Private Monaco

Chapter 37

I woke early and watched Justine sleeping. She looked so peaceful and at ease it was hard to believe she’d been a prisoner less than twenty-four hours earlier. Every so often, her face would scrunch into a frown, her legs would twitch, and she would whimper. I would stroke her hair and wonder whether she was reliving her escape or having a random nightmare.

A little before 7 a.m. I heard Sci and Mo-bot leave for the airport, where they would collect a hire car for their drive to Marseilles.

I checked my phone and responded to a message from Mo-bot telling me they’d been to get our gear from the hotel with a simple Thanks. I replied to other texts from Dinara Orlova in Moscow and Matteo Ricci in Rome, who congratulated me and Justine on our escape.

I didn’t feel I deserved any congratulations. Justine had freed herself. I’d happened to be in the right place around the right time. And now a good man was dead. Had Duval been killed in retaliation for the escape? Or was he simply a pawn sacrificed in an attempt to frame me for murder?

I used my phone to check the local news, which was leading with Duval’s death. There were photos of him with his family, his wife so elegant and warm-looking and his children happy and contented. It pained me to imagine what state they’d be in now, with their father’s murder the talk of the city. To lose a former minister and prominent citizen in such violent circumstances was a shock to the tiny principality. I hadn’t pulled the trigger, but I had brought death to this innocent family’s door, and my role in involving Duval made me more determined than ever to catch the people responsible and see them punished.

None of the news coverage mentioned me, but there were reports of an unidentified man fleeing the scene. So it looked as though I’d been spotted, but had avoided identification thanks to the darkness and the confusion of the chase.

Justine stirred. I put down my phone and pulled her close to me.

“Morning,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve run a marathon,” she replied. “You?”

“I’ve been better.”

She gave me a sympathetic look and kissed me.

“I know,” she said. “What happened to Philippe Duval wasn’t your fault. Or mine. The people who killed him are the ones who should be held accountable.”

The rational part of me knew she was right, but guilt was often irrational.

“Coffee and breakfast always make the day seem brighter,” she said, rolling out of bed.

She looked amazing in her tight shorts and vest, but I was dismayed to see the heavy bruising on her arms and legs, which had matured to shades of dark purple and blue overnight. She saw me looking and appraised herself.

“They’ll heal,” she said. “Come on. Let’s find the people who made them and give them hell.”

An hour later, after showers, pastries and coffee, we were in Miriam Lambert’s office at the Automobile Club. The room was spacious and elegantly furnished, and like everywhere else in the building, a passion for motorsport shone through in the framed prints that lined the walls. There was a classic Formula One steering wheel displayed in a glass case on Miriam’s gleaming antique desk.

She looked harried, which wasn’t surprising. The city was buzzing with anticipation for the weekend’s race, and even this early in the morning the cafes and bars were packed with fans from all over the world getting the party started.

“I’m so sorry to hear about Philippe,” I said, deciding it was probably better not to ignore the murder, which was national news.

“It’s a tragedy,” Miriam replied. “His children are so young...” Her voice faltered as her eyes filled with tears. She took a deep breath. “What can I do for you, Mr. Morgan?”

“This is Ms. Smith,” I said. “She was the victim of the recent kidnapping.”

Miriam was surprised by the revelation. “I’m glad to see you’re safe and well.”

“Thank you,” Justine said.

“We know one of the abductors secured employment here,” I reminded her. “It’s possible there were others.”

“What?” Miriam asked. “Why would that be?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s what I’d like to find out.”

“How?”

“When I escaped from the kidnap gang, I saw the faces of some of them,” Justine replied.

“I’m sorry that you suffered such an ordeal,” Miriam said stiffly. “But if you think I can just let you look through our personnel records, you are mistaken. There are laws protecting privacy.”

Today Justine was looking elegant in a black floral dress, but bruises were visible on her delicate arms and she made a point of staring at them, drawing Miriam’s gaze.

“These men are violent,” Justine told her. “What if they have planned something that could sabotage the Grand Prix?”

I didn’t give Miriam a chance to answer. “There’s nothing to prevent the Automobile Club of Monaco from hiring a private investigator to conduct a security review after discovering a suspected criminal was working here.”

“It just so happens we’re offering a new client discount of one hundred percent,” Justine added. “So, it won’t cost you a cent, and it will save a great deal of potential embarrassment if we discover any other criminals among your ranks. People who might threaten the security and safety of the Grand Prix.”

Miriam nodded slowly, suddenly realizing the wider implications of failing to act on the intelligence we were giving her.

“I will arrange for you to have access to the employment files of all non-executive staff and temporary personnel,” she said.