Private Monaco

Chapter 1

Life hadn’t been this easy for a long time.

Justine and I had lingered over breakfast at the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo. Our suite there was an extravagance for this leg of our European tour. It was opulent, bordering on decadent, but exactly the luxurious retreat we needed.

I had kept my promise to bring her back to Europe for a vacation. In the past two weeks, I hadn’t regretted for a moment the commitment I’d made earlier in the year, when we’d been investigating the murder of Father Ignacio Brambilla, the priest who was shot dead at the launch of Private Rome. We’d spent days battling the forces of evil on the streets of the Eternal City, exposing a conspiracy that extended from a deadly criminal gang known as the Dark Fates as far as the ancient corridors of power in the Vatican itself. We’d discovered the Dark Fates were the street, verging on paramilitary, arm of a secret society known as Propaganda Tre, which had infiltrated almost every part of Italian society. We’d uncovered a conspiracy to seize power in the Vatican, and the conspirators, including Milan Verde, leader of the Dark Fates, had been imprisoned.

As accustomed as I was to the challenges of running the world’s biggest private detective agency, I had to admit I was enjoying the languid pace of our first proper vacation in a very long time. Late breakfasts, endless lunches, sights, beaches and award-winning dinners and shows had replaced crime-scene photos, fights and chases, and given me and Justine the time and space we needed to enjoy each other’s company.

She looked amazing today in a lightweight green summer dress. The bright sunshine picked up the highlights in her brown hair and made her eyes sparkle. She’d caught the sun during the weekend we’d spent on the beach in Antibes, and seemed relaxed and revitalized.

We crossed Avenue des Citronniers and headed for a row of two-story buildings constructed in the French Empire style, with ornate colonnaded façades. They evoked past grandeur but were dwarfed by the contemporary apartment blocks surrounding them.

This was our only work appointment of the entire trip and was one of the reasons we’d come to Monaco. Philippe Duval, Monaco’s former Minister of the Interior, had reached out via Eli Carver, the US Secretary of Defense and a man I now considered a friend, to see if I’d be interested in establishing a Private office in Monaco with him. I’d done my homework and Duval had impeccable credentials. He’d had a reputation for being a tough but fair minister and a track record of meeting threats head on. He was exactly the sort of partner I liked to work with, and I appreciated Carver’s introduction.

With Monaco’s wealthy population and connections to France, Italy, Spain and North Africa, this location was an interesting proposition, and the timing of our trip meant I could also take Justine to the Monaco Grand Prix. I hoped a couple of days attending one of the world’s most iconic motor races would make up for this work meeting intruding on our vacation.

Duval’s office was above the storefront of an independent financial advisor in one of the most impressive buildings overlooking the tree-lined avenue. Monaco was a hub for the super-rich. A tiny principality on France’s southern border, it had taken a bite out of the French Mediterranean coastline and, in addition to the premium beachfront, offered both high-end gambling and wealth protection, which was the polite term for tax avoidance.

“It’s a beautiful part of the world,” Justine remarked as we neared Duval’s building. “I could cope with coming here once or twice a year.”

“I bet you could,” I replied, taking her hand. “So could I.”

I stopped and pulled her in for a kiss.

“I wish we could have stayed longer in bed,” she whispered as we parted.

I was tempted to suggest we skip the meeting and return to the hotel, but I never got the chance to utter the words.

There was the roar of an engine, the squeal of tires, and a white van screeched to a halt beside us. The rear doors opened and three men in ski masks jumped out and ran toward us, brandishing pistols.

“Get in the van!” the tallest of the trio yelled, waving his gun at me.

Justine caught my eye and nodded.

Neither of us had any intention of complying.