Private Monaco

Chapter 36

Mo-bot was tired, but she’d never needed much sleep, which was how she kept going while others rested. When she was younger, people had assumed she used drugs, stimulants, vast amounts of coffee, but the truth was she could function perfectly well on three to four hours’ sleep per night. She felt drained now though and needed to recharge her batteries, which was why Sci was driving.

After an early-hours visit to the hotel to grab the gear and clothes they needed for the rest of their stay, Mo-bot and Sci had returned to the apartment where she’d connected Duval’s phone to analysis software she’d designed. It would circumvent the rudimentary security of the old Nokia and provide a detailed log of calls, messages, and any other activity the device had been used for. She had left it running while she and Sci followed up the lead in Marseilles.

They had taken a cab to Nice Airport and collected the hire car Mo-bot had reserved in a false name, using a fake driver’s license and credit card she carried for just such emergencies. They’d been at the rental desk when it opened at 7:30 a.m. and were on the road in the Ford Kuga, heading for Marseilles by 8:00.

Sci kept the car at a steady cruise once they hit the A8, a six-lane highway that would take them west through the dry foothills and mountains of southern France for almost 200 kilometers.

The journey time was a little over two hours and Mo-bot made the most of it, drifting off within five minutes of them joining the highway. The smooth road, steady rhythm of the wheels and gentle rocking motion of the vehicle lulled her into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When she opened her eyes, Mo-bot saw one of the most deprived neighborhoods she’d ever encountered. She and Sci were on a two-lane road, heading west toward a huge port. Cranes and container yards were visible in the distance. To their right was a flyover and beneath it a tramline. On the other side was an eastbound two-lane road. This broad, multi-level, multi-vehicle thoroughfare was flanked by a strange mix of gray late-twentieth-century office blocks and apartment buildings constructed in a rustic French style, complete with rusting balconies and flaked, rotting slatted wooden shutters. There was graffiti everywhere, and hardly any greenery. Mo-bot could see a single tree sticking through the cracked concrete beside a distant parking space.

“You were out,” Sci remarked. “I thought I should let you sleep.”

“Did I miss anything?”

“Aliens,” he said somberly. “On the road outside Marseilles. They waved us in to be assessed for abduction but rejected us as atypical human specimens.”

“I want to laugh, but I can’t without hearing a joke.”

“That’s just cruel,” Sci said. “Besides, who’s joking?”

“You’re such an idiot,” she responded with a smile.

“You don’t know. There could be someone out there,” he said, pointing at the sky.

Mo-bot frowned at him before shifting in her seat. “Where are we?”

“Port district. Police precinct is that orange-and-brown monstrosity up ahead.”

Mo-bot looked at the unusual building. It wasn’t as drab as some of the concrete structures surrounding it, but it wasn’t far off. An oblong structure with an orange fascia covering the exterior of the ground floor, the remaining four stories were adorned with brown metal slats. It looked like a depressing place to work.

Fifteen minutes later, after parking in the adjacent side street and presenting themselves in reception, Sci and Mo-bot found themselves in the office of Stéphane Porcher, a senior inspector they’d been told could answer questions about the Marseilles drug bust. He had a computer, but everything else spoke to a mind from another era. Books and files and papers were stacked everywhere. There was an old hi-fi system and record player on the bureau in the corner, and a mini-basketball hoop was hooked over the top of a corkboard covered in photos and case notes.

Porcher was lean with stubble so rough it looked as though it could slice through rhino hide. His eyes were shadowed by too many years on the job, but his smile was wry and impish as though he was a bolt short of being fully hinged.

“Sit down, Americans,” he said, showing Mo-bot and Sci into his time-capsule office.

The looked around and saw there was only one seat other than Porcher’s and it was covered in books.

“That’s okay,” Mo-bot replied. “We’ll stand.”

“As you wish,” Porcher said with a gracious wave. He lowered himself into his own seat. “What can I do for you?”

“We won’t take up much of your time,” Mo-bot responded. “We want to ask you about this man.”

She produced the mugshot of Roman taken after his arrest.

“Ah,” Porcher said, studying the photograph carefully. “Le trépas. Death. The Grim Reaper. I never thought I would see him again.”

“Why?” Sci asked.

“Because I didn’t think he was human,” Porcher replied. “And I thought he had gone back to hell, where he belongs.”

He paused and seemed to drift off. Mo-bot and Sci exchanged bemused looks.

“Come,” Porcher said suddenly. “Let me show you how Death works.”