Private Monaco

Chapter 87

The boat was fast. We crossed the bay in minutes and made it round the headland to the south-west, leaving the cacophony and turmoil of the race behind us. The waters beyond the headland were quiet, and high above us on the rock bluffs that rose from the sea stood magnificent villas and apartment buildings. A few had pontoons with little sailing dinghies and motorboats bobbing alongside them on the warm, crystal-clear water. It was a paradise on earth and I wondered why a man who had so much would gamble it all. Why would an establishment figure like Raymond Chalmont associate with men like Roman Verde and give his house over to them? Greed? Fear? Or belief? Based on what we knew of Propaganda Tre, I guessed belief, the organization’s emphasis on far-right ideology and supposedly traditional values that were just a thin veneer for hate. But I wouldn’t know for certain until I investigated the man.

Roman Verde was easier to understand. A hardened criminal once motivated by greed, now driven by revenge and whatever corrupting agenda Propaganda Tre had twisted him and his men to believe. I hadn’t thought much about my own beliefs since leaving Rome, and in truth had been afraid to probe them. I’d met good and bad in the Vatican and had left the city resolved to continue with my own way of making the world a better place. It might not involve the dogma and observances of the Church, but I was on the frontline, waging a battle against evil every single day.

I was doing it now, facing down these men, taking Stamp to find and save his wife. He had stayed at the bow, spotting, while I piloted us toward the marker Justine had sent. The spray and fresh air felt good against my face. In any other circumstances, this would have been a beautiful trip, but instead it was darkened by the fact we were trying to outrun death and reach Angie before Roman executed her for Stamp’s failure to complete his mission.

I checked my phone. We were close now. The run of pontoons ended and the hilltops turned wild for a while as we traveled westward. There were no obvious signs of habitation.

“Ahead,” Stamp said, pointing to a lone pontoon that extended into the water like a solitary finger. “Slow down.”

I did as he suggested and could see why. There were two men patrolling the pontoon, tiny figures in black combat trousers and T-shirts, each holding a sub machine gun.

With the engine cut, the RIB soon drifted to a complete stop. Stamp knelt and positioned the rifle against his shoulder. It would be a challenging shot.

“Wind is coming from the west. About fifteen knots,” I told him.

He nodded his thanks and calibrated his sight. There was no gyroscope here, so he would have to compensate for the waves by moving his body and timing his shots perfectly.

The men seemed to be looking our way, but at this distance they couldn’t possibly know who we were, and without field glasses or telescopic sights they wouldn’t be able to see the rifle and scope. To them we were probably a couple of fishermen poaching their waters.

I willed Stamp to take the shot nonetheless, because there was a risk one of them would catch reflected glare off the scope or be sufficiently eagle-eyed to register his sniper stance.

He held his breath and squeezed the trigger.

The man to the right, closest to the beach, bucked, his head snapping back suddenly. He fell to the ground. His comrade to the left, further out to sea, registered the shot, looked at his dead companion and started running.

Stamp tracked him as he ran along the pontoon toward the shore and fired three shots in quick succession. The third struck him in his right leg and sent him tumbling into the water. As he thrashed, trying to make it to the short, sandy beach, Stamp shot him again, striking him in the back of the neck and killing him instantly.

“Good shooting,” I said without emotion.

Stamp grunted, and I turned the throttle and steered us toward the pontoon.

My stomach tightened as I felt a rush of adrenalin flood my body. I’d learned fear was an ally. It was not to be suppressed or fought; it was to be channeled. The most effective warriors used it to heighten their senses; they let it flow around them like electricity, giving them power, an edge over their enemies. Outwardly calm, they mastered their fear to their advantage, and I did so now.

When we reached the pontoon, Stamp jumped out and tied the line to a cleat. He left his rifle in the RIB and grabbed the sub machine gun and spare ammunition from the first man he’d shot.

I was content with Michel’s pistol.

“Ready?” I asked.

Stamp nodded and we ran toward the beach.