Private Monaco

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.”

I was familiar with the organization, one of the world’s oldest and most prestigious motoring clubs. It was famed for hosting the Formula One Monaco Grand Prix, the event that currently had the city abuzz.

What would a violent criminal have to do with one of Monaco’s most revered institutions?