Private Monaco

Chapter 51

Set in the foothills behind the Avenue Pasteur, the Princess Grace is Monaco’s only public hospital and occupies a couple of city blocks. The main building is a tiered eight-story structure facing the bay. A huge, newly constructed extension to the east gave a sense of the gleaming curvilinear buildings that would proliferate in Monaco’s future. Mo-bot’s research told us the mortuary, which also served as the city’s police morgue from time to time, was located in the old building.

In the warm evening Justine and I walked from our apartment holding hands, moving purposefully but not rushing. Duval was not going anywhere, and any secrets he might reveal would be there whether we arrived five or fifteen minutes from now. It was more important for us to reconnect, to find some equilibrium in the storm the world had unleashed on us.

“That could have been us,” Justine said, nodding toward the coast where dozens of parties were underway on yachts in the marina, and people had gathered in the bars and cafes that lined the streets around the seafront.

I nodded. It should have been us. We’d come to Monaco on vacation, and I had hoped to take Justine to the Grand Prix at the weekend. The race was the cause of all the revelry around us: motorsport fans staging pre-race parties, corporate sponsors hosting lavish entertainments... the whole city was lit up and alive with excitement.

“I’m sorry,” I responded, squeezing her hand.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I could have taken us home. I could have let the police do their job,” I said. “I could have chosen a different life.”

“A lion can’t be anything other than a lion,” she replied. “You can’t choose to be anyone other than yourself. The man I love.”

I smiled and together we walked toward the hospital as the sounds of revelry drifted up the hillside from the coast.

The old building was elegant, but the new extension, two sixteen-story state-of-the-art towers, made it look insignificant by comparison.

We went through the main entrance into a quiet lobby, avoided the desk and two receptionists, who were too busy chatting to a third colleague to notice us, and followed signs for “Pathologie,” where Mo-bot had assured us we’d find the morgue.

She and Sci had stayed in our apartment to study everything they’d been able to find on Roman Verde and put together some revised analysis of the Dark Fates and Propaganda Tre, given that we now knew that neither group had been wiped out by our recent operation in Rome.

The hospital, like most others, was a place of held breath, prayers for good news, and lives desperate to be lived. The clean, clinical corridors, devoid of soft furnishings or fabric, created a sense of space, reinforced by the echo of every footstep. Whether it was recovery from an operation, broken limbs, or treatment for heart disease, these were places that put normal life on pause. The sense of space, the echoes and amplification, reminded us there was so much more to be had from the world than what went on inside these bare walls.

We hurried ahead, following signs, avoiding drawing attention to ourselves, smiling at any healthcare workers we passed, trying to give the impression we belonged.

When we finally reached the pathology department located in a semi-basement at the very rear of the building, we found it was closed. Justine opened her bag and tried a universal keycard Mo-bot had given her.

A light on the reader beside the double doors flashed green on the second attempt and we moved inside quickly and quietly. We found the morgue down a flight of stairs. Even with the strip lights on, the white-tiled room was unnerving. I tried not to think about the procedures that had been conducted on the two stainless-steel tables that dominated the space.

The bank of refrigerators dominating one wall contained the earthly remains of the dead. No amount of learning or familiarity with death could shake the discomfort I experienced on finding myself near a corpse. I wondered how it affected people who worked with them daily.

“Philippe Duval,” Justine said, reading the placard on one of the fridges.

She opened the metal latch and I helped her pull out the drawer that held Duval. His body was inside a mortuary bag.

Justine looked as unsettled as I felt.

“Okay?” I asked.

She nodded. “Whatever it takes.”

I pulled down the zip and tried to ignore Duval’s face and the ugly bullet wounds in his head, where blood was congealed and crusted. I reached for his left arm and fought the urge to recoil at the cold, meaty feel of his skin. I lifted his arm from the bag and studied it. Other than the grayish tinge, it was unremarkable, so I replaced it and did the same with his right arm.

I saw what I’d been looking for instantly. There, tattooed on the underside of his upper arm, was the fleur-de-lys inside the Jerusalem Cross, the insignia of Propaganda Tre.

Michel’s words now made complete sense. Everything about our visit to Monaco had indeed been planned, including the invitation to discuss a potential business partnership with Philippe Duval. He was a member of the group we’d faced in Rome and had obviously been instrumental in helping them exact their revenge on me.

“I can’t believe it,” Justine said, staring at the tattoo. “If he’s one of them, why is he dead?”

It was a very good question. One of many we had yet to answer, the most pressing of which was, who had they tried to blackmail me into killing?