Private Monaco

Chapter 77

I felt uncomfortable leaving Justine, but our team was short of people and I wanted to make sure Eli Carver was fully informed of the threat.

The route to the marina was crowded and took in more loops and turns than would have been normal so as to avoid the racetrack, the temporary media center, and stands around the edge of the port. I could hear a car tearing around the track, engine screeching at the upper end of the revs, the vibration so forceful I felt it touch my bones. It was something no television or home speaker could convey, the sheer body-trembling power of the vehicle was awesome, and sufficiently loud to drown out the cheering of the crowds it passed.

I pressed my way through the crush of slow-moving pedestrians and finally managed to turn off the main walkway serving the marina berths and toward the fuel depot. There wasn’t a single empty mooring, and shoals of tenders skimmed across the water carrying people from vessels anchored in the bay to the shore, and vice versa. The yachts closest to the promenade were full of spectators on their highest decks, trying to get a good view of qualifying.

When I glanced over my shoulder, I could see the Monte Carlo Casino stand in the distance, but I wasn’t able to pick out Eli Carver or Justine on any of the balconies.

I hurried along the main jetty toward the branching pontoon that was home to the fueling station. There were two attendants dressed in smart navy-blue overalls. One was filling the fuel tank of a Beneteau motor yacht while the other stood by a small office and watched.

“Oui?” the unoccupied man said to me.

“Do you speak English?” I asked, and the man nodded.

“I need to know about a boat that refueled here last week,” I said. “Invoice number one-six-one-nine.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I’m a detective,” I replied. “They owe a client of mine some money.”

The man frowned.

“I’m willing to pay for the information,” I told him, producing my wallet.

“I’m a friend of justice,” he replied with open arms.

“Invoice number one-six-one-nine,” I repeated.

He sauntered into the office and picked up a ledger. He removed his sunglasses and flipped the pages until finally settling on one.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I can believe they owe money. They didn’t give a gratuity.”

I took five twenty-euro notes from my wallet and handed them to him.

“The yacht is called the Sunset Prince,” he revealed. “It left port a few days ago. Probably moved along the coast.”

I frowned. That was not what I expected.

“Are you certain?”

He nodded. “I saw it leave.”

“Thank you,” I said, before turning to go. I wondered what to do now.

“That’s not true,” his colleague said, looking up from the fuel tank he was filling. “They left, but they took a mooring in the bay. I saw them on my way in this morning.”

He nodded toward a RIB with a single 150 horsepower Yamaha outboard engine.

“Where?” I asked.

“South-east, maybe half a kilometer offshore,” he replied.

Well within sniper range for a good marksman.

He stopped filling the tank and stepped away from the motorboat, leading me to the edge of the pontoon.

“Over there, you can just see the black-and-white navigation unit,” he said, pointing into the distance.

As I peered through the forest of masts, I could make out the satellite array he was talking about. It belonged to a large motor yacht.

“How much to charter your RIB?” I asked, and the two fuel attendants exchanged a look that told me we were about to start negotiating.