Private Monaco

Chapter 59

The carnival that followed Formula One around the world was in full swing in the heart of Monaco. The city hummed with activity and excitement, which wasn’t surprising considering the population was estimated to swell by a factor of five for the race weekend, from a little under 40,000 to more than 200,000. Every restaurant, bar and store was overflowing, and there were crowds of people everywhere.

Justine and I had walked to the seafront from our apartment and experienced the wild party atmosphere for ourselves. The Grand Prix course ran through the heart of the city, which meant massive traffic diversions were in place during the qualifying heat and the actual race, but the organizers did a remarkable job of keeping most routes open in the run-up to the event. Still, the swollen population, crowd control and closure of some streets meant there was slow-moving traffic everywhere. Supercars idled behind taxis and delivery vans in long lines, powerful engines rattling nearby windows, drivers looking around nonchalantly, obviously hoping motorsport fans would notice their state-of-the-art vehicles.

People in silly oversized hats spilled from bars, clearly drunk despite the early hour, and on hotel terraces more sedate corporate events took place behind discreet barriers.

The Chalmont was located in a grand four-story, hundred-year-old building with large arched windows overlooking Port Hercules. A sweeping U-shaped drive joined the casino to the Boulevard Albert 1er. It was currently packed bumper to bumper with millions of dollars’ worth of supercars. Tourists and race fans stopped to take photos of the sleek machines, making the casino something of a draw for the crowds that had already gathered on the seafront.

A small group of paparazzi hovered near the casino entrance, eying passersby hungrily, eager for their next high-value celebrity sighting.

Justine had changed into a long green halterneck dress, and I was in a black suit, white shirt and blue tie. She led me along the drive to the stone steps leading to the grand entrance, where a doorman smiled and greeted us as we entered the vaulted reception area.

Three women in black suits sat behind an obsidian counter. Two were already dealing with guests, so we went to the third.

“Bonjour, M’sieur, Madame,” she said with a warm smile.

“Hello,” I replied. “We tried to make a reservation for lunch, but the restaurant told us we should come and see if there were any cancellations.”

I was telling the truth. The Jardin Restaurant at the Chalmont was world-famous and was booked weeks in advance at the best of times, never mind in the run-up to the Grand Prix.

“Of course, sir, madam, please go through,” the receptionist said, waving us toward the inner doors, which were flanked by a pair of security guards in dark gray suits.

One of them held open a door and spoke words of welcome as we entered.

The Chalmont was even more impressive on the inside. A narrow corridor lined with obsidian walls was lit by inset LEDs that formed gently pulsing patterns as we walked.

At the end of the corridor was the large vaulted space of the main casino floor. About the size of a football pitch, the room had been created by merging the first two stories of the building. Black girders and wires made up for the loss of structural supports, giving the otherwise elegant structure an industrial feel. Inside there were roulette, baccarat, poker and blackjack tables, where the monied rich were already trying to beat the house, despite its only being just past noon. Servers moved around the place carrying drinks and snacks to the tables.

“Hey,” Justine said, pointing toward a discreet black-and-gold sign. “ATMs.”

The sign guided us to some nearby steps. We went down them and found ourselves in a small basement chamber that might once have been a wine cellar or fuel store, but which was now painted black and gold and home to four cash machines, including one belonging to Frontières Banque, the entity that was home to Philippe Duval’s secret account.

Justine and I looked around the unremarkable space and I shrugged. There was no obvious reason to explain why Duval would have come to this specific machine.

We walked back upstairs, but as we reached the top and stepped onto the main casino floor, she grabbed my arm and pointed to someone sitting at one of the poker tables. He had light brown hair and a face that looked as though it had been battered by years of fighting. He wore a sky-blue shirt, dark blue trousers, and had a matching suit jacket slung over the back of his chair.

“He”, Justine said, “is one of the men who kidnapped me.”