by Mack Maloney
“Was this all necessary?” she asked, looking over the side and shuddering.
“They weren’t coming for milk and cookies,” Gunner replied. “They just didn’t expect a tub like this to be armed.”
Emma was close to tears.
She grabbed Nolan by his arm. “We have to get that radio working somehow,” she said. “I have to contact my friends and get us out of this.”
At the same time, the ship’s original crewmen were also surveying the post-battle scene, especially noting the bodies still floating around the slow-moving ship.
They were incredulous. They knew well how pirate-infested these waters were. They also knew how brutal the Bom-Kats could be. Yet the brigands had been dispatched in a matter of seconds.
The crewmen looked at Nolan, Gunner and the Senegals.
Then one asked in broken English: “Who are you people?”
* * *
About a mile away, the lead boat of the Bom-Kats gang lingered behind as the rest of the fleet retired.
Aboard was Bompat Kalish, the commander of the pirate group. He was a large man with many tattoos and body piercings. At the moment, he was furious — and baffled. He’d just watched a number of his men being killed in the unsuccessful attack. Why was such an old wreck of a ship so heavily defended? According to his contacts at Gottabang, it was supposed to be barely crewed and not worth fighting for.
Kalish had been pirating for thirty years. He knew whoever killed his men were professionals, not just tramp seamen with rifles.
His conclusion: There was something different about this ship.
He held a pair of very powerful binoculars to his eyes, studying the freighter as it chugged its way southwest. He focused in on the railing near the bridge — and couldn’t believe his eyes.
There was a blond woman up on the bow, talking to one of the gunmen. But this was not just any blond woman. Kalish thought he recognized her.
His binoculars had a small camera built in. He could take a photograph of anything he saw through the eyepieces. He zoomed all the way in on the blonde and then snapped a couple pictures.
Then, he showed the photos to his second-in-command.
This man couldn’t believe it.
“Do you believe in God?” Kalish asked him.
“No — not until now,” the man replied.
They went below to the captain’s cabin. Its walls were covered with photos of a young blond girl.
Kalish held the photo in his binocular screen next to one of the wall photos.
“It is her,” Kalish said. “I’m sure of it.”
“I am, too,” the second-in-command said. “But what would the world’s most famous actress be doing on that old tub?”
Kalish shook his head and licked his lips.
“God be praised, I don’t know,” he said. “But this changes everything.”
13
Grand Maison Casino
Monte Carlo
“Any luck yet, girls?” Batman called over his shoulder.
The quartet of bikini-clad beauties was sitting at the penthouse’s rococo table, huddled around Twitch’s laptop. They were timidly pecking at the computer’s keys and studying the screen with great uncertainty.
“Nothing,” one cooed in a French accent. “No Wi-Fi anywhere…”
A second added: “Monsieur Bat? You need to find another way to amuse yourself. This is boring.”
Batman poured himself another glass of mineral water and contemplated her comment.
“I’m not so sure about that,” he said to himself.
He was sitting out on the penthouse’s immense balcony; Monte Carlo, in all its opulent splendor, was spread out before him. This was the life — and he knew it. His divan was layered with thrice-spun Egyptian cotton; his robe was the finest Iranian silk. His sunglasses were Dolce & Gabbanas his cigar was a Cohiba Behike. There were a dozen bottles of expensive liquor less than an arm’s length away. Courvoisier cognac; Macallan Whiskey; Romano Levi grappa. In the top drawer of the balcony’s Leptis Magna marble table was a cube of Moroccan hashish. In the bottom drawer, a bag of pure cocaine. Both were courtesy of the management.
But still, Batman was not partaking; even his cigar wasn’t lit. He was getting high in another way: by inhaling the sweet smell of success all around him. It was in the air. In the trees. In the glare of the sparkling buildings he saw everywhere he looked. The surroundings alone were intoxicating him. And whether this had to do with Chief Bada’s bubble bath, or something else entirely, Batman was definitely jonesing on them.
The view from the balcony was spectacular. It overlooked both the casino’s giant pool and its rear concourse, where everything was either gold, green, white or aqua blue, and everybody was one of the Beautiful People. Beyond the casino’s grounds was Albert Boulevard, the l’avenue principale of the upcoming Monaco Grand Prix. Batman could clearly see both the race’s starting point and its finish line from here. Farther out, beyond the wavy tree-lined streets, was the magnificent harbor, jammed with mega-yachts. Beyond that, the sparkling Mediterranean Sea.
In between getting thrown out of Delta and starting up their pirate-busting business, Batman had made a killing on Wall Street. He’d wheeled and dealed his way through hundreds of exotic financial transactions, earning his trading company tens of millions of dollars on a daily basis and growing himself a small fortune. When he was at the height of his Master of the Universe powers, he’d stayed and played in places like this. He knew the taste of the good life was hard to get rid of once it’s been on your tongue.
Seeing all this glamour and wealth, and knowing it substituted for oxygen in Monte Carlo, made him realize just how much he missed those days.
And how much he wanted them back.
* * *
The chambermaid had finished clearing away Batman’s snack of pâté de foi gras and grilled bald eagle eggs when Twitch returned to the penthouse. He’d just received his third massage since arriving here that morning.
“When it comes to rubbing, the babes here are way better than the ones in Shanghai,” he told Batman, looking refreshed — again.
He began browsing the bar’s medley of champagnes.
“We got nothing better than this 1965 Jamre de Grape crap?” he asked.
Batman stretched out on his divan.
“Drink it through a straw,” he said sleepily. “It tastes better that way.”
Twitch grabbed a La Vielle Bon-Secours beer instead, and then pulled up a chair next to Batman.
“In the win-win department,” he said, “we’ve been invited to three parties tonight.”
“Who’s throwing them?” Batman asked.
Twitch shrugged. “Models, modeling agencies, race car companies,” he said. “What more do you have to know?”
Batman sipped his water. “Nothing, I guess.”
Twitch eyed the four girls across the room. “Any luck with the Wi-Fi?”
“Not at last report,” Batman replied. “But I’m hoping it gets fixed somehow, eventually. You know, with time.”
“I just hope the Z-box stays in one place while we’re waiting,” Twitch said.
Batman pretended to yawn. “That ‘Z-what?’” he replied wryly.
The main reason they were here — to establish an eavesdropping station — was on hold at the moment. Twitch’s ultrasophisticated spy stuff only worked when his laptop was able to get Wi-Fi, and that hadn’t happened since they’d arrived. It was somewhat curious that a place like the Grand Maison Casino didn’t have Wi-Fi in every suite and apartment, in every nook and corner, but that was not the case. The chambermaid told them it was being installed as part of the ongoing renovations downstairs and could come to life anytime.
“How long have we been here?” Twitch asked Batman after a while. “It seems like a week.”
Batman adjusted his sunglasses. “Seven or eight hours, I guess,” he replied. “I’ve already lost track.”
“Well, no Wi-Fi aside, don
’t you think it’s getting a little odd?” Twitch said.
“The free booze, food, lodging, and gorgeous women, you mean?”
“Exactly,” Twitch said. “Why are we getting all this royal treatment? Just because we happened to fly in on the plane that the bitchiest actress in the world uses?”
“You got a better theory?” Batman asked him.
“I guess not,” Twitch replied.
“You want to ask someone for one?”
“And ruin the party? No thanks.…”
“Then drink up.…”
Twitch drained his beer and reached for another. “But how about we contact Snake and the Gun, then?” he suggested, still antsy about their situation. “See what’s shaking with them?”
Batman yawned for real. “You know the rules,” he said. “They’ll call us if they have anything to report. And the same for us.”
Batman looked over at the four bikini models again.
“Anything to report yet, ladies?’ he asked.
They giggled, and one replied, “Not yet, Monsieur Battie.”
Batman looked at Twitch and said, “Any more questions?”
The balcony phone rang; Batman answered it. A woman with a thick German accent who said she was calling from the front desk told him a visitor was on his way up to their suite.
“Who is it?” Batman asked her.
“The man to fix the Wi-Fi,” she replied.
* * *
A minute later, a small man in his mid-sixties stepped off the elevator.
He was dressed in a plain white shirt, slacks and loafers. His gray hair was a bit long for someone his age, but other than that, he looked like the most ordinary person in the world. He was smoking a cigarette — and he wasn’t carrying a tool bag.
He nodded to the four girls, then walked out onto the balcony. He handed Batman his business card.
“With my compliments,” he said. His accent was thick French.
On one side of the card was printed MAURICE PHILLIPE, INTERNET SPECIALIST, MONTE CARLO.
But on the other side was scrawled We must talk Z-box.
Batman nearly fell off his divan. He passed the card to Twitch, who was equally shocked.
“How do you know about that?” Batman whispered to the visitor.
The man eyed the four girls nearby and touched his ear. Batman got the message.
Batman called over to them: “Hey girls — why not go for a swim so we can take turns drying you off?”
The foursome had no qualms with that. They were soon in the elevator and gone.
Maurice then pulled up a chair and sat down.
“I’m your Agency contact,” he told them point-blank, his accent suddenly turning very American. “I’m here to help you guys get this thing done.”
Then he opened his arms to indicate the expansive suite.
“So? What do you think of all this?” he asked. “Pretty good for the setup, isn’t it?”
“The ‘setup?’” Batman asked. “What ‘setup?’”
“You know, the ‘setup,’” Maurice said with a smile. “To make you guys look like high rollers.”
“As in gambling ‘high rollers?’” Twitch asked him innocently.
Maurice smiled again, but now it was with some uncertainty.
“Well, that’s what you’re here for,” he said. “The game. You know, the big game … the Grand Gagnant?”
Both Batman and Twitch shrugged.
“We got no idea what you’re talking about,” Batman said bluntly.
Maurice studied them for a moment. “You are the pirate-hunting guys, right? Ex — Delta Force and so on?”
Batman held up his prosthetic hand, while Twitch wiggled his prosthetic leg.
“That’s us,” Batman said.
“We’re hard to miss,” Twitch added.
Maurice looked puzzled. “And you weren’t briefed on this? The game? The buy-in? All that?”
Batman and Twitch just shook their heads no.
Maurice crushed out his half-smoked cigarette. Suddenly he was very pissed.
“Who the fuck was your initial briefer?” he asked them harshly.
“Some guy named Audette,” Batman replied.
“Emphasis on the ‘odd,’” Twitch added.
Maurice shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“I think he’s a station chief somewhere,” Batman told him.
“And he didn’t give you a wire transfer notice for ten million dollars?” Maurice asked.
Batman and Twitch just laughed at him.
“Ten million dollars?” Twitch said. “No freaking way.”
Maurice’s face turned red. “Jessuzz, that’s the whole reason you two guys are here,” he said heatedly. “It’s the reason you’ve been set up in this place. It’s the reason we’re putting on this whole show. It’s the reason for everything … And now some paper-pushing asshole station chief, with no fucking time in the field, has screwed it up.”
Batman reached out and put his good hand on the man’s shoulder, calming him down. “Look, we’re quick learners,” Batman told him. “Just start at the beginning. What game are you talking about?”
Maurice took a breath, composed himself, then inched his chair closer to them.
“OK,” he said. “There’s going to be a game played here, in Monte Carlo, on the night before the big race starts. It’s called the Grand Gagnant, which, loosely translated, means: the big winner. It’s a very secret, very exclusive card game that’s being held at a very secret, very exclusive location somewhere in town. It happens here every year when all the zillionaires show up, they play it at exactly midnight, meaning about thirty-six hours from now. What makes it not your typical card game is that instead of money, priceless items make up the pot. Stolen artwork. Stolen jewelry. Moon rocks. Entire companies. Things like that. It’s just one hand, just one prize. The big winner takes all.”
He lit another cigarette and then continued.
“We have solid information the prize this year is going to be the Z-box. That’s why we set you up in this place. You’re Americans, you got distance from the Agency and you can keep your mouths shut. You were supposed to infiltrate the game, pretending to be hedge fund billionaires or something, and you were going to make it look like you wanted to win this thing. But to do so, you gotta look good to everyone whose anyone in town this week. You gotta look like you have money to burn.”
He held out his arms again. “That’s why we arranged for this place.”
“So this gagnant game is what all the calls between the pirates and those Monte Carlo phone numbers were about?” Batman asked him.
Maurice nodded. “Yes — the pirates, who we believe were part of a gang called the Tangs, and those characters from Bad Sweeten in Germany, and the people who run the game. They’re the ones who were doing all the flapping. That’s how we found out about all this.”
“But how does it work?” Batman wanted to know. “You say the Z-box will be the game’s big prize, but the pirates have the Z-box. Why would they make it available for this gagnant? What’s their motivation?”
Maurice smiled darkly. “Well, at this point, the Tangs are either all dead or they’ve been paid off — most likely the former. But whichever it is, it was done courtesy of those ex-Stazi middlemen from Bad Sweeten. They now have control of the box. They contacted the people here who run the gagnant, knowing in past years people have won giga-yachts, or Gulfstreams. Oil wells. Oil tankers. Entire oil fields.”
But Batman still didn’t understand.
“OK, but if the ex-Stazi guys have the box,” he said, “how do they make money on this game?”
“From the buy-in,” Maurice explained. “That’s why I asked you about the entry fee. To play in the gagnant, each participant has to put up ten million in cash, and then a surety for another forty million. Fifty million dollars each — that’s the buy-in. By providing the Z-box as the grand prize, the Stazi guys will split all that entry money with th
e people running the game. This year they’re expecting at least ten people to be buying in ahead of time. And if someone shows up with the full fifty million at the time and place of the game, well, they’re not going to turn them away. So, do the math. They’ll be splitting at least a half billion dollar payday, maybe more.”
Batman let out a long low whistle. “Fifty million each, on one hand of cards?” he said. “Some serious bread.”
“And therein lies the problem,” Maurice went on. “Because the consensus is this Z-box thing is some kind of terror weapon and now, only someone who’s filthy rich can win it — or someone who’s in league with someone who’s filthy rich. And let’s just say there are a lot of not-so-friendly types who live in the Middle East who are filthy rich. And if the person who eventually wins it is without scruples or has ties to terrorism, then we’re sure they’ll use the box against the U.S.”
He took another serious drag of his cigarette.
“Now, there is another scenario,” he continued. “If someone filthy rich who might not be linked to terrorists but is still without scruples wins the box, then they can always ransom it back to the United States. But they could also just sell it to the highest bidder — and make a nice profit that way. And believe me, though everyone in this game will be super wealthy, none of them will be upstanding citizens, I guarantee you that.”
“The filthy rich get filthy richer,” Twitch said.
“Precisely,” Maurice agreed. “So, you see, if there were going to be any heroes in all this, it was supposed to be you guys. You were to get in the game, or at least pretend to, because we’re pretty sure once the ten million dollar entry fee is paid, you get the location of the gagnant. And once we had that info, we were going to move in, raid the place, bust some heads and either retrieve the Z-box, or at least find out where the hell it is. Then you guys would’ve gotten paid for your troubles, the USA would have stayed safe and we would have all gone home fat and happy.”
He crushed out his cigarette and checked his watch.
“There’s a deadline for sending in the entry fee,” he said. “And it’s less than a half hour away. But if that asshole didn’t give you the wire transfer notice that means time will run out, we won’t know where this game is being played, and the whole thing is fucked.”
