Private Monaco

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.”