Crown Jewel

by Christopher Reich

  “How can I help?”

  “Come down. Take a look around. That’s all I ask.”

  “But I don’t know a thing about cheating on this scale.”

  “You spotted the man at your table last night.”

  “One man. And I missed his partner. You have a larger problem.”

  “And we’re taking active measures to stop it. You offer a kind of different skill.”

  D’Art leaned forward, putting a hand on Simon’s knee. “Give Toby a listen. The timing couldn’t be better. Monaco’s hosting the International Boat Show next week. The town will be overflowing with tourists, most of them wealthy and ready to drop a few thousand at the casino.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin,” said Simon.

  “There’s to be a Concours d’Élégance the last two days of the show…for cars, of course. Plenty of Italian contraptions like the ones you fix up. Cover doesn’t get any better.”

  “D’Art’s right,” said Toby. “You’d fit right in. Bring one of your cars. There’s a time trial, as well. Bit of fun. I’ll pay the entry fee. We’ll put you up in a suite at the Hôtel de Paris. All expenses on the house.”

  “Damned good grub, if I do say,” boomed D’Art.

  “I’m fine with a ham and cheese,” said Simon, shooting his friend a look.

  “Figures,” said D’Art, disparagingly. “Along with your Tennessee sour mash. Americans.”

  “I don’t mind a croque monsieur, myself,” said Toby, keeping the peace. “Allow me to sweeten the pot. We’ll bankroll you with one hundred thousand dollars to play the tables. Keep whatever you make.”

  “That’s not necessary,” said Simon.

  “And a success fee,” added Toby. “How does one million dollars sound?”

  “Success defined as?” asked Simon.

  “Hard proof of cheating…and whoever’s behind it.” Toby Stonewood sat back on the couch, arms crossed, worry etched into his face. “If you can track down the money, so much the better. I’ll give you five percent of anything you find. Mr. Riske, this has got to stop.”

  Simon looked from one man to the other. He wondered how much Lord Toby Stonewood had offered the expert who’d washed up in a fishing net. Success fees were nice, but you had to be alive to collect them. A million dollars was no good to a dead man.

  “Well?” said D’Art.

  Simon had already made his decision. “Deal,” he said.

  He was a gambling man. He never turned down a bet on himself.

  Chapter 9

  The drive to the shop passed in a blur. Window open, music blaring, Simon tapped his hand on the wheel in time to the beat. He was listening to the Clash and singing along to “The Magnificent Seven.”

  He crossed Blackfriars Bridge, skirting Waterloo Station and Battersea Park before heading into the more peaceful residential confines of Southfields. Nothing lifted his spirits like a new assignment, especially when it dropped into his lap out of the blue. It wasn’t the paycheck at the end of it (though he was never one to turn down a chance at earning a hefty sum) so much as the opportunity to immerse himself in an unfamiliar, often foreign field. And then to test his newfound prowess under adverse, even perilous, conditions.

  Monaco. Larceny on an organized scale. A time trial thrown in for good measure. And a million-dollar success fee at the end of it. What wasn’t to like?

  His good mood vanished a few seconds after he turned down the alley to his shop and found a car blocking his parking spot. The overflow lot sat adjacent to the alley. He activated the gate opener and parked between two automobiles protected by body tarps.

  The automobiles were Ferraris, each worth in excess of five hundred thousand pounds. The expensive ones he housed inside the shop 24/7. His own car was a VW Golf R, pearl-gray with Recaro seats and Pirelli low-profile tires. It was a high-performance gunner masquerading as an everyday Joe. Just as he liked it.

  Simon let himself out of the gate. A ten-foot fence topped with razor wire surrounded the lot. The gate was secured and, according to the salesman, capable of withstanding a frontal assault by an armored tank. God forbid, thought Simon, a tank in southwest London. He lived a stone’s throw from Wimbledon. The stewards of the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club would surely be appalled at the thought.

  A beat-up sign above the work entrance read EUROPEAN AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR AND RESTORATION.

  His pride and joy.

  The car blocking his spot was a black Daytona Spider, ’70 or ’71, a sleek two-door with Borrani spoked wheels, a long sloping hood, and concealed headlights. It had cost twenty thousand dollars the year it was made—expensive, but not exorbitant. Today it would fetch three million. Expensive, but not exorbitant.

  But not this one. At least not today.

  Simon bent to examine the front fender hanging askew, noting that the paint was scratched and that a turning lamp was missing. He rounded the car and winced. The right rear quadrant of the car was crunched like an accordion and the rear tire was bent inward.

  “Hey!” An angry voice pierced the midmorning calm. “Don’t touch that car!”

  “Get away from there!” came a second voice. “Scram!”

  Simon looked over his shoulder as two young men rounded the corner of his shop, running in his direction. One was slim, short, with black curly hair and an olive complexion. The other was tall, buff, and blond, his cheeks flushed red. Both were dressed in torn jeans and T-shirts that looked as though they’d never been washed.

  “Did you tell me to scram?”

  “That’s our car,” said the bigger one.

  “My car,” the shorter one added.

  “Yours?” said Simon, approaching the owner. “Doesn’t look like you know how to drive it. What did you hit? A parked car? A building?”

  “He drove over a curb and hit a stanchion, then—”

  “Shut up, Eric.” The shorter man stuck his hands in his pocket and bowed his head sheepishly. “Are you him? The guy that owns this shop? Risky?”

  “Riske,” said Simon. “The e is silent.”

  “Then you will fix my car. I need it no later than tomorrow at one.”

  The taller, blond man took up position behind his friend. “One o’clock.”

  Simon crossed his arms. “Is that right?”

  “I realize it’s a rush job. I am willing to pay accordingly.”

  Simon kept his comments to himself. Rude, demanding, and narcissistic weren’t unknown character traits of individuals who owned this type of automobile. “I’m booked,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Full up. All slots taken. Besides, we don’t do minor body work. I can give you the name of a shop in Islip that—”

  “No,” interjected the shorter man.

  “—should have it done in about three weeks,” Simon finished.

  “Three weeks?” The blond one, Eric, put a hand to his forehead and bent double as if someone had kicked him in the gut. “You’re a dead man,” he muttered to his friend.

  The owner of the car continued, unfazed. “It must be you. No one else.”

  Simon looked at the man more closely, then examined the car. A piece of the puzzle fell into place. “Have we met?”

  “You restored both of my father’s automobiles. He says you are the only person allowed to touch his cars.”

  “Besides you?”

  The short man grimaced. “We will come to that later. Right now, let us concentrate on the matter at hand. You will fix the car, Mr. Riske. No one else.”

  “Your father is?”

  “Rafael Harriri. I’m Martin, his oldest son.”

  Simon was as principled as the next man, but there was something about the name of a former client and a billionaire, not necessarily in that order, that shaped his thinking. “Come with me.” He unlocked the door to the shop floor, motioning for them to go ahead. “Hurry up. And don’t touch a thing.”

  The floor was buzzing with activity. A dozen Italian spo
rts cars in various states of disarray were spaced across the floor. There were ten Ferraris and two Lamborghinis (“Lambos” in the trade), though it was difficult to tell which was which, or if some were even cars at all. Doors were missing, interiors ripped out, hoods standing at attention, the engines either missing entirely or half dismantled. Three cars had been stripped of paint and their dull metal husks resembled the hulls of long-abandoned ships.

  Simon surveyed the lot, taking note of where each car stood in its long and tortured path back to life. The cost to restore them ran anywhere from a hundred thousand to a million. It was worth it. Once he’d finished his work, the combined value of the vehicles under his roof would top fifty million dollars. Not bad for some flimsy metal, a little rubber, a few strips of decent leather, and an internal combustion engine.

  Simon dropped off Martin Harriri and his friend in the waiting room, then doubled back to his office. Lucy Brown stood, arms crossed, blocking the door. “I didn’t go out.”

  “Wise decision.”

  “You’re wearing the same clothes.”

  “Am I?”

  “You haven’t been home.” Anger curdled to disgust as she thought through the accusation.

  Simon used the opportunity to slide past her and enter his office. How was it that women always knew when you’d been fooling around?

  Lucy followed closely. “So, where were you?” she demanded.

  “Get the two guys in the waiting room some tea,” he said. “Tell them we’re looking at the car and that I’ll be back to speak with them in a while.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Now, if you please, Ms. Brown.” He rounded his desk and sorted through the mail—bills, as usual—making a point not to look up. Finally, she took the hint and, with a huff, departed.

  “And don’t give them your phone number!” he added, a second too late.

  Simon picked up the phone and called Harry Mason, his chief mechanic and floor boss. “Meet me out back. Need you to look at something.”

  “I’m busy.”

  Simon rubbed the back of his neck. Harry Mason was pushing seventy, a short, irascible Irishman with a perpetual scowl. He patrolled the floor looking as though someone had stolen his last bottle of scotch. He cared about two things in life: cars and soccer, though not in that order. Simon knew that Harry was seated at his desk with his face buried in the sports page of The Sun, reading about his beloved football club, Arsenal.

  “How’s the new manager doing?” Simon asked.

  “Not good enough,” responded Mason with fire, taking the bait. “He’d better light a fire under their asses if he wants a top-four finish.”

  “Put down the paper and meet me out back. Now.”

  After he filled his mug with coffee, he left the office and found Mason giving the black Daytona a once-over.

  “Who the hell managed to do this? Those two knuckleheads in the lounge?”

  “You mean our newest clients.”

  “We don’t do repair work.”

  Simon knelt to examine the front fender, waggling it like a loose tooth. Taking hold of it with both hands, he gave a terrific yank and the fender came free altogether. Standing, he handed it to Mason. “Today we do.” He ran a hand along the crumpled chassis. “How long to fix this?”

  Harry Mason crossed his arms over his belly. “Bang out the metal, sand it down, prime it, then put it through the paint shop.”

  “I didn’t ask what needs to be done.”

  “Week.”

  Simon took hold of the passenger wing mirror, which was bent at a right angle, snapped it off, and tossed it onto the front seat. “Think Adriano has any of these in stock?”

  “Why would he?”

  “We’ll need to fix that ourselves.”

  Harry Mason grimaced.

  Simon squatted to study the front wheel, then lay down on his back and slid under the car. “Harry, take a look at this.”

  “For Chrissakes,” said Mason. “Must I?” There was much moaning and griping until Mason slid beneath the automobile beside him.

  “New struts?” asked Simon, the light from his phone illuminating two fractured metal rods attaching the wheel to the suspension.

  “Didn’t that numbskull brake at all before taking it over the curb?”

  “I’m betting our client had had a few too many.”

  “I thought their kind didn’t imbibe.”

  “He’s Lebanese.”

  “His problem, isn’t it?”

  “Do we have any replacements?”

  “We do.”

  Simon slid out from under the car and got to his feet. When Harry Mason was slow to free himself, Simon lent him a hand and hoisted him to his feet.

  “You’ve got something on your jacket,” said Mason.

  Simon studied the stain. Oil. A great big gob of it. The jacket was a write-off. He swore under his breath. “Add it to the bill. He can afford it.” He removed the jacket, crumpled it into a ball, and dumped it in the trash. “So?”

  “So what?” asked Mason.

  “How long for all of it?”

  “A month. We’re full up as is. I can put someone on it next week.”

  “I need it tomorrow.”

  “Are you daft? New paint alone takes two days to dry.”

  “I’ll drive slowly.”

  “Drive? Where? This isn’t your car.”

  “I’ll be entering it in the Concours d’Élégance in Monaco next Saturday. Steam clean the engine, detail the chassis top to bottom, and renew the leather.”

  “The entire shop will have to work on it all night long.”

  “I’ll be right there with them. I’m going upstairs to shower. Our new clients are in the reception area. Tell them our specialists are examining the car top to bottom and that I’ll be along in thirty minutes.”

  Simon’s flat occupied the second floor of the building. Entry was gained through a pair of reinforced steel doors, one off the shop floor, the other at the top of the stairs. His real job demanded that he protect himself as well as his cars, even if he wasn’t worth anything close to the least expensive of them.

  In the daytime, he worked as an investigator, problem solver, and all-around busybody. His clients included corporations, wealthy individuals, and the occasional law enforcement or intelligence agency. He was the man you went to when you couldn’t go to anybody else. If that sounded ominous, it shouldn’t have. Ninety percent of his cases involved nothing more perilous than surfing the Internet, slipping some banknotes into the hand of the right person for a bit of information, or following the odd Joe here or there. The steel doors were for the other ten percent.

  One day he’d think of a proper title. Something with just the right amount of intrigue. For the time being, his business cards gave his name, email, and phone number. His reputation told prospective clients everything they needed to know.

  Simon locked the door behind him and crossed the living area to his bedroom, where he took off his clothes and threw them in the hamper. He busied himself putting shoe trees in his loafers and returning them to their proper position. A full-length mirror hung above his fleet of shoes. He saw a lean, muscled man, broad shoulders, arms too big for his size, torso decorated by the scars Tania had found so interesting. Knife, dagger, shiv, blowtorch (actually a jerry-rigged can of deodorant and a cheap lighter…and yes, that one hurt the most). The circular nubs of ruined skin were bullet wounds and courtesy of the good guys, namely, the Marseille police. There was a reason he’d been in that prison.

  The tattoo running the length of his forearm explained it all. It showed a ship’s anchor around which a skeleton was draped, some wiggly blue lines that were supposed to be waves, and the words “La Brise de Mer.” It was the name of the notorious criminal organization founded in Corsica and active across the southern coast of France, the Bouches-du-Rhône and the Côte d’Azur. He came by the tattoo honestly, if the word applied. From ages sixteen to nineteen, he’d
roamed the streets of Marseille boosting cars, robbing jewelry stores, and hijacking armored trucks. His actions earned him the tattoo, the bullet wounds, and a stretch in Les Baumettes, a prison celebrated for its lawlessness and barbarity.

  The thought of prison and his time there sent an unwelcome shiver down Simon’s spine.

  He jumped up and grabbed the pull-up bar bolted to the ceiling. He knocked out twenty reps, then hung for a good ten seconds, feeling his muscles stretch and cry out for relief, then gave himself five more.

  Time for a shower.

  “I have good news and bad news,” Simon explained after he’d ushered Martin Harriri and his friend Eric into his office and shown them a place to sit. “The good news is that since I know your father and, if I recall, advised on the purchase of the car, I’ve decided to fix it.”

  “And the bad news?”

  “I’ll need at least a week, maybe two.”

  “I’m dead,” groaned Martin, burying his face in his hands. He sat in a director’s chair that had belonged to Steve McQueen during the making of Le Mans. Eric sat behind Martin on the sliver of free space available on the couch, a vintage jukebox brushing one shoulder, a stack of olive legal files a meter high the other. The rest of the office was equally cluttered. It was a graveyard of memorabilia, most of it related to Simon’s work. The general disorderliness stood in stark contrast to his flat. There was something there for an analyst to look at, but Simon didn’t go in for that kind of thing.

  “When I was younger,” Simon said, “I drove a few cars I wasn’t supposed to. You’ll survive.”

  “Were they a Ferrari Daytona?”

  “It wasn’t the make so much as who they belonged to. Believe me when I say the owners weren’t happy with me.”

  “What happened?”

  Simon ignored the question. “Right now, let’s worry about you. Give me your father’s phone number.”

  “You can’t call him.”

  “Feel free, then. Tell him the bill will be fifty thousand pounds. I’ll need a down payment…say, twenty thousand. You’re good for the rest of it.”

  Martin considered this, then slid his phone out of his jeans. “What are you going to say?”