After dinner, he put on a necktie and a splash of cologne. Taking care, he gathered his electronic weapons of war, slid them into his jacket pockets, and headed to the door, ready for battle. He was interrupted by a phone call.
“Simon, it’s Toby.”
“Toby?” The familiarity caught him off guard.
“Toby Stonewood. Remember me?”
“Of course—Toby. Please excuse me.”
“How was the journey?”
“Eventful.”
“Oh?”
“But nothing to keep me from getting started.”
“Everything to your liking?”
Simon took a look around the room. At the elegant black lacquer table, the exquisitely comfortable sofa, the seventy-inch flat-screen television, the spray of yellow gladiolas that lent the space an invigorating scent. “Just about.”
“We tend to overdo things down there,” said Toby Stonewood. “I know it’s too soon to ask if you’ve made any progress, but we lost another six hundred thousand euros last night. They’re still working the place.”
“I spent the evening there. I need time to get a better feel for things, but I noticed a thing or two that wasn’t quite right.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“Not yet. I’m headed back now. I hope to have something for you in a day or two.”
“I’d encourage you to take your time, but we haven’t much left.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“One more thing.”
Simon noted the marked change in tone. “Yes?”
“One of our dealers was found dead this afternoon,” Toby went on. “In fact, I’m just off the phone with the Monégasque police. The man was Vincent Morehead. He’s Ronnie Morehead’s brother.”
The news shook Simon. “Ronnie…from Les Ambassadeurs?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“They found the body in a quarry on the Italian border. He’d been beaten to death.”
The natural question for Toby was whether he thought it had anything to do with the problems at the casino. Simon already knew the answer.
“The police suspect he may have been in debt to an organized crime syndicate,” said Toby. “The inspector hinted that they’d seen this kind of thing before.”
Something fired inside Simon and he only just managed to keep his temper. It wasn’t about debts. Vincent Morehead had seen something and now he was dead. “Nonsense. He was killed because he noticed something.”
“I suspect you’re right. But Simon, you need to be careful. Morehead died with every bone in his body broken and his skull rent in by a blunt instrument. These people—whoever they may be—are vicious.”
“Count on it.” Simon ended the call.
On the way to the elevator, he phoned Vika. There was no answer. He rode down to the lobby and, using a hotel phone, asked to be connected to her room.
“Ms. Brandt has asked that she not be disturbed,” said the operator.
“It’s an emergency.” Simon gave his name and stated that he, too, was a hotel guest.
“I’m sorry, sir, but our policy is to respect the guest’s wishes.”
Simon hung up. In a minute’s time, he was standing at Vika’s door. When no one answered, he put an ear to the panel. He heard nothing. No television. No music. No voices.
He banged again, three times in succession, very hard.
A chambermaid eyed him from the end of the hall. “May I help you?” she asked.
“I’m worried about Ms. Brandt,” said Simon. “Can you open her room?”
“Ms. Brandt? She is not there.”
“Oh?”
“She left a few minutes ago.”
“Alone?”
The chambermaid nodded. “I saw her enter the elevator.”
“Great,” said Simon. “Just great.”
“Pardon me?”
“Never mind,” he said. “Some people just don’t listen.”
Chapter 26
It was the worst day of his entire life.
Robby pulled his jumper over his head, smoothed his hair, then closed his locker. He was the last one in the gym and the noise echoed off the shower tiles and the old, high ceilings, making him feel lonelier than he already was. It was nearly six. Practice had ended an hour ago. Dinner was already being served at the culi—which was short for culinarium, some dumb Swiss name for the cafeteria. Wednesdays meant schnitzel and pommes frites. His favorite. Tonight he could care less. Throwing his book bag over his shoulder, he made his way outside.
Robby pushed open the gymnasium door and put his hand out. Though the sky had turned dark as coal, not a drop dampened his palm. He gazed past the field and into the mountains. The rest of the team had left directly after practice, heading into the forest with Karl Marshal for a secret bonfire. Robby spotted a wisp of smoke drifting skyward from the pine canopy.
“You have to be a starter,” he’d said to Robby. “Or at least have played in a game. Sorry, pal.”
Robby started up the hill toward his dorm. All afternoon, clouds had been rolling in and he hoped it would rain. He hoped it would come down like cats and dogs and that there was thunder and lightning, a proper electrical show, and that the team would come running back to school drenched and freezing and scared out of their wits and find him safe and warm and dry in the dorm. That would teach Karl Marshal a lesson.
He imagined he heard laughter drifting down from the forest. Paulie Jackson was probably telling dirty jokes. He knew a ton of them. Robby wondered if Karl Marshal really had gotten beer. He doubted it.
“Elisabeth is coming with us, too,” he’d said. “Not that she’d notice you’re missing.”
Robby knew he was lying. She would never hang out with a bunch of high school kids, even first formers. He pictured Karl Marshal and his big head and his broad shoulders and his confident manner. Was there any way in the world she might actually like him?
Robby shook his head angrily. Never. Not in a million years. Furious for even considering it, he crossed the track and started up the field, occasionally taking a sidelong glance at the forest to see if the smoke was still there.
The bonfire wasn’t the only thing bothering him. On Thursday afternoons, sixth formers at Zuoz were allowed to “hit town,” or go on their own into the village. It was a short walk, no more than five minutes, and students could spend time strolling along the main street. The first stop was always Café Simmens, where they could choose from hot chocolate and pastries—mille-feuille and strawberry tarts were favorites—or, of course, a Coupe Dänemark: vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce with a generous topping of fresh whipped cream. Across the street was a dime store called Vario that sold pretty much everything: magazines, comics, coloring books, stuffed animals, and even toys. There was a jewelry store, a pharmacy, and of course a grocery, a butcher, and a bakery. Robby’s mother kept him on a strict allowance. He had fifteen francs to spend and took care before making his purchases.
One-quarter of Robby’s classmates were day students. The privilege meant little to them. Often, they invited friends to their homes, typically chalets in St. Moritz or Pontresina. Robby’s family also had a chalet above Pontresina. The family used it only for ski holidays. The rest of the year it sat boarded up and deserted. But to Robby, “hitting town” was a big deal, an occasion that merited much strategizing and discussion.
He’d asked two of his schoolmates to accompany him. Both had turned him down. It was Robby’s first year at Zuoz and classes had started barely six weeks earlier. He didn’t think it odd that he had yet to make any friends. The fact was that he had never been exceptionally good at palling around. While some kids were naturally popular—take Karl Marshal, for example, who was never seen without two or three friends in tow, even a girl sometimes—Robby could claim no such luck. He was friendly enough in his way. He said hello when addressed. He loved jokes, even if he was terrible at telling them. He was polite and respectful and, mos
t important, never talked badly about anyone.
And yet despite trying all week, Robby had no one to hit town with and no invitation to visit a friend’s home. Maybe he’d just stay at school and get a head start on his homework. He stopped in his tracks. No one stayed at school and did their homework. What was wrong with him?
At that moment, Robby decided he was done trying to do the right thing. He was done never complaining, never teasing the other boys, never making fun of the ugly girls. From now on, he’d do the same as the others. He’d carp about the food at the culi. He’d rib Franz Maeder for being so fat. He’d call his mother and pout about how the others were treating him.
He laughed out loud—not even a laugh, but a cackle. Robby never cackled. He was already on the right track and enjoying himself immensely.
“Robert!”
At the sound of a woman’s voice he froze. He turned his head. It was her. It was Elisabeth taking her afternoon walk, though an hour later than usual. She waved. “Where is everyone?”
“In the forest,” he said. “Having a bonfire.” Only then did he realize he’d said too much. He looked like a loser for having been left behind.
“Without you?”
Robby struggled to make up a reasonable explanation for not having been invited. He couldn’t. “It’s a secret party, but I wasn’t invited because I’ve never played in a game.”
Elisabeth stared at him, considering this. She didn’t say “Oh well” or “They’re the ones missing out” or “I wouldn’t worry.” Instead, she left the walking path and crossed the field to where he stood. “That’s not very nice of them.”
“I have to get better before I can play,” said Robby.
“Yes,” she said. “You do. I’ve watched you play.”
“You have? Me? Why?”
“My brother was a very good rugby player. He played on the German team.”
“The German national team?”
Elisabeth nodded and a lock of her blond hair fell across her face. “But he wasn’t always good. How old are you, Robert?”
Robby needed a second. He was in a state of paralysis. She’d remembered his name. “Twelve,” he said. “Actually, twelve and a half.”
“He was much smaller than you at twelve. A real shrimp.”
“He was?”
Elisabeth nodded again. “Know how big he is now?”
Robby shook his head.
“Six feet four inches tall, and he weighs two hundred twenty pounds.”
“That’s big.”
“I’ll bet your father is tall.”
“He was. He’s dead.”
“So there.” A smile to light the darkest winter night. “Just a matter of time.”
“Think so?”
“Know it.”
Robby stood up straighter, already feeling two inches taller.
“Tell you what,” said Elisabeth, placing her hand on his shoulder, leaning close enough to make Robby’s heart nearly explode. “No school on Thursday afternoons, right? Meet me in town for a coffee. Would you like that?”
Robby didn’t answer at first. The sight of her so close, the smell of her, the touch of her hand on his shoulder, had locked him in some kind of wonderful trance. Finally, he said, “Yes. Yes, I would.”
“Don’t bring your friends. It will be just you and me.”
“Sure,” said Robby. “Just you and me.”
“How about two o’clock at Café Simmens? Meet me on the corner. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Okay, then. Tschuss.”
“Tschuss.”
Elisabeth kissed him on the cheek and continued on her walk. Robby watched her go, his feet glued to the ground. If he took one step, if he moved a muscle, he was sure he’d wake up and find that the entire encounter had been nothing but a dream.
Chapter 27
It was all set forth in the trust. The ring was to be held by the most senior male of full-blood lineage in the family succession. If there was no male, then by the most senior female, until a male attained the age of majority.
Upon Papa’s death, the ring had gone to Mama, and upon Mama’s death, it was to go to Vika, who would hold it until her son, and only living progeny, Fritz, attained his majority at age twenty-one. On that date, in a ceremony performed since the twelfth century, she would give the ring to him and the von Tiefen und Tassis estate would be his. All of it.
The ring was of paramount importance.
Vika hadn’t intended to go to her mother’s apartment. She hadn’t been thinking about the ring at all until she saw him later that evening, after she’d had her dinner downstairs.
Her first thought after she’d returned to her room was about Fritz. She had no idea what was going on, but as Mr. Riske had said, something was. She might be a tad flippant regarding her own safety, but her attitude toward her son couldn’t be more different.
She placed a call to the headmaster’s office at the Lyceum Zuoz. When informed that Dr. Brunner was gone for the day, she called him on his private number. It was not a courtesy to be abused.
“Frau Brandenburg, how may I be of help?” said Dr. Andreas Brunner, sixty years old, climber, philatelist, and former member of the Swiss Guard. (Alas, the vow of lifelong chastity had proved too onerous. Brunner had fallen in love with a Roman beauty—a Protestant, no less. Thirty years later they were still married.)
“Something has come up,” Vika began, appreciating Brunner’s no-nonsense manner. In vague terms, she sketched out the events of the past days, suggesting that there might be an unholy interest in the family by people unfriendly to the cause.
“Shall we send Robert to you?”
“I don’t want him disturbed. There’s no reason to believe he’s in any kind of jeopardy. Please have our mutual friend keep a close eye on him. You might want to hire on an extra teacher for the next few weeks. If possible, he could even stay in Fritz’s hall.”
“I’ll see to all matters myself and of course help as much as I can personally.”
“That would be nice.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Keep my boy safe, Dr. Brunner.”
Vika ended the call and a weight lifted from her. Prior to her son’s arrival at the school, arrangements had been made to provide him with a minder—not a bodyguard so much as an attentive uncle able to react in a decisive manner if called upon. He was a member of the faculty with past military experience, time in combat. She’d met the man and had every confidence in him.
Unburdened of one responsibility, she took a shower, put on a robe, and watched television. The news in France was as unsettling as in Germany, or anywhere else these days. Six o’clock rolled around. Feeling cooped up and in need of fresh air, she decided that a trip downstairs and a jaunt around the lobby would lift her spirits. She didn’t consider calling Riske. She was a big girl. She resented his autocratic display, no matter his experience or the events that had transpired earlier in the day. Besides, how dangerous could it be? This was the Hôtel de Paris.
When she reached the lobby and saw it bustling with elegant, well-dressed men and women, numerous hotel staff in plain sight, even two police officers standing at the front door, she dismissed her concerns altogether. She was in her element. Surely she was as safe here as anyplace.
She found a table at the Bar Américain and ordered her favorite drink, a dulap: grape juice, Sprite, and a healthy chunk of lime. For the first time all day, she relaxed. A dinner of veal scaloppine and brussels sprouts heightened her sense of security. Minute by minute, the memory of the car careening around the corner and heading straight for her grew dimmer, and Riske’s order that she stay in her room and “lock the goddamned door” seemed increasingly alarmist.
It was then that she began thinking about the ring. It came to her that maybe Mama had taken it off and that Vika would find it in her jewelry chest, and if not there, in the safe or by the sink where she set all her cosmetics. Over and over she heard her mother’s vo
ice telling her, “He wants to know about the family…He scares me.” Vika’s determination to act…to do something…grew. She couldn’t just sit still.
And then she saw him and her mind was made up.
It was after eight when Simon Riske walked across the lobby and left the hotel. He wore a dark suit cut impeccably and looked very sharp; to any observer, he was a man out for a night on the town. Work indeed. Vika’s eyes followed him out the door and across the street to the casino. Up the stairs he went with a spring in his step, clapping the doorman on the arm as he entered. What type of job involved visiting a casino dressed to the nines?
Vika’s cheeks flushed. She clasped her hands together, then tore them apart. The man was a liar. She had the entirely irrational thought that if he could do as he pleased, then so could she.
Hesitation left her.
Vika paid her bill and left the hotel, as intent on getting to Mama’s as Simon Riske had been to enter the casino. She only hoped she had as much brio in her manner as he did.
Vika took no notice of the sturdy, dark-haired man with the pronounced widow’s peak and crooked nose watching her from a table at the Café de Paris. After she passed by, the man said a word to his colleagues, both of whom resembled him to an unnerving degree, and set off after her.
Ratka had a good idea where she was heading and kept a safe distance between them. She was a beautiful woman and he enjoyed the sway of her hips. She had changed her clothes from this afternoon. She wore a maroon dress that hugged her shapely ass to perfection. He enjoyed even more the scoop cut that showed off her breasts. He noted how she kept her head raised as she walked, her jaw held high. Like a real princess. This angered him. He despised haughty women. At the same time, he felt a surge in his groin.
He watched as she turned her head, checking for traffic, before crossing the street. He noted the crisp line of her jaw. So damned perfect. She lifted her hand as she crossed, as if commanding the cars to stop. He walked more quickly, his anger growing with every step. He had his own opinion about princesses, real or otherwise, and how they should be treated. The same way all women were to be treated.
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