Private Monaco

Chapter 38

Miriam made good. She granted us access to an edited set of personnel records on a Club laptop, excluding those of long-serving senior members of staff. As we passed through the building we heard the hustle and bustle of a human resource command unit responsible for mobilizing a much larger race day army. People who experienced the glamor of watching the Grand Prix in Monaco would have little idea that delivering such a prestigious experience involved hundreds of staff with a near-obsessive focus on the mundane and practical details.

People here were fine-tuning the arrangements for barrier positioning, crowd control, free flow of local traffic while stands were built, roads were resurfaced and temporary buildings took over the city, travel arrangements for dignitaries, high-profile guests and drivers plus teams and families, catering, security, and race-day stewarding.

We sat in a third-floor meeting room, surrounded by photographs of past Grand Prix winners, each image a shot of the victorious car crossing the finish line.

Justine flicked through the employment records, clicking an arrow to cycle from photograph to photograph. In addition to the picture, these abridged records featured a name, a start date and their position within the organization. There were over a thousand currently active records, but the volume of files didn’t faze Justine. By midday she’d already been through more than 500 of them.

I remained silent, not wanting to distract her from the rhythm she’d established. Every so often I would walk to the window and look down at the street to the rear of the building, which was lined with rigging trucks, TV vans, media and Automobile Club staff members hurrying about their business. I recognized Marc Leroy, the club’s operations director, barking commands at his crew of coordinators.

“This is one of them,” Justine said, and I turned to see her pointing to the photo of a man with short black hair and matching stubble. He was smiling in the photograph but there was an air of unease about it, unfamiliar and forced.

I recognized him as one of the men who’d opened fire on me in the gully after I’d knocked out their leader, Roman.

“Michel Augarde,” I said, reading the man’s name.

“Almost certainly false,” Justine remarked, and I nodded.

False or not, we now knew her kidnappers were somehow linked to the Monaco Grand Prix, and if I’d been forced to place a bet, I would have said they were trying to infiltrate the event. Maybe to stage a murder or possibly something on a larger scale.

Justine hurried from the room and I followed her along the busy corridor to Miriam’s office.

The personnel director had instructed us to interrupt her the moment we found anything, and we did just that, walking in on a meeting she was having with three members of her team.

“Michel Augarde,” Justine said. “According to the system, he was hired as a rigger two months ago.”

Miriam got to her feet. “We need to find Marc,” she said. “Get me a radio.” She directed her final remark at one of her colleagues.

“No need,” I responded. “He’s out back with all the big trucks.”

Miriam led us through the building and we skipped down the stairs, weaving around club members and staff. Miriam swiped a keycard through a reader and took us into a service corridor that was full of scurrying personnel.

Finally, we reached an exterior door that took us outside to a loading area, where we found Marc, checking his phone and simultaneously speaking into his radio.

“Marc,” Miriam said, and he looked up. “We need to talk to you about Michel Augarde.”

Marc seemed puzzled by Miriam’s request. I noticed his eyes dart toward someone further along the street. I followed the direction of his gaze and saw the man calling himself Michel Augarde removing scaffolding from a large truck.

His eyes met mine. The moment he registered me, he dropped the metal struts, which clattered loudly as they hit the ground, and set off at a sprint.