“I was just looking at those. Sumerian? Babylonian? Could be window dressing—you know, artistic flair.”
“Doubtful.”
“You check the back for an inscription?”
“A what? Damn it all! Hold on a sec.” Simon scrambled to examine the underside of the cuff link. Jenkins had been smart to ask him to look. There was something. Again the runes. Four markings, two of which repeated. Simon took a picture using his flash and emailed it posthaste.
“Let me take this round. Someone’s sure to pick it out.”
“Could it be Serbian Cyrillic?”
“Serbian? The plot thickens.” Jenkins hemmed and hawed. “Don’t think so. It isn’t Cyrillic at all. Anything else we can help with?”
Simon thanked him and asked him to do his best to obtain a speedy reply. He’d barely hung up when the phone buzzed again. He didn’t recognize the number. French country code. Nice city code. “Yes?”
“Mr. Riske. My favorite mechanic. Time for a drink? I’ve got some news about the time trial that might interest you.”
It was the gargoyle from the Bar Américain. Dov Dragan.
Simon needed a moment before giving his answer.
Chapter 40
King of the world!” shouted Martin Harriri after he’d snorted a quarter gram of cocaine off the hooker’s cleanly shaved mons veneris. He rolled off the king-sized bed and stumbled naked to the window. A steady rain fell on Hyde Park. Mist hung low over the green canopy. “What do they call that again?” he asked, pointing to the blue finger of water barely visible in the center of the park.
“The Serpentine,” said the hooker, who was raven-haired, busty, and gorgeous. “Give me another, darling.”
“On the table. Have all you want.”
She rubbed his back and kissed him. She was from Latvia or Estonia or someplace that escaped Martin. He freed a magnum of Cristal Rosé from the ice bucket, guzzling what remained from the bottle. His heart was beating madly and he was having trouble keeping everything straight. The problem with coke was that the more you did, the more you wanted to do, and the more you wanted to do, the more you needed to do just to get back to where you were a few minutes before. Supply wasn’t a problem. He’d come to the hotel equipped to hide out for as long as necessary. There was an ounce in the desk and another kilo back at his apartment. The apartment was out of bounds for the moment. He couldn’t go anywhere until he knew that matters were settled with the Solntsevo Brotherhood.
“Eric!” he yelled into the next room. “Call room service and get us another bloody mags.” “Mags” for magnum, which the Dorchester on Park Lane was offering for one thousand pounds a bottle.
There was no response. Martin staggered into the drawing room. The place was a shambles. Clothing strewn over the furniture. Dirty dishes littering the tables. Half-empty glasses smeared with lipstick.
“Eric?”
His friend’s head peeked out from the corner of the sofa. A girl lay on top of him. They were both passed out. Martin vaguely remembered giving them a Xanny to chill. Had they eaten the entire plank? He’d been going for fifty-odd hours himself and considered seriously whether it was time for him to take a Xanax, too, and let the party come to its ceremonious conclusion.
Martin glanced back into the bedroom, where Bella was chopping a line for herself. He stared at her naked body. Those tits! There was no point in stopping while there were still ample party supplies. He called room service and ordered another magnum of champagne, a tin of caviar, and, for the hell of it, an order of eggs Benedict, though the thought of eating made him want to retch.
There was a knock at the door and he thought that was damned swift, even for the Dorchester. He wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the door.
Two men stood there. Both wore dark suits and white shirts. One had a cast on his left wrist. The other’s face was bruised, one eye swollen. They could have been brothers. Simon Riske would have recognized them as the men who’d followed him into the mountains two days earlier, Goran Zisnic and Ivan Boskovic, and whom he’d just learned were two of London’s most notorious drug lords.
“You won’t ask us in?” said Goran.
“Come in. Come in, my friends,” said Martin, throwing open the door, thinking only vaguely that there was no reason for them to be here…and how the hell did they know where he was, anyway?
Ivan followed Goran into Martin’s terrace penthouse. “How much they charge? For this?”
“Per day? Ten thousand. But if you book it for a week, they cut you a break.”
“Ten thousand,” said Goran, walking through the rooms as if he owned the place. “And still you can’t pay us.”
“You have the car,” said Martin. “That settles our business until I make things right. It’s only a few hundred thousand pounds. The car’s worth a few million. Relax.”
“No car,” said Ivan.
Martin only half heard him. He was headed into the bedroom and straight to the mound of cocaine on the desk, lowering his head and snorting it without the aid of a straw or rolled-up banknote. Had Ivan said “No car”? What did he mean by that? Martin had told them where to find the Daytona as well as about Simon Riske’s plan to drive it to Monaco for the Concours d’Élégance. All they had to do was take it back. Had they miffed that up somehow?
Determined to find out, Martin raised his head from the desk in time to meet Goran’s fist straight on. He felt his nose break and saw stars, falling to his knees as blood rushed from his nostrils and warmed the back of his throat. He dropped his head and spat a fat red gob onto the carpet.
Rough hands lifted him to his feet. Goran handed him a washcloth. Dazed, Martin pressed it against his ruined nose. Behind him, Ivan was talking to Bella in a common language. She was from Croatia…That was it. She kissed him twice, once on each cheek, then gathered her clothing and fled the room.
“What do you mean ‘No car’?” Martin demanded, trying to regain some measure of respect.
“You tell him we were coming?” asked Goran.
“Riske? What do you mean? Tell him about you? Of course not.”
“He sees us. He does this to Ivan. I wrecked my Audi. Nice car. I think you told him we are coming.”
“Slow down,” said Martin in an effort to make sense of it all. “Where is the Daytona?”
“Who the fuck knows?” said Ivan.
“You didn’t steal it from him?”
“We don’t steal nothing,” said Goran heatedly. “We take what is ours…what you owe us.” He approached Martin with a smile. “We are here today in spirit of friendship. You got ten thousand a day for this place, you got the two hundred thousand you owe us.”
“Three hundred thousand,” said Ivan from the drawing room. “Don’t forget the car.”
“Not insured,” said Goran, with a shrug of irritation. “Three hundred thousand.”
Martin looked around the spacious suite. “This? This is credit. My father’s account. He stays here all the time.”
“Get cash from hotel.”
“I can’t. Maybe a thousand pounds from the front desk. Come on, Goran. Do a line. Make yourself a drink. Calm down. Life is good. Let’s settle this like gentlemen.”
Martin saw Bella and her friend finish dressing and leave. Ivan stood near the couch, facing Eric. Suddenly, Eric’s hands shot in the air. There came a muffled cry of distress. Ivan was holding a pillow over Eric’s face, leaning on him with considerable effort. Before Martin could protest, Goran slugged him in the stomach. He bent double.
“Last chance.”
“Five thousand in my jacket,” said Martin after he’d gotten his breath. “Eric has a few thousand, too. That’s all.”
Martin watched as Ivan moved away from the couch. He was holding the pillow and coming toward him.
“Eric?” he said. “Are you okay? Eric?”
“No,” said Ivan. “He not okay. Not ever again.”
Martin began to cry. Panic overtook him. Until no
w, a voice had been telling him that he had nothing to worry about. He was the son of a billionaire. He was rich. If he’d bought too much cocaine without paying, it was a matter they could rectify. After all, they were gentlemen.
He’d been wrong. Goran and Ivan were going to kill him. Even in his stupor, he knew enough to be deathly frightened.
Martin dashed toward the drawing room. Goran stopped him without difficulty, pinning his arms behind him. Goran said something to Ivan, who dropped the pillow and went to the desk, opening the top drawer and taking out the baggie of cocaine.
“Take it,” said Martin between sobs. “That and the cash. The car is in Monaco. Get it there. He’s doing a time trial this weekend. Steal it from the garage. Piece of cake.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Please.”
Ivan opened the baggie and peered inside. “We don’t do drugs. Drugs for weak people. Idiots. People like you.” He dug his fingers into the powder and removed a handful.
“Eat it,” said Goran. “You like it so much.”
“It’s too much,” said Martin. “I can’t.”
Goran held him tighter as Ivan forced his mouth open and rammed his fingers inside it, depositing a fistful of the white powder. Martin fought and fought, but finally he swallowed, gagging. He felt his heart jump. His vision cleared. For a moment, he felt better, even that he might come out of this okay. Then Ivan put another handful into his mouth. He swallowed quickly this time, thinking it might not be so bad after all. As soon as they left, he’d drink a gallon of water and call the hotel doctor. Then he’d make himself throw up.
Ivan dumped all that was left of the baggie into his hand and pushed it into Martin’s mouth. Martin’s cheeks flushed and he felt himself growing hot. In less than a minute, he’d consumed more than an ounce of high-quality cocaine. A toxic amount. His head began to pound and there was a terrible pressure behind his eyes.
Ivan dropped the empty baggie onto the ground. Goran released Martin. He fell onto the bed, onto the cool sheets. His heart was beating like a jackhammer, the rush of blood in his veins deafening. He was hot. Too hot. His forehead felt as if it were afire. Cheeks, too. He tried to sit up and the muscles in his back spasmed. There was something warm filling his mouth. He turned his head and frothy white liquid poured onto the sheets, gushing out of him like water from a broken hydrant.
The pounding in his chest grew faster still. The roar in his ears louder.
It was hard to draw a breath.
And louder still.
Oh Lord, he was dying.
And then the pounding stopped.
Martin looked at Goran and exhaled.
It was all better.
Eyes wide open, he fell onto the sheet. Dead.
Goran looked at Ivan. “You ever been to Monaco?”
Ivan shook his head. “Fuck no.”
“What do you think? That car really worth two million?”
“More.”
Goran put his hand on Ivan’s shoulder as they walked to the door. “This time that son of a bitch won’t know we’re coming.”
Chapter 41
The family was under attack.
Someone had killed Mama.
Someone had tried to kill her.
Elena Mancini had been beaten within an inch of her life.
Vika acknowledged these facts as she would any others affecting her welfare and the welfare of those she loved. Not with fear, trepidation, and panic. But calmly, rationally, and with a desire bordering on the pathological to find whoever was responsible and make them pay. If anyone expected her to fall to pieces and let someone else do all the work, they had the wrong woman.
Thankful to be back in her room, she kicked off her shoes and collapsed into one of the club chairs. Her first order of business was to place a call to Fritz’s school. She was pleased to find Dr. Brunner in his office. She asked after her son and the headmaster informed her that Robert had gone into town as all the boys did on Thursdays after school. As per her wishes, he had dispatched Coach MacAndrews to tag along and see if he might join Robert. Dr. Brunner had heard nothing back, so he assumed all was fine. Vika thanked him and hung up. She considered calling her son but didn’t want to embarrass him if he was with friends. It had taken long enough for him to be comfortable on his own. She didn’t want to jeopardize his independence. She had interviewed MacAndrews herself. He was a capable man with a solid record. Fritz was in good hands.
Vika put down the phone. If only she could curl up on the bed and sleep. If only she could cry out, “Please help me. It’s too much.” Capitulation, sweet and fragrant as a poisonous flower, beckoned. Yield. Yield. Yield.
And then what?
She’d learned long ago that to rely on another was as dangerous as doing nothing. It didn’t matter that she was frightened and fragile and altogether out of her depths. She could not bend. She could not break. She could not yield.
Vika stood suddenly, surprising herself. Shelter could be found in her own history. This was not the first time they had been threatened. The family’s thousand-year history was strewn with battles and treachery and attempts to wrest its birthright, and its fortune, from its members. Her home, Schloss Brandenburg, had been built in the sixteenth century on a mountain redoubt overlooking the valley in all directions. The castle boasted thirty-foot walls, sentry towers, and even a portcullis. If there was a family motto it might be “Take No Chances.” Deep in the cellar, there once had been a room for boiling oil, with a medieval delivery system to transport great cauldrons of the stuff to the parapets, from where it could be poured down onto the heads of the enemy. As a child, she’d run her hand along the sections of stone burned smooth by the boiling liquid. Her family knew about marauders.
“He wants to know about the family…He scares me.”
And now her mother’s fear had proved justified. If they wanted the ring, it meant they knew about the codicil. Either mother had divulged it, accidentally or otherwise, or someone outside the family had done so. Vika could count on one hand the individuals who knew about it. There was Herr Bruderer, their eighty-year-old family attorney. Out of the question. It was easier to get blood from a stone. And Herr Notnagel, the family accountant, the fourth generation of Notnagels to hold the post. Never. Of course, there was “Bismarck,” Mama’s ex-husband, but he was as rich as they. The Holzenstein dynasty went back as far as their own. None of the above had motive to reveal the codicil to an outside party.
Even so, Vika called them all and apprised them of what had happened. She asked if there had been any undue attention, any questions asked, any change in the law or their family circumstance that she should know about. The answer was an unambiguous no, apart from a law that had passed only a few days earlier, a rider to an immigration bill raising the death duty on the transfer of estates by one-half percent. That was of no concern.
Vika herself had instigated the tax planning that had saved the von Tiefen und Tassis fortune. The estate would pass from Papa to Fritz upon his twenty-first birthday. No one would be allowed to touch it until then. By skipping one generation, the family would benefit from a tax holiday implemented to prevent the breakup of great estates. There were additional restrictions on the sale of family assets, but Vika couldn’t see how anyone outside the family could benefit from trying to sell them off.
Which brought her back to the ring.
Vika went to the window overlooking the Place du Casino. Elena had told her where it was hidden. It was safe, that much Vika knew. And close. Close enough to retrieve on foot and be back in her hotel room in an hour. She scanned the busy sidewalks, the throngs of men and women. It was hard to believe that out there somewhere was someone who wished her harm.
Vika crossed the room and opened the door to the hall. Peeking out, she gazed in the direction of the elevator. She was willing to wager Riske had been lying about stationing a valet to keep an eye on her. Surely he had believed her this time when she’d said she would stay put. She o
pened the door further and stepped into the hall. A head poked out from the elevator vestibule. A man was staring at her. A hotel valet.
Vika jumped back into her room and slammed the door.
Damn Simon Riske for keeping his word.
Chapter 42
Simon threw on a blazer and headed downstairs. The last thing he felt like doing after such an emotionally taxing day was make chitchat with Dov Dragan. But Dragan was a race steward and Simon had come to Monaco to take part in the time trial. Cover was something you lived. He considered asking Vika to join him, then decided against it. It wouldn’t be fair to her, and more important, he needed to wean himself off his feelings for her. It was a dead end. The sooner he got that through his head the better.
Simon found Dragan seated at a table in the rear of the bar. He was wearing a canary-yellow blazer over a black T-shirt with navy slacks that desperately needed ironing. He was a remarkably bad dresser. And that was before Simon caught sight of the espadrilles.
“So nice of you to join me,” said Dragan, pulling himself from his chair and extending a hand in greeting. “And at such short notice.”
“You said you had some news about the time trial. It sounded urgent.”
The handshake was weak and noncommittal. A dead fish. Nothing told Simon more about a person.
Dragan sat and motioned for Simon to do the same. “We’ve decided to move up the time trial by one day. A severe storm system is headed our way and the forecasters promise torrential rain. There’s no chance the race can take place. What do you say?”
“Good idea.”
“You’ll be ready?”
“I’m having the car serviced now. You had me so worried I flew down my best mechanic from London.”
“You don’t really think there’s anything you can do to that engine to make it compete with my Bugatti?”
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
Dragan had a laugh to himself. “How did a man like you get from Marseille to London?”
“What do you mean?”
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