Private Monaco

Chapter 45

Justine joined me at the edge of the roof a few minutes later. We peeked over the balustrade and watched the building opposite. People drifted away from their windows in the absence of further cries for help, but soon returned when the sound of sirens filled the air. Once again people peered out of their apartments looking for the source of the commotion.

Not Michel though. He never came back to his window, and the next time I saw him was in circumstances I could scarcely believe.

He emerged from a side entrance beside the convenience store and hurried across the sidewalk to the corner of Avenue du Général de Gaulle and Avenue de la Victoire as the first police car arrived. Unlike the others that were approaching, this one didn’t have its blue lights on and its siren was silent.

Justine glanced at me in surprise because instead of running when he saw the cops, our target approached the vehicle, nodded at the uniformed driver and his partner, and jumped in the back.

As the car rolled along Avenue de la Victoire, Justine’s puzzlement turned to disbelief, a feeling I shared.

“Did he just...” she said, her voice trailing off.

“Let’s go,” I responded, and we hurried away.

Less than a minute later, breathless and with hearts pounding, we were in the silver BMW 3-Series Justine had rented. I gunned the engine and followed the cop car along Avenue de la Victoire, racing to catch up with our target.

The main convoy of police vehicles screeched to a halt outside Michel’s building as we sped away, a blaze of sirens, flashing lights and loud, purposeful officers who had no idea they’d been betrayed by a couple of colleagues. Or maybe they did know? I had no idea how far the corruption went.

“So, they have connections to the cops?” Justine remarked.

I nodded. “Looks like it. More than connections. Protection.”

The BMW roared along the broad avenue. When we reached Place Detras, I took a gamble and went west along the Route de Nice, following signs for the bus station. I guessed the cops wouldn’t want a potential suspect in their car for long and would take him to a public transport hub.

We raced past slow-moving traffic, weaving onto the opposite side of the road and swerving to avoid oncoming vehicles. I ignored the shocked reactions of pedestrians on the sidewalks and the shouted curses of drivers enraged by what I was doing. It paid off. About fifty meters ahead I saw the cop car make a right turn on to a narrow side street.

“There,” I told Justine. “Get video.”

The BMW’s engine growled as I dropped into second gear and hit the gas. We shot forward, darting around an old Renault Clio, which pulled abruptly to a halt.

Justine used her phone to film through the windshield. As we turned into the narrow side street, I saw the man calling himself Michel Augarde glancing back at us through the police car’s rear window. He turned to speak to the driver. Moments later the Peugeot’s lights and sirens came on and it accelerated as it sped north. Civic-minded drivers cleared a path and pedestrians hurried across the street. None of them could have known they were giving way to two corrupt cops who were spiriting a wanted criminal away from arrest.

But the cleared path worked for us too. I pushed the BMW until we were on the cops’ tail. I could see the driver glancing in the rear-view mirror as both vehicles bounced and swerved along the narrow, winding street. A hairpin bend took us back on ourselves, and soon we were heading south, back toward the Route de Nice. I accelerated, driving so close our bumpers were almost touching.

“Make sure you get Michel on camera,” I said to Justine above the roar of the chase, and she directed her phone at the man, who looked back again before ducking behind the seat.

I caught the police driver’s eyes as our cars shimmied around the street, moving at speed. I fixed him with a glare. Corruption was an insidious form of injustice. I would make sure he and his partner answered for what they were doing.