There were many, many other things Thomas didn’t know about me and, I’m sorry to say, it seemed as though that was how it would stay. Throughout my life, “truth” has always been a relative thing. Nothing about me has ever been as it seems. And while I’ve revealed many truths about myself to him, the body of my life remains out of sight, like the proverbial iceberg under the water, or actually, like my body itself. I don’t think anyone should be forced to look at anybody’s middle-aged skin from the neck down. Unless they want to, of course, and the bedroom door’s closed and the lightbulbs are pink.
We fell in love, got married at the little Anglican church in St. Rémy, and settled into a wonderfully comfortable life filled with beautiful food, lovely wine, long walks, books, art, and love in the afternoon.
Our lives of crime were over, behind us, part of our history. And that’s where they would stay—in the past. Everything at La Petite Pomme was on the up-and-up.
N I N E
Five minutes after walking into the ladies’ room at the Avignon airport, I walked out as somebody’s grandmother in flat shoes, a gray wig, beige-rimmed glasses, and an unbecoming maroon wool coat that was slightly snug. Before leaving the restroom, I took my personal cell phone out of my pocket, snapped the front off it, removed the battery, and dropped the pieces in separate trash bins, rendering it fundamentally unreconstructable. I proceeded to the ticket counter.
“Any baggage to check, Mme. Garnier?” the Air France agent asked without giving me a glance.
“Non, merci.”
“Your flight to Paris departs in fifty minutes. Gate three. You can enter security just there.” She pointed to her right and slid my driver’s license and boarding pass across the ticket counter. “Have a nice flight.”
“Merci.”
There are certain rules to major-league theft, to planning a big heist—not a standard hotel or residential robbery. You need to do it on your terms, control the circumstances as much as possible. Study your prey and create the scenario. I knew nothing about Bradford Quittle—now known as Sebastian Tremaine—the queen’s retired footman. But I knew that if he had stolen the jewels and was hanging around with Robert Constantin, the world’s leading concert tenor, he’d been stealing for a long time. And he’d amassed a pile of cash that had let him become something he wasn’t. Sebastian Tremaine had been living a secret double life that had gained him access to Constantin’s constellation. As Thomas pointed out, the superstar had an army of bodyguards to protect him from the millions of fans constantly trying to break through the visible and invisible cordons that surrounded him and get his attention. So Sebastian had done what I was preparing to do—created a setup that put him in that world in a way that attracted Constantin to him, rather than the other way around.
I knew little about Constantin’s private life because like many classical superstars who live in the stratosphere, he was the darling of the superpowers, the highly wealthy, highly cultured elite who live behind the scenes in the anonymity of private enclaves and clubs. Constantin’s privacy was protected not only by his own security team but also by the powerful security blanket of that exclusive world. He had more than succeeded in keeping his private life private.
I did, however, know two important things: showing up at a charity benefit concert in St. Moritz might get my picture in the paper—something I had no interest in seeing occur—but it certainly wouldn’t get me into his inner circle. And number two: I knew where he lived.
Constantin lived in Mont-St.-Anges, quite possibly the most exclusive, most secret private club in the world. Located somewhere in the Swiss Alps, Mont-St.-Anges was owned lock, stock, and barrel by the richest man in the world, megabillionaire George Naxos. Nicknamed by the media as simply The Greek, Mr. Naxos stayed well hidden from the public eye. His reach and power were so great, the actual location of the club and its membership were known, as far as I could tell, only to the members and their closest friends and associates who could keep their mouths shut. Banishment was the punishment for indiscretion, and for the insiders in this world, the term banishment meant more than simple exclusion, it meant financial and social ruin. So far, no one had been willing to risk it and write an exposé of the whereabouts or goings-on at Mont-St.-Anges.
For me, breaking in to Mr. Naxos’s world would be, without question, a far greater challenge than actually stealing the jewelry. But he was the critical, oblique doorway to Constantin—only Naxos could provide me with the entree and credibility necessary to legitimize my plan.
Because he was such a powerful man, I’d had Mr. Naxos on my radar screen for a long, long time, just as I did many wealthy individuals who had the capacity for and interest in acquiring magnificent jewelry. I suppose you could say I was a little like an obituary writer at a newspaper who passes slow times writing the obituaries of famous or influential people just to be ready for when they die. I’d been planning and preparing for how to meet George Naxos for decades.
He and the Royal Ballet’s former prima ballerina, Alma de la Vargas, had been married for over thirty years. She vanished from the stage a long time ago, maybe fifteen years, after suffering a torn ligament in a production of Swan Lake at Covent Garden. A short time later, the Royal Ballet announced her retirement. After that, she disappeared, simply evaporated into their hidden world. And she hadn’t been seen since, which was unfortunate because as I remembered her—I’d seen her at a number of our auctions in London—she was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen in my life. We were exactly the same age, and I was curious to see how she’d handled it. She’d been black haired, blue eyed, and had that otherworld quality that prima ballerinas have that makes them seem as though they’re floating above the ground. That every step they take is one of those suspended leaps when their partners carry them through the air one giant flying step at a time.
No one was too certain exactly where the Naxoses called home—their yacht, their island, their London flat, their New York apartment, their Swiss chalet, their plantation home in the West Indies, or any number of other spots no one knew about. Their residences were guarded like military installations. They didn’t eat in public restaurants or attend public functions, and they moved among their properties privately so there was never any opportunity for their pictures to be taken.
Paparazzi wouldn’t even begin to consider haunting them.
I had one shot at getting myself in his orbit, and I was now putting my long-dormant, carefully researched and planned strategy into play.
The flight to Paris-Orly was uneventful. I exited through security in the heart of the crowd, following a couple of women into the ladies’ room in the main terminal. After a few contorted minutes in a cramped stall, I transformed myself back to somewhat more familiar territory. I pulled my mink coat from my overnight bag and shook it out, putting the maroon coat in its place, and tucked my blond hair under a glamorous black turban. I broke the beige glasses in two, stuffed the wig into a plastic bag, and tossed it and the broken glasses in the trash, fixed my lipstick, and put on my dark glasses. I could easily have been mistaken for Catherine Deneuve or Princess Grace back from the dead.
I checked my watch. Thomas wouldn’t know I’d gone missing for another four and a half hours.
T E N
“Bienvenu, Princesse. We were pleased to receive your call.” The gentleman smiled courteously at me when I emerged from the elevator.
Other than the doorman, who’d greeted me at the discreet street entrance three floors below—he was flanked by two dark-suited security guards with clear plastic earpieces and the outline of guns visible beneath their jackets—it seemed we were the only people around.
Located in the upper stories of an office building owned by Naxos on the Champs Elysées at l’Etoile, the boutique-style hotel—known only as III, or Trois—had been created for the safety and convenience of his friends and colleagues. It was also selectively available to those who knew about it and who could pass the hotel’s background
check. Trois was so exclusive its phone number was unlisted.
I knew about it the same way I knew about Mont-St.-Anges—it used to be my business to know who and where the wealthiest were, their hiding places and haunts. And I must admit, I’ve continued to keep my antennae tuned to a certain degree. It’s part of me. Like breathing. I still keep my hand in. I stay up to date. I listen at cocktail and dinner parties more than I talk.
“Please.” He indicated a straight-backed armchair in front of a large Boule desk behind a screen of potted palms in an alcove off the empty lobby. The only things on the desk were an enormous vase of white roses, a telephone, and a sheet of paper. It looked like a still life. “Be seated.”
“I’m pleased you have room for me at the last minute.”
“We are at your service.” He slid the paper across, laid a black pen on top. “Your signature, please.”
I signed. “Margaret Romaniei.” And slid it back.
“Do you have baggage?”
“Non.”
In the sedan on the way into the city from the airport, I’d considered a number of answers to this inevitable and reasonable question about my nonexistent baggage, and decided no answer at all was the best. He could draw his own conclusions.
Over the years, I’ve worked hard to develop a number of identities. Some are very disposable—such as Mme. Garnier, who flew today from Marseilles to Paris—requiring only a driver’s license and a working credit card or two. Others, such as Margaret Romaniei, Princess Margaret of Romania, I’d worked on for a long time.
Her history was detailed, complicated, and private. In fact, she had never existed, but her late husband, Prince Frederick Romaniei, had.
Frederick Romaniei had been an oddball, a drunk and a café darling, a heavy marijuana smoker and LSD user. A devotee of the hedonistic hell of the ’60s, Prince Frederick would fall into the category of what’s known today as a combination of unredeemable loser and Eurotrash—a poorly raised young aristocrat with a fool’s arrogant, unfounded aura of entitlement. The possibility of his assuming the nonexistent responsibility for which he’d been birthed—the throne of the kingdom of Romania—was virtually zero. In fact, at that time, Romania was very much behind the Iron Curtain and under the rule of a totalitarian despot, and even if it hadn’t been, Frederick was way down the line in the order of succession. He’d never been to Romania and probably wouldn’t have recognized the language if he’d heard it. Freddy, as he was called, was killed in an avalanche in Switzerland in 1967 when he was twenty-three, skiing where he shouldn’t have been. He’d never been married, that anyone knew of, but he’d lived such a reckless, useless life and was forgotten so quickly, no one knew or cared about him anymore—not that they ever had in the first place. His parents, from whom he was famously estranged, were now both dead and there were no siblings.
His widow, me, “Princess Margaret,” was from an aristocratic Norwegian family, the daughter of a diplomat, brought up and educated in England. Appearance-wise, I could easily pass for a Norwegian, and as far as being married to Prince Freddy . . . well, the antics of any number of today’s solid citizens, centers of influence and decision makers, captains of industry and elected politicians who did things in the ’60s and ’70s under the influence of mind-bending drugs, would leave most people with their mouths hanging open.
There were many, many long-ago marriages to someone met on a beach in Majorca or Ceylon or Hawaii, the wedding ceremony attended by stringy-haired, guitar-playing, barefooted, unwashed, like-minded strangers in tie-dyed T-shirts and sarongs, conducted by a self-proclaimed, flower-draped, stoned swami or guru of the Temple of Eternal Bliss, or some such similar phony-baloney sect dreamed up while on a “trip.” Everybody singing and full of love. The bride or groom’s horrified parents—when they were finally informed of the union, generally in a spaced-out phone call from the newlyweds asking for money—put hysterical calls in to their lawyers, paying dearly, whatever it took, for annulments. It was a very strange time with many unwise actions lost in the fog of hallucinogens.
It was entirely possible, even likely, that Freddy had been married. Maybe even more than once.
Freddy and George Naxos had been roommates at Le Rosey, the exclusive all-boys boarding school on the shores of Lake Geneva.
“May I offer you a little lunch or a snack?” the fellow at the check-in desk asked.
“A bowl of tomato soup and a pot of coffee would be wonderful.”
“Let me take care of that immediately.” He picked up the phone and spoke quietly authoritatively. “The princesse would like hot tomato soup.” He glanced over at me. “A little cheese sandwich?”
“Oui, merci.”
“Un croque-monsieur et café. Merci.” He replaced the receiver. “Do you know how long you’ll be with us?”
“Non.”
“Please stay as long as you wish. We are at your service.” He raised his hand and another man, dressed similarly in a well-cut business suit, materialized. “The princesse is in the Blue Suite.”
The porter picked up my case and I followed him down a short corridor to the elevator.
E L E V E N
The Blue Suite opened onto the Etoile where gray clouds had descended and begun to spit out a steady gray February drizzle. The normally busy traffic that circled the Arc de Triomphe had, for the most part, disappeared, leaving me with an extraordinary bird’s-eye view of what the Etoile and the Champs Elysées must have looked like in the middle of the last century when there were about one-tenth as many cars.
In spite of the gray day, my rooms were large and bright, extremely cozy and feminine with pale blue and white toile everywhere—on the furniture, the walls, the bed. Comfortable downy cushions filled the chairs and sofas. A gold-rimmed plate with the Roman numeral III sat on the coffee table with five neatly arranged petit fours. I picked one up, a little mocha confection iced in coffee fondant, and went into the bedroom, which was done up in the same fabric. It was just beautiful. The bathroom was as large as the bedroom, with two windows and what looked to be a dozen thick towels stacked on heated racks. A hint of carnation scented the air.
In the distance, I heard the doorbell chime and by the time I got back to the living room, my lunch was waiting on the desk—small silver domes covered the soup and sandwich—and the waiter had vanished.
A number of foods revitalize me. Cream of tomato soup with a dollop of sherry, grilled cheese sandwiches, chocolate and Champagne are close to the top of the list, right after my complete favorites: nut bread sandwiches with cream cheese, apples, raisins, and chutney. Of course, the petit fours didn’t hurt. I am well aware that experts claim that the high that comes from sugar has an immediate and opposite effect—a deep, depressing down. I have not experienced that phenomenon and can only surmise that the experts aren’t getting enough sugar in their diets.
I’d just swallowed the last bite of sandwich when the phone rang. It was the man at the front desk.
“Mr. Naxos wishes to know if you will join him and his wife for cocktails.”
“Well, yes,” I answered, surprised. “Of course. I’d like that very much. Thank you.”
“Someone will call for you at eight o’clock.”
“Merci.”
Of course, I wasn’t really surprised. Step one complete.
An hour and a half had passed since I landed, and I needed to accomplish a great deal by eight o’clock and . . . I needed for all of it to be in white. That’s what I’d decided years ago when I created the persona of Princess Margaret of Romania: she would wear only white. It would be her signature, add to her mystery and cool demeanor. The rightness of the concept was confirmed when I met Odessa Niandros in London, the smoky, sultry, latte-skinned sister of the late Princess Arianna. Odessa had come to Ballantine & Company to have her sister’s jewelry auctioned and she wore only white and always looked like an unapproachable ice goddess. I thought that would be a good look for enigmatic Margaret. Everything white. I would b
e as cool and mysterious as Bianca Jagger.
Back downstairs, the doorman helped me into the hotel car, a custom-made black Mercedes 500S with an extended wheel base, dark-tinted windows, and nicely worn black leather seats. It was not as big as a proper limousine but had significantly more leg room than a regular sedan and smelled of leather and citrus, which unfortunately gave me a quick, rueful twinge of Thomas and his brisk lime cologne. I wondered if he was in his study, or walking the dog, or packing his bags to go to Zurich tomorrow.
“Where may I take you, Princesse?” the driver asked when the door was closed.
“Carita, please.”
Carita, one of Paris’s leading maisons de beauté for more than fifty years, has grown from a small salon frequented only by those in the know to an international presence in the world of beauty products. Its modern salon and spa now fill three stories on the Faubourg St. Honoré, three stories dedicated to nothing but beauty and well-being. It is a delicious eucalyptus-scented sanctuary.
“This way, please, madame,” a sylph in a tight black dress said. She escorted me to the second floor, showed me into an all-pink powder room and handed me a smock. “François will meet you at the desk.”
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