Private Monaco

Chapter 5

The motorcycle engine snarled as I overrevved it to accelerate up the incline in pursuit of the van, already making a left turn near the flowerbeds where the men had originally tried to abduct us. The large vehicle slewed dangerously as it wove between slower-moving or stationary traffic. Roaring engines and burning rubber were regular features of the Monaco Grand Prix, but gunfire, crashes and speeding vehicles were out of the ordinary for this quiet district, and the commotion had brought people out onto their apartment balconies and had stopped traffic. The rest of the world seemed to be on pause as I roared by.

I kicked up a gear and the angry buzz of the engine became a deep drone as the bike gobbled up the road, closing the distance to the van.

Tall trees lining the edge of the small park flashed by to my left; to my right was a blur of boutiques and restaurants. Patrons were open-mouthed on seeing the mayhem disrupting their otherwise peaceful day. Some of them had their phones out and were trying to capture the action racing past.

Ahead, the van approached an intersection. The driver hit his horn with a heavy hand, blaring an alert to any vehicle ahead to stay out of his way as he shot up the center of the road, grinding between cars on both sides, knocking off wing mirrors and smashing up bodywork. The stench of burning diesel filled the air as I followed, catching my first glimpse of flashing blue lights as I sped across the intersection. There was a police car racing toward us, heading south along the avenue lined with palms.

Ahead, the van was speeding toward Place du Casino, a grand square of historic buildings, including the iconic Casino de Monte Carlo, which resembled an Ottoman palace.

The buildings to my right gave way to the lush greenery of the Casino gardens and then a road. Down this, fast heading toward me, I saw a motorcycle ridden by another masked man. He was brandishing a sub machine gun and was on an intercept course. I swerved left around the outside of the square, trying to avoid him while still keeping one eye on the Fiat, which had continued straight ahead on the road crossing the broad square, heading west.

I heard the rattle of gunfire over the roar of the bike’s engine and glanced behind to see the gunman directly to my rear, lighting up the road around my back tire. He was trying to unseat me.

I cut right, mounting the sidewalk for a moment before the tires bit into the beautifully manicured lawn of the Casino gardens. Passersby cried out and scurried clear as I shot across the green space.

I heard more gunfire and felt the rear tire burst. I stepped on the brake and slowed the bike sufficiently, so that when the rim of the wheel hit earth, and I lost control, I wasn’t moving fast enough for the impact to injure me seriously. The bike went south, in a slide, while momentum carried me north, rolling and tumbling over the grass.

Winded, I forced myself to my feet and saw the gunman stop on the north side of the square to reload his weapon. Terrified bystanders scattered, running into buildings, side streets and alleyways. Beside me, a taxi driver started the engine of his BMW 5-Series and made ready to move.

I caught sight of the van ahead, rounding a corner to disappear down a narrow street running alongside an imposing building that looked like a museum or art gallery.

I sprinted over to the taxi, opened the driver’s door, and pulled the startled cabbie from his seat. He was a heavyset man who looked like he wasn’t afraid of trouble, but I think the scale of the violence he’d just witnessed in this peaceful, privileged enclave had momentarily converted him to pacifism. It didn’t last. He started to object and struggle against me. I dragged him away from his vehicle and jumped inside. I shut the door and locked it while the cabbie pounded against the windscreen, cursing me.

Ignoring his protests, I looked back at the motorcyclist, who began to spray the wheels of the BMW with bullets. The gunfire terrified the cabbie, who ran for cover. He just cleared the danger zone moments before bullets thudded into the tires, puncturing them. Satisfied he’d immobilized me, the motorcyclist twisted his throttle and took the same course as the van.

I floored the accelerator, fighting for control of the car, which now had two flat tires and was running on wheel rims. But unlike a bike, it was possible to steer it on flats, and I didn’t need to go far.

I aimed for the shortest point between me and the gallery, judging it perfectly so that the gun-toting motorcyclist would have no time to react when he figured out we were on a collision course. I swung the wheel at the last minute and the BMW lurched into a sharp turn and sideswiped the bike, knocking the rider clean off the saddle. The bike hit a low stone wall in front of the gallery and fell onto its fairing as I stamped on the brakes.

I jumped out of the BMW and ran toward the fallen cycle. The masked rider was stirring nearby but I kicked him in the head, knocking him cold, my eyes hardly leaving the white van, now almost at the end of the long straight road directly ahead of me.

The sirens were growing louder. I became aware of increased activity: roaring engines, screeching tires, and shouts of protest when I lifted the bike.

There were vehicles around me, men and women yelling, but I paid no attention. I mounted the bike, resetting the engine kill switch and pressing the ignition. Nothing happened. I looked down to see oil everywhere. The bike had been totaled by the impact.

Up ahead, I saw the van make a right turn and disappear from view.

My focus shifted abruptly as I registered the cops were out of their vehicles now, aiming pistols at me, yelling instructions for me to get off the bike and lie down with my hands behind my back.

Reluctantly, and with a sick feeling of loss swelling in my stomach, I complied.

I had failed the most important person in my life. I had lost Justine.