Crown Jewel

by Christopher Reich

  His phone rang as he climbed the stairs. Le Juste.

  “What do you want?” said Ratka.

  “Do you know that your house has burned down?”

  Ratka stopped, putting a hand to the wall. “Burned down? How? I was there two hours ago. What are you talking about?”

  “It appears to be arson. Several gasoline cans were found nearby.”

  The shock of the news robbed Ratka of words. He thought of Tommy and Pavel, at a loss to imagine how they’d failed so horribly. And what about Radek and his brother? Where had they gotten to? Was that Riske, too? Maybe Stonewood was right about him having been a criminal.

  “Two men were found inside,” Le Juste continued. “They did not die of burns or smoke inhalation. Both were shot in the head. They have been identified as Pavel Katic and Thomas Pupin. They’re your men, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s more. A prosecutor has been assigned to your case.”

  “Already?”

  “Already.”

  A fire…the police…a prosecutor—it was all moving too fast for him to get his head around.

  Ratka ran a hand across the back of his neck, angered at his men’s incompetence. “Do something, dammit.”

  “It’s out of my hands.”

  “How is that possible? You are the chief of the criminal division. You’re responsible for arson and homicide.”

  “No one cares about the fire, or the dead men. They’re more interested to know what you had hidden inside your house. The pompiers couldn’t get close to it because of all the explosives going off. One man was injured by an exploding grenade. Another was hit by shrapnel and may lose a leg. This is now officially a terrorist investigation. The national police have taken over.”

  “Terrorism?”

  “Apparently, there was enough matériel to bring down an entire city. Bullets, grenades, RPGs. Every man on the force is looking for you. I suggest you go back to Serbia at once.”

  Ratka hung up the phone. He was getting out of the country, all right. But he was not headed to Serbia. Not yet. He drew a breath to gain a measure of calm. He decided it was better not to say anything to the Englishman. The less he knew the better.

  Ratka returned to the counting room and delivered the drink.

  “Took your bloody time.” Stonewood drank down half the glass as if it were water.

  “You’re welcome.” Ratka checked the computer. “Another two million came in. I told you not to worry.”

  “Get all the cash and checks you have in this place together.”

  “Now?”

  “This minute,” said Stonewood. “Have your men bring me the rest later.”

  Ratka opened the safe and stuffed the evening’s take into a leather satchel. The Englishman finished his drink and rose. “You can get her now.”

  “At the hotel?”

  “Here’s the key to her room. Go in the back way. I’ve warned off security. Keep an eye out for Riske. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s there. He has a thing for my stepdaughter. If he’s fucking her, shoot him in the balls. And Ratka, you can knock her around a little—she deserves it. But try anything else and it’s you who’ll get the bullet.”

  Ratka stepped closer to Stonewood. Enough of this arrogant talk. Maybe it was he who needed to be knocked around a little.

  “Well?” said Stonewood.

  There came a shout from downstairs. A door banged against a wall. Automatic weapons fire exploded inside the house.

  “What the hell is that?” Stonewood had gone pale as a ghost.

  “It’s a machine gun. What do you think?”

  Ratka’s first thought was The police: somehow, they’d discovered he was renting the home on Rue Chaussée from an absentee Frenchman. He shoved Stonewood against the wall and drew his pistol. Then he remembered that his name wasn’t on the rental agreement. The barrage continued. So loud that his brain shook inside his skull. A man screamed. Paintings crashed to the floor. Glass shattered. Ratka recognized the sound of the weapons. Not the police at all. No cop had ever fired a Kalashnikov on duty.

  “Stay here,” he said, rushing into the hall.

  Ratka looked over the railing. Two of his men were down. A fat man he’d never seen was reloading his machine gun and having difficulty doing so. Ratka shot him in the chest. He dropped like a pauper on the gallows. Ratka shot him again.

  The second shooter was younger, with shiny dark hair. Seeing Ratka, he spun and fired, the weapon on full automatic. The bullets carved an arc in the ceiling above Ratka’s head. Kalashnikovs kicked high and to the right. You had to aim at the left knee of the man you wanted to kill. The machine gun ran out of ammunition. The shooter was quick to drop his magazine and replace it with a fresh one. Not quick enough. Descending the staircase, Ratka shot him three times. The man dropped his weapon but stubbornly remained standing.

  Once on the ground floor, Ratka approached him with caution. He was young, not even twenty. Ratka looked around the room. There was no sign of Riske.

  “Why are you here?” he asked.

  “For the money, asshole. Why do you think?”

  “And who told you?”

  The shooter’s lips parted in a defiant smile. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth.

  Ratka put the pistol to his eye and fired.

  Just then, a man ran out the front door. Ratka spun, caught a flash of white and gray, and took cover against the wall, expecting the man to turn and open fire. When nothing came, Ratka checked the rest of the ground floor. Two of his men were wounded but not dead.

  “Come down!” he shouted to Stonewood. “Bring the money and the computer.”

  “Is it safe?” asked the Englishman.

  “Now! I’m not asking.”

  Ratka knew that they needed to move fast. The gunfire had been loud enough to be heard all the way in Italy. If the police were already on alert, they’d have extra patrols on duty. It would be a matter of minutes before they arrived. Ratka frisked the fat man and found his wallet. His driver’s license gave his name as Theodore Randisi of Ajaccio. Ratka rolled up the man’s sleeve and saw the anchor and skeleton tattoo. La Brise de Mer.

  Fucking Corsicans.

  Ratka dropped the man’s arm to the floor. The dead man grunted. A gob of blood flew out of his mouth and into the air. Ratka jumped to his feet. He fired two shots into the man’s chest. He’d had enough surprises for one night.

  Toby Stonewood stood at the bottom of the stairs, eyes wide.

  “What?” said Ratka. “You’ve never seen a dead guy before? Get the fuck out of here. Now. I’ll find you later.”

  Stonewood didn’t answer. He hurried past Ratka and out the front door.

  Ratka returned to his wounded men. He knelt by each and made the sign of the cross over them. There was no question what had to be done. The men knew too much. It was that simple. Serbs gave no quarter and asked for none in return.

  He shot each man in the head.

  Then he left.

  Chapter 59

  At the sound of automatic weapons fire, Simon slid down the drainpipe to the ground. He’d been right to worry about Jojo and his friends. As his feet touched the lawn, bullets from inside the house tore apart the shutters, spraying him with wood splinters and glass. He dropped and hugged the earth, a hand freeing the pistol from the hem of his pants. His eyes found the back door. There was no way he was going to put himself in front of Salvatore and Toto and who knew how many of Ratka’s men. Only a fool ran into a shoot-out.

  The harsh rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire ceased. Simon got to a knee only to hear the higher-pitched crack of a pistol. He dared a glance through the ruined shutters, saw no one, then ran around the side of the house. There was no time to think, only to act. He stopped at the front corner. He ventured a look and saw Toby Stonewood, satchel in hand, climbing into a white Bentley parked close behind the Mercedes.

  Lord Toby. He was the connection. He’d called Vika his stepdaughte
r. Simon recalled seeing a headline about Princess Stefanie remarrying, but he hadn’t looked further. He’d been more interested in Vika. By then she was making her own impressive headlines. Simon rued his oversight. If only he’d looked closer. It was all right there. The day before, Vika had referred to her stepfather as “Bismarck.” Simon hadn’t thought anything more of it.

  He took aim at the Bentley. If he put a few rounds into the engine block, maybe he could stop Toby from getting away. The sights drifted up a notch. He closed an eye and drew a bead on the man behind the wheel. Or maybe he could stop him altogether? Before he could fire, a bullet struck the wall above his head. A spray of cement stunned him. He saw Ratka emerging from the house’s front door, a laptop computer clutched to his side.

  The Bentley reversed down the driveway much too quickly, sparks flying as the rear bottomed out onto the road. The car continued in reverse down the Rue Chaussée, demolishing a mailbox and running over a trash can.

  Simon poked his head around the corner of the house. Ratka raised his pistol and pulled the trigger, but his pistol was out of ammunition.

  “Stop,” said Simon, moving into the open, pistol aimed at Ratka’s chest. He had every right to shoot. Here was the man who’d killed Vincent Morehead and beaten Elena Mancini, who’d attacked Vika with the intention of raping her, who’d stolen millions from the casino, and who’d, if in fact he was a war criminal, killed untold others. But Simon didn’t pull the trigger. He wasn’t an executioner.

  “Don’t move,” he said.

  “Fuck you.” Ratka ran down the steps. Simon slid down the cut of earth and crossed the driveway to the foot of the steps, blocking the Serb’s path.

  “Stay right there or I’ll shoot you.”

  Ratka backed away. “What do you want, anyway? First you are with the princess, now you are here? Who the fuck are you?”

  Simon said nothing. He wanted to ask Ratka a dozen questions. How had he met Toby? Whose idea was it to rob the casino? What was the two hundred million for? And what had Toby meant when he said they couldn’t “cheat the taxman”? All that would have to wait. Right now, he needed proof.

  “The computer,” said Simon. “Give it to me.”

  Ratka held it closer. “Did you burn down my house, too?”

  “Hand me the computer.”

  “You want the computer? You have to shoot Ratka.”

  Simon slipped the pistol into the back of his pants and stepped toward him.

  Ratka frowned. “You think you can just take it?”

  Simon threw a jab. The Serb was slow to react and the blow landed on his jaw. His head snapped back, but the punch had little power. Simon could barely extend his arm. The punch cost him more than Ratka.

  Ratka tossed the computer onto the ground and threw Simon against the car, slugging him in the gut, following with an uppercut. Simon parried the blow, just, and Ratka’s fist glanced his jaw. He grasped Ratka’s wrist, and with his free hand applied an arm bar, locking the Serb’s elbow. He spun to his left, forcing the taller, heavier man to bend at the waist, then kneed him in the torso. Ratka fell to the ground. To maintain his hold, Simon had to step forward. With perfect timing, Ratka thrust an open palm upward, squarely catching the underside of Simon’s jaw. Teeth gnashed. A molar cracked. Simon saw stars. Dazed, he fell against the car. His pistol clattered to the ground, landing under the chassis.

  Ratka leapt to his feet and tossed Simon aside, crouching to pick up the gun. Simon stumbled but didn’t fall. Catching himself, he regained his balance as Ratka’s fingers closed around the weapon. The Serb stood, bringing the gun to bear. Simon spun and delivered a roundhouse kick, connecting flush with his cheek. Ratka’s head caromed off the roof of the car. The pistol flew from his hand. He took a step toward Simon, eyes glazed, and said, “You!” His knees gave out and he fell forward. Simon moved aside to let his face meet the driveway.

  Barely had Simon recovered when an approaching automobile drew his attention. Headlights appeared at the bottom of the street. In seconds, the car raced up the driveway. Doors opened. Three men stepped out. Even in the dark, Simon recognized them as the cheats from the Sporting Club. They looked at him. He looked at them. Simon’s eyes flitted from the pistol to the computer. The pistol was closer.

  He dove for the gun and fired a shot over their head, scuttling to his right in hopes of grabbing the laptop. One of the men fired back and Simon felt the bullet cut the air beside his cheek. The men fanned out, the leader keeping up his fire as Simon ducked behind the car, the garage at his back. He was trapped. He couldn’t go down the drive. He couldn’t run up the steps into the house. His only hope was to make a run for the hillside and hope the foliage and vegetation would be enough to give him cover.

  He gave a last glance at the laptop and swore under his breath. A bullet struck the garage door. He darted into the bushes, staying low, knocking aside branches and danglers blocking his path. After a while, he stopped. He crouched, ear to the wind, listening. No one pursued him. He heard voices and crept back toward the house until he was able to make out the silhouettes of the men.

  The three were lifting Ratka to his feet and helping him to their car. A moment later, the car backed up and drove away.

  Toby was gone. Ratka was gone. The laptop was gone. And the satchel was gone.

  Simon entered the house. Salvatore and Toto lay on the floor of the living room. Two of Ratka’s men were nearby. There was no sign of Jojo, and Simon figured he’d been the first one out once things had gone south. It was a messy scene. Simon hoped he never had to look at another dead man in his life. He ran upstairs but found nothing besides some clothing, empty beer bottles, and a power cable for the laptop.

  There was a man at the bottom of the driveway when Simon came out of the house. Several others stood behind him, a few holding flashlights. Simon guessed they were neighbors and he noted that lights in windows up and down the street burned brightly. The poor people probably thought World War III had just been fought in front of their homes.

  “Bouge pas!” the man shouted. Don’t move. Simon saw that he held a rifle in his hand, probably a shotgun.

  Simon raised his hand in greeting. “Allo,” he said. “I’m a friend.”

  The man leveled his shotgun at him. So much for the honest approach. At the same time, Simon heard a siren. Check that: sirens, plural. The cavalry was coming.

  Unable to see an alternate course of action, he climbed into the one remaining car. It was a Mercedes-Benz, brand-new, meaning it relied on electronic ignition. There was no hope of hot-wiring it. It was Ratka’s car, the one with the Serbian plates captured on the pharmacy’s surveillance camera as it left the Château Perigord.

  Simon put his foot on the brake and hit the starter button. The engine roared to life. He opened the center console. The key fob lay inside. The only person who didn’t worry about his car being boosted was a crook.

  Simon slipped the car into reverse and backed down the driveway at speed. The crowd scattered and he sent as many sparks flying as Toby had as the chassis scraped the road. Like Toby, Simon reversed all the way to the bottom of the Rue Chaussée, head turned, looking over his shoulder, half out of his seat, doing his best to stay in the center of the road. The neighborhood had sustained enough collateral damage for one night. As he swung onto the Rue Pierre, a broader two-lane street, a dozen blue lights flickered in his rearview. He shifted into drive, only to see another column of police cars barreling toward him.

  The lead cop car braked and turned at an angle, blocking the right lane. The car following it cut off the left lane. There was no sidewalk, no median, no shoulder where he might run the gauntlet. Simon slammed the car into reverse. The police blocked his egress in that direction, too.

  Simon knew he should stop, step out of the car with his hands held above his head, and turn himself in. He would be taken to the station and thrown into a cell. In due course, he’d be interrogated. He would have a chance to tell his side of the story, t
o inform the authorities of the reason for his coming to Monaco, and to explain the events of the past few days.

  In time, charges would be brought against him. France was governed by the Code Civil, a watered-down descendant of the Napoleonic Code. Habeas corpus, his right to be promptly charged and released, belonged to the other legal system. If luck was on his side, he’d be released in a week. More likely, he’d be looking at the inside of a cell for a month.

  Or longer.

  There were four dead bodies inside that house. Two more at Ratka’s. Simon had fired a pistol. Gunpowder residue was all over his hands. Someone would discover his police record. Twenty years earlier, he’d been convicted of felony armed robbery and attempted murder of a police officer. He’d served four years. An ambitious prosecutor didn’t need more than that to see him convicted of murder.

  All this he played over in an instant.

  “You can get her now,” Toby had said to Ratka.

  “Her”—meaning Vika.

  Giving up was out.

  Simon spun the wheel left and drove the Mercedes back up the Rue Chaussée. He tried to remember where the street led, if it might take him to the Moyenne Corniche, where at least he’d have a fighting chance of eluding the police. In his mind’s eye, he saw the map and a windy road leading up, up, up, eventually coming to a dead end. There was always the chance that he was mistaken.

  He punched the gas. The car shot forward, the torque shoving him into his seat. He neared Ratka’s house, horn blaring to warn the neighborhood watch committee. Blue lights sparkled in his rearview mirror. A check of his sideview dampened his hopes. A police cruiser nipped at his tail.

  Simon made the sharp left-hand turn, the driveway to the drop house passing to his right. The band of neighbors had failed to heed the horn’s warning. Headlamps illuminated a half-dozen persons standing in the road, frozen immobile like rabbits on a midnight moor. The man with the shotgun stood resolutely in the center of the street. Simon hit his brights. There was a flash of orange. He ducked, the car veering left as a rain of pellets struck the hood and peppered the windscreen. When Simon returned his eyes to the road, he saw an old woman and a young child square in his path. He threw both feet onto the brake pedal. Tires howled. The car stopped on a dime. His seat belt locked, the restraint nearly crushing his sternum.