Private Monaco

Chapter 12

I hardly slept.

I couldn’t.

Every time I closed my eyes, I was haunted by the events of the day and returned to them over and over, torturing myself with what would have happened if I’d been half a beat faster, a little stronger, more aggressive in my response. There were a hundred ways I could have saved Justine and I hadn’t been able to deliver on a single one. I’d failed, and she was now in the hands of dangerous people who were going to use her to get something from me. Money would be the obvious option, but I’d made a lot of enemies over the years, all of whom had different ideas about their preferred means of retribution.

Instead of sleep, I’d kept the LA team company on a video call and exchanged information and theories with them. Sci and Mo-bot were on a flight to Paris that was scheduled to arrive first thing. They would travel on to Monaco as soon as they landed.

Mo-bot hadn’t been able to pull anything useful from either of the SIM card packets I’d sent her. The phone I’d taken from the motorcyclist was proving hard to crack. Mo-bot believed the men who’d assaulted us and taken Justine had been using proxy servers and encryption that spoofed data sources to stop anyone identifying which cell towers their phones had connected to, preventing us from tracking where the motorcyclist had been. Mo-bot was working on ways around the problem but said it would take time.

The phone the bellhop had delivered had never been used prior to the call I’d received. Mo-bot had traced the device to a consignment stolen from a container that had gone missing soon after leaving the factory in China. It could have been bought on the street anywhere in the world. It hadn’t been switched on until it had been given to me, and when I went to reception to quiz the bellhop on how it had come into his possession, he said the package had been delivered by a DHL courier. Once he’d given me the original plastic bag it had come in, Mo-bot had used the tracking number to learn it had been sent from a drop-off point the previous day. A convenience store in Toulouse, deposited by someone who’d paid cash and given the French Ministry of the Interior as their contact address and phone number, which suggested a dark sense of humor if nothing else.

Mo-bot messaged me from somewhere over the Atlantic. She was working on tracing the incoming call but had encountered the same digital subterfuge.

So, we hadn’t had any breakthroughs yet, but I’d bought us some time by refusing to cooperate with Justine’s captors until I had proof of life.

When morning finally came, and the May sun rose over the city, making everything blush, I forced myself to eat the continental breakfast I’d ordered to my room. Without proper sleep, I’d need to gain energy from somewhere. The last thing I wanted was to let Justine down again by being unable to perform at my best.

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?”