Nobody Gets Hurt

by R J Bailey

  I inhaled the heady esters of varnish and polish. A woman could get high in that confined space. ‘What do they think? The buyers?’ I asked him.

  ‘What do you think?’ He raised an eyebrow as thick as a moth caterpillar.

  She was a Bugatti 35B, painted in the standard blue livery, and she was known as Lady Eve, in tribute to the mistress/wife of William Grover-Williams, the man who won the first Monaco Grand Prix back in 1929 and went on to have a career as a Special Operations Executive agent in occupied France. That much was in my file.

  There was also the suggestion that Williams once raced this very car, much later, when he substituted for an unwell Louis Chiron at a non-championship race at Circuito Lasarte near San Sebastian in Spain. The claim was unsubstantiated, but I could understand why VJ would want to keep it in circulation – the presence of the legendary Williams behind the wheel of a Bugatti could easily add a few hundred thousand euros to the estimate at auction. Not that this was going to go on the block. It was to be a very private sale.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ I said, and for once I was serious.

  ‘You should hear her when she starts up.’ He kissed the fingertips of his right hand. ‘Such a sweet sound.’

  ‘Any takers?’ I asked.

  ‘Several of them certainly want her. You can see it in their eyes. Like lust. But whether that will translate into an offer . . .’ He shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘We shall see, Miss.’

  The sale was to be by sealed bids, left by the prospective purchasers as they departed Kubera. Over at the salons of the Fairmont Hotel such cars were going under Bonhams’ hammer the very next day, making perhaps twenty million euros in a few hours. And a lot of commission, which VJ did not want to pay. Hence the clandestine sale.

  I walked around, looking in at leather seats that were cracked and scuffed, with wisps of stuffing poking out like hair from old men’s ears. Apparently new seats would actually lower the value. I touched the bodywork and got a little static shock that made me jump. Maybe the car was telling me it was out of my league. Bloody cheek. It wasn’t even a league I wanted to play in. ‘I’d better go back up top. You expecting anyone else?’

  ‘Petro Groysman.’

  Now that was one Ukrainian with very deep pockets and a garage full of supercars. He was rumoured to have a Bugatti ‘Tank’ as raced at Le Mans in the 1930s. A 35B with Eve’s pedigree would bookend that nicely. VJ would hope he would show.

  ‘You all right, Balraj? Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No, Miss. Thank you for asking.’

  I went back up top and stepped outside, retrieving my phone from my colleague and taking up my position once more. The sun’s strength was waning and a breeze was riffling the waters of the harbour, but the words I heard from a passing waiter ten minutes after my return up top suggested that things were about to hot up.

  ‘Can you smell smoke?’

  FOUR

  I watched VJ in conversation with one of the buyers, a man who had made his fortune promoting Mexican wrestling in South America. My employer was looking increasingly desperate as the prospective purchaser slowly shook his head. Unhappy with that gesture, VJ broke off, abruptly swung away and strode over towards me. ‘Has Groysman appeared yet?’

  ‘No, sir.’ I made a show of double-checking the list on my phone. ‘He might be on the yacht, but he’s not been below yet.’

  ‘Shit.’

  He looked like tears might course down those plump cheeks at any moment. He pulled out one of those bling-tone, jewel-encrusted Vertu phones, dialled, and walked out of my earshot. His shoulders were hunched in tension. One second he looked like a man basking in sunshine without a care in the world. Anyone who glanced over now would see an anxious character sitting under a cloud that was firing lightning bolts at him.

  I checked my watch. Not much longer of this shift now. Later, I would put a call in to my old friend Freddie who was liaising with Colonel d’Arcy while I was on assignment. Like me, Freddie had been an army medic and I trusted her with my life. More importantly, I trusted her with my daughter’s life. If the Colonel turned up anything on Jess and I couldn’t react, there was nobody I’d rather have in my place than Freddie.

  I felt a familiar toxic pool of hatred congeal in my stomach. It was Matt-shaped. My first husband, a cute guy who turned into a drug-addled knobhead before deciding that he deserved to have his daughter back. What the fuck was he thinking? That he’d pluck a ready-made family off the shelf, since he couldn’t have kids with the treacherous Laura (his fault, not hers: he’d had a vasectomy when he thought life was nothing but banging bimbos in Ibiza).

  ‘Can you smell smoke?’ the waiter asked me.

  I sniffed, and at that moment I heard the boom of an explosion, the shattering of glass. Now I could not only smell smoke, I could see the stuff, spiralling up from somewhere near the waterline. More glass broke, this time champagne and martini glasses being dropped. The louche, the sophisticated and the elegant were instantly as jittery as meerkats sensing jackal.

  VJ strode quickly towards the rail, his face creased with worry as the breeze wrapped tendrils of smoke around him.

  The second low boom came from starboard and, again, thick grey smoke spewed up, sullying the air. I could hear shouts of alarm coming from other vessels. Our own guests were starting to move aft, as solid as a phalanx of Roman soldiers. I raised a hand and caught Jean-Claude’s eye. I indicated he should get everyone off, without a stampede. It would only take one person to fall and there would be carnage. He gave a hand signal back in fluent irritated. What the hell do you think I’m doing?

  The insistent screech of a smoke alarm kicked off, followed by a second and third, like an electronic choir: danger, danger, danger. Seconds later the deep bass of the music stopped abruptly. Even the DJs had realised something was amiss and the smoke wasn’t just incompetent special effects.

  VJ was in front of me, aiming to move past. I put a hand on the door.

  ‘Let me past,’ he demanded.

  ‘Sir, just think. We don’t know what’s going on. There’s crew down there. They’ll take care of it. There might be a fire,’ I said, pointing to the twin streams of smoke. Might?

  ‘We have sprinklers,’ he said. ‘State of the art. I have to put the covers on Eve before they deploy.’

  The door behind me opened and a thick cloud of fumes swept over us. From it, Balraj emerged, his frame shaking with his coughing and spluttering. His face was streaked with soot. I pulled the door closed after him.

  ‘Eve?’ VJ asked his man.

  ‘The tarpaulin is on,’ the Sikh said.

  If he was expecting thanks he was mistaken. ‘And sprinklers?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Is there a fire down there?’ he asked. ‘A real fire? Flames?’

  ‘Not that I could see. No flames.’

  That didn’t mean a thing. ‘You need to get off the boat, sir,’ I said. ‘For your own safety.’

  VJ ignored me and tried to push past.

  I barred his way with a shoulder to his chest.

  The captain came over the Tannoy, his Aussie voice as calm as ever. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we seem to have an incident in one of the galleys. It is nothing to worry about, probably someone just cremated the toast, but if you’ll just make your way off the vessel in an orderly manner, just in case.’

  Most were getting off, all right. Orderly didn’t have much to do with it, however.

  I heard the wail of a police siren over the alarms.

  ‘The captain is right, sir,’ I said. ‘It’s time to evacuate.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish. I’m going below,’ said VJ.

  I looked at Balraj; his eyes were red from the gritty smoke that had filled Kubera’s lower decks. ‘He shouldn’t,’ I said to him.

  VJ jabbed a finger at me. I resisted the urge to grab it and twist. ‘Balraj, get her out of the way.’

  ‘Balraj, take him ashore. It’s only a fucking car.’
>
  ‘Only a fucking car?’ An outraged VJ pulled back his hand as if to slap me.

  It was an impulse on his part and his arm snapped back with impressive speed. But I was faster. I punched four stiff fingers into his solar plexus. Assaulting my employers was becoming a habit. As VJ staggered back, his eyes bulging and his mouth making guppy movements, Balraj grabbed my forearm and squeezed. I felt my hand go numb and a stab of pain accelerated up to my shoulder.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he demanded.

  I twisted away and stepped out of his reach. I transferred my weight to the balls of my feet. If the Sikh wanted a fight, he could have one. But first, I tried reason. After all, he was a big guy to try to take down and, unlike VJ, match fit. ‘We’re on a boat, standing above a car full of petrol and an engine room with God knows how many gallons of fuel there, next to other boats similarly loaded with flammable material, with smoke pouring out, and he wants to go and check his fucking investment?’

  ‘Balraj . . .’ VJ gasped.

  ‘You’re a BG,’ I said, with as much feeling as I could muster. ‘Guard your Principal’s body, not his bank account.’

  I heard a police whistle sounding three sharp trills from the harbourside.

  Balraj made up his mind, turned and scooped up VJ into a fireman’s lift and headed aft. VJ began kicking his legs in a petulant fit. I managed to keep a straight face.

  The door behind me swung open once again and two crew appeared, faces blackened, coughing. ‘Sprinkler system has failed,’ one of them said.

  ‘What will you do?’ I asked.

  ‘Captain’s going to take her out to where the harbour fire boat can get to her.’

  ‘OK.’

  At that point a group of three cops appeared from the stern, ran past me and took the ladder in double-quick time, en route to the bridge.

  The crewmen went off to deal with the lines that secured us to the jetty. Jean-Claude took their place in front of me. ‘All OK?’

  I felt the deck tremble beneath my feet as the engines started. We were casting off, much to the relief of our nervous neighbours. ‘Will be soon.’

  ‘Seen Keegan?’

  I nodded. ‘Yup. Don’t worry, he’s here.’

  We were nosing out of the berth. On the decks of our flanking vessels anxious partygoers applauded us, wishing us good luck. But the smoke seemed to be diminishing now. I watched as several police cars, their blue lights pulsing off the shiny frontage of the yacht club, pulled to a halt.

  Jean-Claude reached around beneath his jacket and pulled out a Beretta 90two automatic pistol and held it out to me.

  ‘Just in case.’

  I hesitated for a minute. I didn’t sign up for any shooting. It’s not my thing. Not since I left the army. Not since I got shot a while back. That didn’t mean I didn’t know a thing or two about them. And guns do have a way of changing a situation. I took the Beretta and made sure the safety was clicked on – I like weapons with an old-fashioned manual lever, so you can be sure you won’t blow a hole in your thigh – and tucked it into my waistband.

  ‘Now for the tricky bit,’ he said.

  FIVE

  Any vessel longer than 50 metres is required to have a pilot to enter or leave the harbour at Monaco. Kubera was thirty-eight metres in length. So no pilot needed. Which was just as well; pilots would probably ask some awkward questions about why the boat only appeared to be on fire.

  The first thing I did was insert nostril plugs and go below. I located the smoke cylinders that had been hidden earlier in the day and doused them with a fire extinguisher. In truth, they were pretty exhausted anyway. I then made sure that the explosive charges that had been set to blow out windows had all detonated, so there would be no nasty surprises to come. All checked out. Keegan had been as good as his word when he had briefed me in Villefranche and all the gear supplied had been top rate. Most was from companies that supply special and covert forces. You don’t get this kind of kit on Amazon.

  Eve was still sitting under her lights, her sleek form now shrouded by a thick green rubberised cover, dusted with a grey film of smoke particles. I felt Kubera pick up speed and steadied myself. I imagined VJ standing outside the yacht club, watching his pride and joy pass through the breakwater and then lift as she picked up her skirts and ran away from him. Anger and anguish would overwhelm him, meaning it would be a good few minutes before he realised what had really happened.

  We had stolen his boat.

  After I’d finished I collected an envelope that I had secreted behind an access panel, pulled out the Beretta and threaded my way up to the bridge, ignoring shouted questions from the remaining crew. Nobody tried to stop me. A 90two does that to people – it is the kind of gun that looks like it means business. Before I went onto the bridge, I dropped the magazine from the butt and checked it was loaded. I hesitated. It was. Did I want to be waving a loaded gun about?

  But what if you have to fire a warning shot?

  If you have to fire a warning shot, things really have gone tits up. I rammed the mag home again. I kept the safety on, though.

  I looked at the shore. We had passed Monte Carlo Beach and the Monte Carlo Country Club (both of which are technically in France, not the principality) and Kubera was now speeding on east. Round the cape, past Menton and we were in Italy. Home and dry.

  I stepped onto the bridge and took in the scene. Jeff, the Australian captain, was standing with his hands on his hips, defiant despite the gun that was being pointed at him. He was dressed in a white shirt with Kubera stitched above the breast pocket and shorts that stopped just above his knee, showing tanned legs with sun-bleached hair. Despite the uniform, he looked more like a surf bum than a skipper. But skipper he was, and a mighty pissed-off one judging by the look on his face.

  At the wheel was one of the trio of Monegasque cops who had run by me – actually this was Marco, an Italian hired because he knew boats and these waters. The second cop and Jean-Claude kept their weapons levelled at two other Kubera crewmen, a couple of Croatians who clearly didn’t want any trouble. Standing in front of Jeff was Keegan, who had removed his policeman’s hat. It was his gun Jeff was facing down.

  ‘What is this, mate? Piracy? You think we’re in bloody Somalia now?’

  ‘Just be patient, captain,’ said Keegan evenly. ‘We mean you no harm.’

  ‘You’ve got a bloody funny way of showing it.’

  Marco turned and spoke to Keegan. ‘OK, out of French waters.’ We all knew in borderless Europe that didn’t mean much, but it did signify we would be dealing with officials sympathetic to our cause.

  Keegan let the tension leach out of his body and the gun barrel dropped an inch or so. ‘Sorry, captain. It’s just business, that’s all.’

  He probably shouldn’t have ended that sentence with what could be construed as a provocative smirk. Jeff decided to construe it that way. The skipper stepped forward as if he was going to pull Keegan limb from limb. He certainly had the height, but Keegan was pretty bulked up under the policeman’s uniform. I saw the Glock in Keegan’s hand twitch up.

  ‘Jeff,’ I said, walking into the centre of the bridge and sliding between him and Keegan. I had pocketed my pistol and now I handed him the envelope. Over the past couple of days I had made sure I had said hello and chatted to Jeff, so that he would have a familiar face undertaking this particular task. As a temporary hired hand you have to work hard to make sure you are noticed.

  He looked at me like I was something he’d found floating in his lavatory bowl. ‘What’s this?’

  I held out the paperwork. ‘This is a repossession order, legal in Italy and most other countries, to retrieve Kubera and the Bugatti. All official and above board.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The boat doesn’t actually belong to VJ. Never has.’

  He snatched the envelope, ripped it open and did a quick scan of the contents. Then he let it fall to the floor. ‘Bandogs, huh?’ I assumed this was some sort of Aus
tralian slang for bailiffs. He shook his head in disbelief and I could see a vein pulsing in his forehead. ‘I still think you’re jumped-up fuckin’ pirates.’

  ‘No,’ said Keegan slowly. ‘We’re retrievers.’

  After things had quietened down a little, I went out on the hot-tub deck. I stood at the rail and watched our silvery wake churn up the darkening sea. Strings of lights were appearing along the shoreline and the first stars peeked out from between the scattered clouds.

  I felt more favourably towards Kubera now. Sitting in harbour she had looked like just another vulgar plaything, a gilded fish almost out of the water. Out here, slicing effortlessly towards Genoa, she could show what she was really built for.

  Jeff had accepted the situation once Keegan explained that the ‘retrieval’ of the yacht included a severance package for captain and crew. Something VJ was unlikely to offer. Turned out Jeff didn’t even know Kubera was up for sale.

  VJ had lost a fortune with his gamble on old steel plants. Everything he once possessed was in hock. The yacht was owned by a bank in Singapore, the Bugatti by an insurance fund in New York. They weren’t really his to sell. Which was why the Bugatti sale had been off-the-books. And why his terms of sale had included a buy-back option within twelve months, before, he hoped, New York found out what he had done. But collectors weren’t interested in buy-back clauses. They wanted to own their baubles, no strings attached. VJ was treating them as high-class pawnbrokers. It was little wonder there had been no takers.

  Ever since the 1980s, whenever such a situation arose, banks and insurance companies had turned to a small group of what came to be known as retrievers. They were really upmarket repo men, debt collectors, bailiffs or, as Jeff put it, bandogs. But taking the goods from the recently rich and powerful was not the same as kicking down a door in Dartford or Detroit and swiping the flat-screen TV. It involved getting past security systems and guards and, very often, required elaborate operations like the one we had just pulled on VJ if nobody was to get hurt. Such undertakings were expensive, and retrievers usually asked for between 10 and 15 per cent of the resale value of goods. There were some very wealthy retrievers around who had yachts that they actually owned.