Private Monaco

Chapter 33

No amount of persuasion would convince Justine, Mo-bot and Sci to let me go to Duval’s office alone. I’d pointed out the possibility that Justine’s abductors were using him as bait to take one of us hostage, or that Roman was laying a trap to kill me and the others, but it didn’t matter what I said, my friends insisted on facing the danger with me.

That’s how the four of us ended up in a Renault traveling east to the Avenue des Citronniers. We sat in silence, each with our own thoughts. Justine and I were still in the clothes we’d worn during our escape from Roman, and we must have looked a motley bunch to our taxi driver, a middle-aged man I guessed was originally from Morocco because of the national flag air freshener that hung from the rear-view mirror. He was too polite, professional, or had simply seen too much, to comment on his disheveled passengers.

It took twenty minutes instead of the usual five because of diversions, restrictions and the sheer weight of traffic in advance of the Grand Prix, but we finally made it to the broad avenue where Duval had his office. The street was crowded with night-time window shoppers and people sitting outside cafes and restaurants. The city was really starting to fill up and the air of pre-race anticipation was palpable.

“Just here,” I said to the driver, indicating a space in front of a cafe almost directly opposite Duval’s building.

The driver nodded and pulled to a halt.

I paid the fare and tipped him five euros. Sci and Mo-bot had brought a couple of the gear backpacks we’d taken to the mountainside farm, and they retrieved them from the trunk of the Renault.

“I’m going in alone,” I said, as the cab moved on.

Justine tried to say something, but I stopped her.

“If it’s a trap, you can help me if you’re out here. You’re no use to anyone if you walk into something with me.”

Sci and Mo-bot nodded sagely.

“I want eyes and ears on you,” Mo-bot said, reaching into her backpack and producing a tiny camera disguised as a Stars and Stripes pin, which she fixed to my crumpled lapel. “Put this in.”

She handed me a MARIE, a microphone and in-ear receiver, which I inserted into my left ear canal.

“Wait here,” I said, indicating the cafe. “Have a drink. And if you see anything dangerous, let me know then call the cops.”

Mo-bot paired a small flat-screen with her headphones and put them on.

“Say that again.”

“Call the cops,” I repeated, and she gave me a thumbs-up.

“Audio and video. You’re good.”

Justine took my hand and squeezed it. I kissed her before I crossed the street and headed for Duval’s building.

I took the same route I’d taken the morning after her abduction, walking along the parade of stores, past the financial advisor’s office, to the colonnaded entrance at the end of the terrace. I found the front door ajar and the reception area deserted. It was well outside office hours, and the absence of people was unremarkable, but the unlocked front door was disconcerting. I paid even more attention to every creak and rustle, alert to the slightest hint of danger.

I crept upstairs, listening to the sounds of an empty building settling after a hot day, and beyond its walls the hubbub of a city preparing for a huge party.

I headed for Duval’s office and found his door half open. I pushed it wide and entered the lobby. The place was completely still. The only sound came from the street.

“I don’t like it,” Mo-bot said through my earpiece.

She’d be almost directly opposite the windows of Duval’s office, and I had no doubt she, Sci and Justine would be clustered around the tiny video screen, watching what I was seeing.

“Where is he?” Mo-bot asked.

I didn’t answer but instead crept toward Duval’s private office. The door was closed, so I reached for the handle and twisted it slowly. I eased the door open, and as I did so, I heard an ugly, invasive sound rise above everything else outside.

The screech and scream of sirens. Close by and drawing closer still.

When I saw what was on the floor of Duval’s office, I realized why they were coming.

Philippe Duval had been shot twice in the head, the visible powder burns suggesting a close-range execution. My new friend and prospective partner in Monaco had been murdered and I was the only person in the building. Was I being set up? Almost certainly.

Lying beside him was an FNX-45 tactical pistol with fitted suppressor. I had no doubt it was the murder weapon and would be free from prints.

I’d walked into a trap, but it was one that went completely beyond my expectations. Duval’s phone call had made me fear for his life, not think I would be framed for his murder.

“Get out, Jack,” Mo-bot said, as the sirens reached the Avenue des Citronniers, and the first tires screeched outside. “Run!”