Private Monaco

Chapter 16

I’d asked Duval to meet me at the Automobile Club headquarters, located on Boulevard Albert 1er, a block down from the swimming stadium where the large prefabricated race center and stands had been constructed. The iconic six-story headquarters was a mix of classical and contemporary architecture, with Neo-classical columns and façades rising from a marble and glass floor. The place was the hub of the pre-race activity that stretched citywide as preparations intensified in the run-up to the weekend.

I had guessed I wouldn’t get access to the people I needed to talk to, not on the busiest week of the year, and not without help from someone well connected. In this respect, Duval didn’t disappoint.

“I managed to secure ten minutes with Miriam Lambert, the head of personnel,” he said as we met outside the entrance.

“Thanks,” I replied, following him inside.

Anyone who has watched coverage of the Monaco Grand Prix will be familiar with this striking building, and the interior didn’t disappoint. It was opulent and full of luxurious touches that accentuated the celebration of motorsport history. There was a restaurant and club facilities for members of the exclusive association, founded in 1890. Rich in marble, leather, gilt and fine art, it was a wonderful environment with every comfort provided, from the inviting deep couches to the tables set with the finest crystal and porcelain. There was a museum next door, a chronicle of the history of the club and the race, and paintings and photos of automobiles adorned every wall of the Club.

“One of the jewels of Monaco,” Duval said, as we walked through the building. “Ah, Miriam.”

He made a beeline for a woman dressed in a pair of gray linen slacks and a cream blouse. She had wavy chestnut hair and a smile like a 1980s soap star: almost perfect except for the faintest glimmer of insincerity in her eyes. She said something in French to the two suited and booted men with her and stepped toward Duval.

“Philippe, it’s been a long time. How are Christelle and the children?”

“Very well,” Duval replied. “This is my associate, Jack Morgan. His partner, Justine Smith, is the woman who was abducted yesterday.”

Miriam gasped and gave me an apologetic look.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Morgan.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “We’d like to ask you about this man.”

I produced a copy of the photo we’d obtained from the Hôtel Athos. Mo-bot had established the passport was false. The real passport had belonged to a man who had died five years ago.

Miriam studied the image and shook her head slowly.

“I’ve never seen him,” she said. “Or if I have, I don’t recall. Why do you think he has something to do with the club?”

“We found one of your keycards in his hotel room,” I replied.

There didn’t seem to be any point in concealing the truth.

“I see. Come with me.”

She led us outside and we walked a short distance down the street to a staging area near the race center. A group of riggers were being briefed by a man who wore a high-visibility vest over his black suit jacket. He had the air of someone who was carrying the world on his shoulders. After a minute or so, he dismissed the rigging team and Miriam led us toward him, saying, “Marc Leroy is our operations director. Marc,” she called to him.

He turned and tried to conceal his preoccupation beneath a forced smile.

“Miriam,” he replied, walking over.

He looked to be about forty-five, with a neatly groomed black beard and wearing a suit that was tailored to his athletic frame. He nodded to Duval, who responded in kind with a familiar if not particularly warm greeting.

“Marc supports the opposition,” Duval remarked. “We’re consorting with my political enemy.”

“Monaco is too small to have real enemies,” Marc scoffed. “What can I do for you?”

“This gentleman is a friend of Philippe’s. He wants to know about someone who may work for the race,” Miriam explained.

“We think he could be connected to the Automobile Club in some way,” I replied, holding out the photo of the biker. “He was involved in the kidnapping yesterday.”

“Mr...” Marc began.

“Morgan.”

“Mr. Morgan, we employ hundreds of riggers and marshals for the race,” he went on. “And I make sure I meet them all.”

“Marc is very thorough,” Miriam put in.

I was grateful the world was blessed with people like this man. Those with a natural attention to detail, whose work ethic meant exceptional wasn’t just a dream but, on their watch, became a reality.

“He is one of our marshals,” Leroy said decisively. “We hire them a few weeks before the event to help with crowd control during the race and qualifying day. I can’t recall his name, but we will have his records on file.”

I suspected we’d find the same fake passport used as ID, and a fraudulent address and employment history, but it was a real lead.

“Would a marshal have access to secure areas?” I asked, producing the keycard.

“Not legitimately,” he replied. “May I?”

I gave him the card.

“Can you help us understand why this card would be in his possession?” Duval asked.

“Of course, Minister,” Leroy replied.

I detected a hint of sarcasm in his tone. These two really were political adversaries, and despite what Marc had said, experience told me rivalries ran deep in a small place like Monaco.

“I can find out who this keycard belonged to, what it opens, and arrange for you to access this man’s personnel records,” Marc told us.

“Thank you,” I replied, wondering why a violent thug would have gone to the trouble of securing a job at one of the world’s most famous motor races.