic circle just a few hundred yards beyond the end of the tunnel, I had to run a gauntlet of motorcycle police parked on either side of the road. Three of them, in knee-length leather boots and dark blue riding pants, were checking cars both in and out of the principality, scrutinizing tax and insurance details on the windshields as their radios babbled off on the BMWs beside them.

The road wound downhill toward the harbor, past three or four CCTV cameras. They were everywhere, the rectangular metal boxes swiveling like robots.

Sunlight was starting to bounce off the clear water in the harbor, making the boats shimmer as I got down to sea level. Some yachts were the size of Carnival cruisers, with helicopters and Range Rovers parked on the deck so that the owners didn’t have to worry about phoning Hertz when they parked.

High on the other side of the harbor was Monte Carlo, where all the casinos, grand hotels, and fat cats’ condos were clustered. That was where I was heading. I followed the road as it skirted the port, and couldn’t help imagining myself as one of those Formula One drivers who raced along this stretch of asphalt each year, made millions, then came and lived here to make sure none of it leaked back into the tax system. Nice work if you can get it.

Monaco hadn’t struck me as a particularly attractive place. It was full of boring, nondescript apartment buildings smothering the grand buildings that had gone up in the days before people wanted to cram into the principality and save some cash. The banks held twenty-five billion dollars on deposit, which wasn’t bad for a population of thirty thousand people. The whole place could fit into New York’s Central Park and still have some grass to spare. Money even washed over into the streets, where public escalators took you up and down the steep cliffs that started less than a hundred yards from the water’s edge. There was no shortage of rich people wanting to live there, and the only way to accommodate them had been upward. On the recce a few days ago, I’d walked past a primary school housed on the second floor of an apartment complex. Its terrace had been extended, and covered over with green felt flooring to create a playing field.

There were just as many little whippety dogs in vests, and poodles with baseball caps here, but there was no need for the Cannes Shuffle. Even the sidewalks were part of the fairy tale.

The harbor fell away as I drove up the hill toward the casino. Opposite me, on the far side of it, was the palace where the Prince and all his gang lived. Flags fluttered from every tower and turret. The architect must have been Walt Disney.

I hit the perfectly manicured lawns of the casino. Even the giant rubber plants around it were protected, cocooned in some kind of wax covering in case of a freak frost. A fairy-tale policeman directed me out of the path of a Ferrari that was being reversed out of the valet parking lot, so some high-roller could drive the quarter-mile or so back to his yacht after gambling the night away.

I turned left, past the Christian Dior and Van Cleef jewelry shops and more protected rubber plants. Across an intersection in front of me was Place du Beaumarchais, a large grassed square with walkways and trees. To my right was the Palais de la Scala, an impressive six-story pile built in the old French style, with pristine cream paintwork and shuttered windows.

I followed the edge of the square, and turned right into an underground parking lot just before the de la Scala entrance, squeezing in next to a sleek, shiny Acura sports car with New Jersey plates. How it had gotten there, I didn’t have a clue; maybe it had been driven off one of the yachts.

Back up at street level I walked across to the shopping mall. The sun was just reaching over the tops of the buildings, and I put on my sunglasses to complement the hat for the short walk under the security cameras.

I pushed my way through the door of the mall with my shoulder, and my nostrils were immediately assaulted by the smell of money and polish. I took off my glasses. Small concession shops lined both sides of the marble corridor, selling champagne and caviar. First stop on the left was the glass entrance to the main post office, its interior as grand as a private bank. The hallway went on for about forty yards, then turned left and disappeared. Just before the corner there was a cluster of tables and chairs outside a café. Large decafs and the Wall Street Journal seemed to be the order of the day. Power-dressed people moved among them with a click of their heels.

Halfway down on the right was a Roman-style marble pillar and door. A sign announced it was the reception area for the offices that made up the five floors above.

I walked toward the café, glancing at a large Plexiglas display that gave details of who owned or rented the office space upstairs. One glance told me they all started with Monaco — the Monaco Financial Services Company, Monaco this, Monaco that. They were all spaced out, showing who was on what floor, but I was walking too fast and my mind was working too slowly to spot who occupied 617.

I continued on past the blur of brass plates. Double glass doors opened into the reception area. An immaculately dressed dark-haired woman operated the desk. A wall-mounted camera swiveled behind her as she spoke on the telephone.

I took a seat at a vacant table at the café looking back toward the reception area. A waiter immediately materialized and I ordered a crème. He wasn’t too impressed with my attempt at French. “Large or small?”

“Large one, and two croissants, please.”

He looked at me as if I’d ordered enough to explode, and disappeared back into the café.

I looked over to my right to see what was around the corner. A very upscale-looking cobbler’s shop sold shiny belts and other leather goods, and a dry-cleaner’s had a row of ballgowns on display. Opposite the cleaner’s was a china plate shop. This part of the hallway was only about fifteen yards long, and ended with another glass door. I could see sunlight reflecting off a car windshield outside.

My order arrived as well-dressed people at other tables finished off their coffee and pastries before work. The loudest voice I could hear, however, was English. A woman in her early forties with big hair was talking to an older companion. They wore enough makeup between them to fill a bomb crater. “Oh, darling, it’s just too awful…I can’t get salopettes long enough for my legs in London. The only place seems to be Sweden, these days. I mean, how ridiculous is that?”

Others talked quietly, almost covertly, into their cell phones, in French, Italian, English, American. All the English speakers used the same words during their conversations: deal, close, and contract. And no matter which nationality was talking, they all ended with “Ciao, ciao.”