Hanging over the railing in the glaring sunlight like that, Flicka shaded her eyes and yelled, “Anaïs Mirabaud?” as if she hadn’t texted her the day before.
“It’s only been a year, Flicka. Get down here!”
“Just a minute!”
Flicka ran into the suite, scooped up Alina, and jetted for the stairs. The guest suite was not babyproofed in any real way, and Flicka knew that if she walked away for one minute, Alina would find something to stick into an electrical socket.
The two bodyguards stationed at the door shuffled their feet as they watched her run past. One rubbed his throat and swallowed hard.
Alina giggled and grabbed Flicka’s hair while Flicka held the railing and trotted down the stairs. “Anaïs? I’m coming down! Don’t leave. I’m coming down!”
Anaïs Mirabaud was laughing at Flicka by the time she hit the bottom of the stairs. “Is living with Aunt Sophie so bad that you’re that starved for us?”
Flicka threw her other arm around Anaïs and hugged her. If anything happened to Flicka, if she were taken somewhere else, Anaïs would know she had been there. “I just missed you so much!”
“We’re all here to tell off Aunt Sophie for keeping you all to herself,” Anaïs said. “You remember my mother, Lili, and my cousins, Océane, Ambre, and Chloé, who are Aunt Sophie’s daughters.”
“Nice to see you again, Lili.” Flicka juggled Alina under her arm and did the genetic tree in her head. “Océane, so good to see you. Ambre and Chloé, it’s been so long.”
Océane laughed. “I was just thinking about you the other day, and now here you are!”
“This is your niece, Alina Sophie Mirabaud.” Flicka jostled Alina, who was sitting on her hip and clinging to her shoulder.
The women all rushed at the baby, speaking French to her.
Alina sank her chubby fingers into Flicka’s hair and howled right in her ear.
Flicka said, “Oh, too much! We’re a little shy today. Let’s try this one at a time, shall we?”
The women backed off, and Flicka wiped Alina’s face and jollied her with some bouncing. Alina cuddled closer, but she did allow herself to be introduced to her aunts one at a time, extending her hand to be shaken or high-fived, but she kept her head pillowed on Flicka’s shoulder.
Alina’s little fingers, clutching the back of Flicka’s blouse, stirred more protectiveness and a bit of satisfaction that Alina was holding onto her for comfort.
After the introductions, they adjourned to one of the parlors for tea. Flicka was relieved to taste that it was just tea in the teapot.
Alina stood beside Flicka’s legs, her little hand resting on Flicka’s knee, watching the new people. She was very much an extrovert with other little kids, but a gaggle of new adults aroused her suspicions.
Flicka said, “I’m so glad you guys are here. I can’t tell you how very happy I am to see you.”
Anaïs took a teacup from Flicka’s outstretched hand and said, “Yes, well, we’ll have the whole story at a later date, but it is so very good to see you and know exactly where you are.”
The Russian guards at the door exchanged a glance but didn’t look like they had thoughts in their musclebound heads.
Océane held a cookie in her fingers. Her gray eyes sparkled with glee. “So I have heard some news of you, Flicka.”
Flicka frowned. “Evidently, my quickie, quiet divorce made the news. Is this true?”
The women laughed a distressing amount.
Océane said, “Um, yes. Yes, it did.”
“I was hoping to keep it private.”
Océane leaned in. “Are you hoping to privately marry my brother?”
The other women all gasped at this news and turned to Flicka, four sets of eyes in varying shades of gray and Lili’s blue eyes.
“About that—” Flicka said.
A woman cleared her throat over by the bodyguards.
Flicka glanced up.
Sophie stood there, holding shopping bags, her chin lifted as she surveyed the assembled women.
The tight line of her mouth suggested anger.
She turned and left the room without a word.
Flicka would have to deal with that later.
Discomfort rippled through the other women, but they shook it off.
Anaïs turned back to Flicka and asked, “You were saying?”
Flicka stammered, trying to come up with something.
Dammit, how had her plan gone so far awry that having five witnesses to her existence was somehow worse?
“Things are kind of up in the air right now,” Flicka said. “We’re taking things slowly because of my recent divorce. It may be some time before anything is nailed down.”
The women sat back, mollified, and Flicka wished desperately for some of Sophie’s special tea.
The Big Thing
Raphael Mirabaud
The taste of smoke.
Raphael sat in his father’s office, his legs crossed at the knee, trying to look unconcerned.
His uncle Bastien sat in the other chair in front of the desk, his hands clenched between his knees and his elbows braced on his thighs, bent over. He was staring at the carpeting, not looking up.
Valerian was leaning back in his chair, turned to stare out the window at the violet shadows lengthening over the street outside. The setting sun painted the white buildings burning peaches and gilded the others with warm light.
Bastien said, “I don’t know why we need to start this sort of thing up again.”
“It’s Raphael’s specialty,” Valerian said, turning a cup of tea on his desk. “We want the Ilyins to accept him back into the organization. If we were merely to continue money laundering services, they have no reason to forgive him. We have to show them why he’s useful.”
Raphael ground his teeth together but did not otherwise move. He wished for a cigarette but was trying to keep it to two per day, and he’d already had his allotment. The nicotine buzz and the taste of smoke made him feel like Raphael Mirabaud again.
With the smoke, he remembered how to be callous.
Raphael asked, “What is the shipment?”
“Narcotics, I’ve heard,” Valerian said. “I haven’t told them who will be handling it, just said that we’ve brought a new person on board who can facilitate the entry and transfer of the drugs.”
“You’re sure it’s drugs?” Raphael asked.
Valerian nodded. “Quite sure, and it isn’t as if we’re smuggling weapons. Drug addicts have gotten themselves addicted to these chemicals. It’s their own fault, and the drugs aren’t even staying in Switzerland.”
Raphael surmised that few people made a goal of narcotic addiction. “I don’t like that these drugs will be here in Geneva at all.”
“The shipment is passing through to Estonia and Sweden.”
Raphael supposed that was better, somehow, though he didn’t see it. “All right.”
“You’ll oversee the shipment when it arrives by container ship in Savona, Italy. There’ll be a bunch of other trash in the container that will be sent to Italian stores from the warehouse. From there, the narcotics will be trucked overland to Geneva and divided into shipments for Estonia and Sweden.”
Raphael nodded. Iranian heroin was often transported overland from the Middle East to Lebanonese or Turkish ports on the Mediterranean Sea. From there, it was hidden in container ships that sailed to Italian ports. Once inside Europe, they were free to distribute it with few restrictions, thanks to open European borders. He knew all this. He’d overseen heroin smuggling before. It wasn’t even particularly novel.
What was unusual was the unease that filtered through him, a self-hatred that pervaded every cell in his body.
It wasn’t just the heroin. Raphael wasn’t a prude and didn’t disparage the occasional use of alcohol or marijuana, as long as it didn’t influence a person’s judgment, or they weren’t driving, or they weren’t military and thus forbidden, or such.
But
the thought occurred to him that smuggling heroin was the equivalent of selling a gun and ammunition to someone whom you knew was deeply depressed.
The complicity in the impending harm bothered him.
Years ago, that thought wouldn’t have occurred to Raphael Mirabaud, let alone disturbed him. He would have been excited by the danger of managing the shipment, and maybe he would have looked forward to sampling a bit of the wares, just to make sure he was selling good shit.
Raphael asked, “When do I leave for Savona?”
“Friday morning,” Valerian said. “You’ll have some of our men with you.”
Bratva henchmen to make sure Raphael didn’t step out of line. They’d have orders to shoot him and then to radio instructions back to the men standing over Flicka and Alina.
His father said, “That afternoon, you’ll facilitate the delivery of the container—”
Which meant bribing customs officials to forego the theoretical though rare inspection.
“—and take possession of it. Time at the warehouse should be minimal. You’ll extricate the heroin from the rest of the clothes or whatever is in the container. You’ll make sure the truck is adequately protected and ride back in one of the escort vehicles Saturday morning.”
To bring the poison into Geneva.
“You should be back here in Geneva by noon. It’s only a five-hour drive. Here, the shipment will be divided and sent on. Once it’s out of Switzerland, it’s someone else’s problem.”
Raphael should be done with his little bit of heroin smuggling in time to have supper with Flicka that night.
Thinking about it as the first crack in his honor would be counterproductive.
His father was holding Flicka and Alina hostage. Their safety was contingent on his good behavior, and thus he would do it.
He would do anything.
Raphael said, “Friday. I’ll make a note of it.”
Bankers Should Not Kidnap People
Flicka von Hannover
He sounded hopeless.
I have never heard him sound like that.
Raphael was sitting on the other side of the bed, his head in his hands, while Flicka shimmied into his gym tee shirt she was still sleeping in.
He said, “I will be away Friday night. I’ll be home Saturday evening.”
“Where are you going?” Flicka asked, because that is a thing you ask when someone announces they are going somewhere.
“I shouldn’t tell you,” he said.
She crawled across the bed and hung on his broad shoulders. “Oh, come on. I don’t think there are any microphones in here.”
He shrugged. “You never know.”
She crawled around him and tugged his chin up to make him look into her eyes. “You’re doing something illegal, aren’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m keeping you safe.”
“I hate that they’re doing this to you.”
“I’m impressed that Anaïs and my sisters showed up.” He pointed upward to the mics that may or may not have been embedded in the ceiling.
After the women had left, Sophie hadn’t come downstairs. She’d taken her supper in her bedroom. Flicka had a bad feeling she was getting the silent treatment.
Flicka said, “Yeah, that was amazing. And so unexpected. But I hate that they’re making you do illegal things. What if you, just, don’t?”
“I’m not willing to take that risk.” He dragged her across the bedspread and folded her into his arms.
She cuddled closer to his warm chest, listening to his heartbeat underneath his hard muscles.
He said, “What if they grabbed you and put a gun to your head? Then, I would do whatever they wanted. What if they did the same to Alina? Then, I would do it. Whatever they did, I would cave and do whatever they wanted. Why put you and Alina through that?”
“Bankers should not kidnap people,” Flicka said.
“It’s not a kidnapping. You are not being held for ransom.”
“Well, I sure as hell can’t leave.”
“You are being held hostage.”
“That’s a technicality.”
His lips moved against her temple. “True.”
“I can’t believe they’re doing this. Holding someone hostage is crazy.”
“They need me, probably.”
“But you ran away. It’s been well over a decade. They’ve managed to survive and go on without you all this time. No one has said that Geneva Trust was hurting at all, and the Mirabaud girls were making their societal debuts at costly cotillions. Trust me, the Shooting Star is not a budget enterprise. Why would they come looking for you?”
Raphael mused, “I don’t know exactly.”
“Was it money? Did you steal a bunch of money from the bank or something? As soon as I get my accounts back from Pierre, I can pay it off. It depends on how much it was, because Wulfie won’t let me transfer more than some amount he decided on. But I can get him to see reason. Heck, he’d probably pay it off for you.”
“I didn’t steal anything from them. I left when I was seventeen with a few hundred dollars in my wallet and the clothes on my back.”
That wasn’t quite true, but he hadn’t stolen any money.
“I can pay back whatever it is.”
“It’s not the money. They’ll say it’s about the money, but it’s not. It’s about power. It’s about control. I left. They don’t want people to leave. They don’t want people with knowledge of their operation walking around, perhaps going to the police or, worse, the competition.”
“Can’t you just sign an NDA or something?” Non-disclosure agreements solved everything. Just ask Pierre Grimaldi.
“It’s not about that. My father is—different. I think he believes that he owns people. When I ran off, I stole myself from him. For those years, I won because I controlled my own life, and he hates to lose. He hates losing anything: a bet, money, a race, anything. If he forces me back in, then he’s won, and he was the winner all along.”
“But he has to want money. We’ll buy your way out, and then he’ll have won. Everyone wants money,” Flicka said.
“We’re the Mirabaud family. We are the Geneva Trust Bank. We already have everyone’s money.”
Bump Pass
Raphael Mirabaud
All that covert training finally paid off.
Raphael was walking down the sunny sidewalk from Geneva Trust to a different coffee shop than the one on their ground floor, one that served American-sized lattes. He hadn’t been sleeping well lately and needed a bit more caffeine to get through the afternoon.
Geneva was enduring a cold snap, and a bitter breeze blew down the bright street, ruffling the winter evergreens that hung over the sides of the planters suspended from the lamp posts. The crowd hurried to wherever they were going to escape the cutting wind.
Four “bodyguards” flanked Raphael as he walked. He knew the Russian guards were there. They knew that he knew they were there. Everybody knew that if he made a run for it, they would grab him and maybe shoot him dead on the streets of Switzerland.
The crowd trickled between Raphael and his entourage. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets because he hadn’t taken his gloves, but his coat flapped open in front. Chilly air dodged inside and passed through his suit jacket and shirt. He tucked his chin to his chest and walked more quickly toward the coffee shop, just three doors down.
The crowd thickened, and more people wove between Raphael and his four handlers.
One man—a guy notable only for being as tall as Raphael—bumped shoulders with him and continued past.
Raphael looked back. Perhaps he’d lived in America too long and needed to apologize for everything.
When he did, the other man was also looking back, and the man’s ice blue eyes bore into his.
Magnus Jensen, one of Rogue Security’s operators and the man of few words and no questions, turned away and continued walking.
Something rattled in the inside pocket of Raphael
’s coat.
In another of his pockets, an envelope was missing.
He knew better than to take the new envelope out and examine the contents until he was safely back at his desk at Geneva Trust. He shrugged his shoulders to change the shape of his coat to hide it.
Magnus had always been a master of the bump pass, and he’d executed that one perfectly.
Competing Economic Theories
Raphael Mirabaud
Ayn Rand v. Wulfram von Hannover
Raphael sat in a deep, wingback chair, sipping brandy and savoring the warm smoke from a cigar. His father was doing the same on the other side of a low, glass table.
This room was called the library because it used to house books in the past. His father had wanted a room where his Russian friends could smoke after supper, so the antique volumes had been removed to parlors and sitting rooms around the house. The shelves had been filled with tasteful but not valuable knickknacks that could be exposed to smoke without damaging them, mostly souvenirs from his mother’s shopping safaris around the world. A ventilation system and glass doors protected the rest of the house from the fumes and their influence.
During the day, light from the setting sun streamed in the tall windows and glared from the blue lake waters outside. The dark woods and deep blue velvets of the room seemed designed to mitigate the blast of sunlight that filled the room during the evening.
At night, the library became cavelike, a place for criminals to crouch as they discussed their plans. The lake became fathomless and black, though the city lights of Geneva lined the other shore with yellow sparkles that danced on the dark water.
At Midnight Page 9
