Private Monaco

Chapter 64

It was late afternoon by the time Justine and I neared the Fairmont Hotel. We avoided the Avenue des Citronniers and approached the iconic property from the seafront.

“You okay?” I asked her as we neared the spot where she’d been taken.

She nodded but was silent, and I could see she felt uncomfortable about the reminder of her abduction. I knew what it was to feel powerless and out of control. I’d most recently experienced it at the casino, when Roman Verde and his men had seized me, but I’d suffered many instances of having someone else’s will imposed on me, and understood the panic it could induce.

I took Justine’s hand and squeezed it gently. “We’re together and we’re safe.”

She smiled at me and nodded again, this time more emphatically and at ease.

The Fairmont was one of the most desirable hotels in Monte Carlo, and it was easy to understand why. It was conveniently located in the heart of the action, on the racetrack itself, and many of the rooms had views of the notorious hairpin turn, with, on the far side of the property, glimpses of the seafront and marina.

The city was heaving, and the streets were packed with people in various stages of excitement and inebriation. The foot traffic grew heavy as we approached the hotel and were funneled into pedestrian channels beside the newly resurfaced road.

Qualifying started tomorrow, and the course was now closed to traffic as the final preparations were made to ensure it was safe for the powerful Formula One race cars.

The keen anticipation felt by so many race fans charged the air with the kind of energy normally reserved for Halloween or New Year’s Eve.

We navigated the specially constructed walkways and finally made it to the hotel grounds, abuzz with some sort of large function. There were a lot of people crowded around the entrance, and a security team was holding most of them at bay and only allowing a select few to enter.

Justine and I pushed our way through the crowd until we encountered a man in a dark gray suit who blocked our path. He eyed us up and down. Justine had changed into a long black dress, and I was wearing my black suit, but had changed into a matching shirt, which was open at the neck.

“Hotel or party guests only,” the man said. His Boston accent and the way he carried himself told me he was probably Secret Service.

“Jack Morgan and Justine Smith,” I replied. “We’re guests of Secretary Carver.”

I took a chance that Carver’s invitation to the race also extended to pre-event parties.

The man in gray checked a list on a tablet computer and nodded.

“ID,” he said.

Justine and I produced our passports.

“Okay,” he said. “Security is to your right as you enter.”

He stood aside and signaled to a metal detector staffed by other men in suits who looked as though they’d attended the same school of intimidating deportment. The way they moved made them seem as though they were confident they could handle anything and was intended to discourage potential troublemakers. I was familiar with the theory of force projection from my time in the Marines, the idea it was better to use displays of power to prevent violence than deal with its consequences.

We went through the metal detector and I was given a wand and fingertip search while Justine was waved on. I joined her in a large lobby. The floor was covered in cream marble tiles, and there were white leather couches and benches dotted between thick tan-colored pillars that supported a soft white ceiling inset with gentle spotlights. A wall of glass overlooked the terrace where a busy party was taking place.

We were about to go to the crowded reception desk and ask for Carver’s room number when I saw him on the terrace near the exterior bar. He was at the very heart of the party, surrounded by people, including several Secret Service personnel whose eyes were everywhere.

“Come on,” I said to Justine, who had also spotted him.

We were stopped by another man at the entrance to the lobby bar. He was clearly part of Carver’s close protection detail and wore a Stars and Stripes pin.

“Names and ID,” he said, not bothering with any niceties.

Justine and I presented our passports again, and when he’d checked us against his digital list, we were allowed through.

I’m not one for keeping up with the celebrity pages of the tabloids, but even I recognized some of the faces around me as we moved through the party. Musicians, actors, politicians, social media influencers, all talked and laughed in animated groups, while a DJ near the interior bar filled the room with mellow house music.

We stepped onto the terrace and pushed our way through the crowd. Carver saw us when we were a few feet away from his group, and broke away to greet us.

“Jack, Justine,” he said enthusiastically. “So good to see you.”

He shook our hands and pulled us toward the people he’d been standing with.

“This is my aide, Henry Wilson.” He introduced us to a blond man who looked as though he’d stepped out of the pages of a Tommy Hilfiger catalogue, complete with sweater tied over his shoulders. “And Princess Elizabeth of Saxony,” indicating a middle-aged pencil-thin woman in a striking red halterneck dress. She nodded at us. “Here’s Chloe Waveley, TikTok superstar.” A woman in a short black dress with blue hair and a body covered in tattoos smiled at us. “And Clive Russell. He’s a boxer.”

Clive looked the part, his muscles barely contained by a suit that was just a little too small.

Justine and I greeted them all, and I wondered where else in the world one would find such an eclectic group. But we weren’t here to make small talk.

“Mr. Secretary... Eli,” I said, “we were hoping to get a couple minutes in private.”

“Do you ever stop working, Jack?” he asked with a teasing smile.

I didn’t indulge his attempt at humor with a response but left my request hanging.

“Okay,” he said at last. “Henry, you’d better come. I think this is going to be official.”

Henry was chatting to Chloe and looked disappointed to be dragged away from the attractive social media influencer, but he joined us as we followed Carver to the edge of the terrace. His Secret Service detail reconfigured around us.

“Well?” Carver asked.

“The men who abducted Justine were trying to blackmail me into killing someone,” I said. “They never revealed the target.”

Carver looked at Henry, both of them blank-faced.

“You think it was me?” Carver asked suddenly.

It sounded vaguely ridiculous hearing it said out loud like that.

“Why?” he went on. “Do you have any evidence?”

“No, sir,” I replied. “Just a hunch that they chose me so as to exploit our relationship.”

“No one knew I’d be in Monaco,” Carver said. “My plans were entirely contingent on the summit and nobody outside my Secret Service detail and private office had any inkling. Hotel reservations, race tickers, travel were all booked by an agency the State Department uses whenever it wants to do things anonymously. There’s no way anyone would have had enough advance knowledge to put something like this together.”

“I know, sir,” I replied. “I just—”

“I appreciate the concern, Jack,” Carver said, interrupting me. “But sometimes shadows are just shadows and there aren’t any monsters lurking in them. Look around you. Does anything about my security feel deficient?”

I glanced at the Secret Service agents positioned around us and the others dotted around the terrace and interior of the hotel.

“No, sir,” I conceded.

“The Secretary is safe, Mr. Morgan, Ms. Smith,” Henry assured us. “We take his safety extremely seriously.”

Carver patted my shoulder and gave me a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry you got caught up in something like this, Jack,” he said. “And I hope you can resolve it quickly, because it would be good for you to be able to enjoy life. Even I’m not on all the time. Speaking of which, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to having fun. It’s been a stressful couple weeks and I need to unwind.”

He moved back to the party, and, after giving us a pitying smile, Henry joined him. The Secret Service detail shifted to a new formation around their principal, leaving Justine and me behind.