The whole thing was like some kind of elaborate illusion. The intruders must have tampered with the security footage but it was unclear how. Jeremy agreed with Amanda’s theory that there had to have been a conspirator inside Solution d’energie, but he agreed that they would need to exercise caution to avoid alerting anyone to their suspicions. After much debate they decided to return to the building. Jeremy wanted to examine the internal spaces under the roof, which might have provided a hiding place, and Amanda wanted to re-interview Maxine.
Jeremy said he would return to his hotel and allow Amanda some time to get ready. They would meet at his hotel at eleven a.m. and travel from there to Sophia Antipolis. Amanda decided that this would leave her enough time to take a swim to help her work off the excess calories from the glorious food she had been consuming over the past few days. She headed back to her room and packed the things she would need later that day, including her PDA, her computer and an ever-growing file of papers relating to the theft.
After a fifteen-minute power nap, she got ready for her swim. The sun was shining brightly outside her window, casting golden rays across the deep carpet of her room. She chose an elegant and classic Chanel two-piece bathing costume and a Marni kaftan, paired with Gucci shades and sandals. At just after ten o’clock she headed downstairs and headed for the Negresco’s private beach, the Neptune Plage, just across the road. She spent twenty minutes swimming out to sea and back, then allowed herself a short spell on a sun lounger to recover. She stretched out, her sunglasses shading her eyes from the glare and relaxed as the sun’s glow enveloped her entirely.
Suddenly she felt a tap on her shoulder. She removed her sunglasses and found Jeremy standing over her in trousers and light cotton shirt
‘You were supposed to meet me half an hour ago,’ he told her, an amused expression on his face.
Amanda realised at once that she must have fallen asleep. Her skin was baking hot and prickly all over. She could not believe she had been caught off guard like this by Jeremy, especially while dressed in little more than a bikini! It was too much to bear. Yet she was resolved to maintain her composure and nonchalantly draped her kaftan over herself. Then she smiled at Jeremy and strolled back to the hotel, leaving him to wait for her. After taking a moment of solitude to recover from her embarrassment in privacy, she changed hurriedly and a couple of minutes later met Jeremy outside the hotel. He was waiting for her in a silver F-type Jaguar with the roof down.
‘Please hop in, mademoiselle.’
She did as asked and they sped off towards Valbonne with the warm breeze blowing through their hair.
An hour later, they had subjected Maxine to a second round of questioning to no avail. Amanda had hoped to uncover some kind of flaw in the security system, but Maxine seemed resolute that they were designed to be impenetrable. Jeremy had convinced one of the new recruits to explore the spaces between the roof rafters, using a combination of ladders and a harness system, but there was nothing to report as yet. Amanda sat in a small room with white walls and replayed the CCTV footage over and over again, hoping for inspiration.
The digital black and white footage had a high degree of definition and clarity. The events of the days preceding the theft displayed the routine manner in which life was conducted at Solution d’energie. The ‘cleaning team’ consisted of two rather large French women, one with jet black hair and the other with bright orange locks, who arrived at six-thirty in the morning and did their work amid much gossipy chitter-chatter and cheery whistling. Chaumert himself arrived at work daily at precisely seven-thirty a.m. and met Maxine, who escorted him from his car to his office. His secretary, Clemence, prepared him coffee and brought it to him at his desk. Clemence was an older French lady in her mid-sixties, with white curly hair and lips fixed in pursed severity as if she had just supped battery acid. The day would continue with various delegates coming to meet Chaumert in the larger suites. The building was patrolled at all times by the security team.
On the night of the disturbance events had unfolded mostly as usual. There had been an important meeting that day at which the blueprints were consulted. They had been laid out upon a long oblong desk for discussion. The meeting constituted twelve besuited men sitting around a table and engaging in exhaustive discussion for three hours, while a young blonde secretary took shorthand notes. Once the meeting had finished the documents were returned to the safe, which was sealed personally by Chaumert. He had left work at seven-thirty p.m. after putting in his regular twelve hours of work for the company. Maxine had not left until ten p.m. that evening. She could be seen on the CCTV footage checking the safe before she left. The night-time security team had commenced work at nine p.m., so there had been an hour of handover time before Maxine had left the site.
Every hour, on the hour, a guard patrolled the building, beginning at the perimeter of the compound and working his way through the entire complex. CCTV cameras were placed all around the building, but were concentrated mostly on the large hallways that connected the various offices. The first time the criminals were picked up on the CCTV footage was at three thirty-nine a.m., when they had run into Gaston, the security guard. Even in black and white the scene was horribly graphic, making Amanda feel physically sick. However, she made herself watch it in case she had missed something crucial. As the alarms had been disabled, no one had found the body until the cleaners came in at six-thirty. The lady with jet black hair could be seen screaming and pointing at the disfigured, mangled body in shock and disbelief.
Amanda rewound the footage and watched it over and over again. The Earl Grey tea she was drinking progressed from lukewarm to stone cold, but she kept drinking it as she hoped for something to happen, although she had no idea what. As she was half-watching the screen for what must have been the sixteenth or seventeenth time she noticed a slight tremor out of the corner of her eye around the top right-hand corner of the film. She went back and watched it over again, unsure if it was just her mind playing a trick on her, but there it was – a sudden, almost inconspicuous, jump on the screen at around seven forty-seven a.m., after the theft had occurred. She had no idea how it had been done, but she felt certain that it vindicated her theory that the footage had been tampered with somehow, which would explain why it revealed so little. She rushed to tell Jeremy, hurrying through the white corridors with her heels clicking on the polished floor. As she turned the corner she almost ran face first into the very person she had been looking for.
‘I was coming to see you, mademoiselle. I have found something.’
‘I was coming to see you!’
‘We found this concealed in the rafters,’ he told her as he held out a small black device in his hand. ‘What did you find?’
Amanda told him what she had discovered.
‘We need to have the CCTV footage sent to SVHQ immediately, along with this thing – whatever it is.’
The CCTV footage, in an encrypted format, was couriered to SVHQ in London while the mysterious black device was sent to a local expert. They were informed that the report on the object would be e-mailed to them within twenty-four hours. Amanda showed Jeremy the inconsistency in the footage. He seemed impressed that she had detected something so subtle which the experts, who had been examining the footage thus far, had missed.
That evening they enjoyed a low-key alfresco dinner at a traditional restaurant overlooking the sea. They sat on wooden tables and chairs among a crowd of locals, who included fishermen and vendors from the nearby market.
Jeremy was in good spirits, very pleased with himself to have uncovered some kind of lead that he believed would soon deliver them the perpetrators. Amanda was, as usual, more restrained, allowing herself less indulgence in self-congratulation. Although she had to admit they had made considerable progress since the beginning of the day, at which point they were absolutely clueless, she felt they still had a long way to go before they would have any idea of what had happened, let alone identify who might be responsible or recov
er the documents.
L’escargots was one of those dishes that Amanda adored but rarely got to enjoy, it being a dish that never seemed to taste as good as when served on French soil. What sat before her was simplistic, rustic excellence. The terracotta earthenware dish with twelve deep dimples contained the wonderfully tasty morsels bathed in bubbling, fragrant olive oil and glorious fresh-smelling chopped garlic. A veritable mountain of French bread was also set before them – soft, white and doughy, with a crunchy crust, it was perfect for mopping up the sauce that doubled as a rich garlicky butter.
Jeremy smiled at Amanda as he wiped his mouth with the corner of his napkin.
‘How are you enjoying Nice?’
‘I absolutely adore it! The weather is wonderful, the people are friendly, and the food is spectacular. If I were not here on business, I daresay I could enjoy it even more.’
Jeremy winked at her. ‘That is why I am taking you on an important business trip tomorrow.’
‘What kind of business trip?’
‘An acquaintance of mine has offered me the use of his rather lovely yacht and I propose that tomorrow we make use of it to search the Mediterranean for clues.’
‘Absolutely not! We can’t go gallivanting around the ocean. We have work to do. How on earth do you think SVHQ would react if they found out?’
‘I will not hear another word, Amanda. I must insist you accompany me.’
Conveniently remembering the chairman’s instructions to follow Jeremy’s lead in all things, Amanda decided that she would not argue the point any further. Besides, it would be rather fun to go out to sea. However, she failed to see exactly how it would further the case and rather suspected it was a ruse by Jeremy to have some fun.
The main course arrived – a steaming hot Le Creuset pot full to the brim with bouillabaisse, a French fish stew. The rich, smooth, herb-infused soup-of-a-stew was generously packed with the very freshest seafood available – langoustines, squid, mussels and soft fillets of white fish. It acted as a rejuvenating elixir whose warm goodness seemed to travel through her entire being from her lips to the very tips of her toes, filling her with comfort and a sense of wellness.
Later that evening they sat in a café overlooking the Promenade des Anglais. Men, women and children of various nationalities filled the promenade and spilled onto the beach. The warm night air and the abundant natural light made it feel as if they were immersed in an endless, perfect summer dream.
‘You know, the Parisians call anyone outside of Paris “provincials”,’ Jeremy murmured.
‘I know that they are terrible snobs, if that’s what you mean.’
‘It’s terrible, really. I do love the city, but Parisians can be terribly arrogant sometimes.’
‘Tourists often comment on how unfriendly they are.’
‘It’s actually not that they are being unfriendly – it’s just the way they are. They are proud of their city and proud of being French and rightly so.’
‘So you feel that it is more about patriotic pride than just being rude?’
‘Definitely. That is why when people come to Paris they are expected to speak French. It is because the French people are proud of their heritage.’
‘I must admit I find French one of the most beautiful languages in the world. It lends itself especially well to poetry and philosophy.’
‘That’s why we have so many poets and philosophers in France!’
‘You are lucky to have such a strong sense of belonging. Being of mixed parentage, I rarely feel that. Of course, I feel British, but I am aware of also having French blood in me. That is why it is great to be here and to connect with the culture.’
The rest of the night stretched on far later than Amanda had planned. She found Jeremy so easy to talk to and so entertaining that she simply lost all track of time. Before they knew it, dawn was approaching. Jeremy slowly walked Amanda back to her hotel, silent by then after having exhausted all his energy conversing. Once they had reached journey’s end he turned to her.
‘Thank you for a wonderful night, Amanda. I enjoyed myself more than I have done in a very long time.’
He kissed her softly on both cheeks and then, once again, he was gone.
Chapter 9
Amanda awoke with a start. The telephone on the bedside table was ringing, its shrill tones filling the room. She picked up her Cartier watch to check the time. It was nearly one p.m.! They were supposed to meet at midday to board the yacht.
She picked up the phone as it continued to ring. It was answered by housekeeping. The woman on the other end of the line answered in as polite a tone as was possible for a French maid. She informed Amanda that she wanted to service the room. Amanda had twenty minutes to get ready. She took a quick shower, did her hair and makeup, then put together an outfit she felt worthy of an outing aboard a luxury yacht on the French Riviera. She chose a pair of white cotton trousers from Joseph that were fitted tightly and clung to her well-toned legs. This she paired with a navy and white striped vest-top that looked to her elegant and suitably nautical. She also chose a pair of casual white and blue quilted ballet pumps from Jaeger as footwear, as much for their extreme comfort as anything else.
Then she called Jeremy. It appeared that he had also overslept as it took him some time to answer the telephone and when he finally did his voice sounded croaky and sore as if he had just swallowed a handful of gravel. He suggested they meet at the harbour at two-fifteen.
It was another glorious day in Nice, and by the time Amanda finally met up with Jeremy it was so warm that the heat could be seen rising from the pavement. Jeremy had certainly perked up, and his face was glowing with excitement. He was dressed in light beige trousers fastened with a classic Hermes ‘H’ belt and a short-sleeved white cotton shirt. He also had on a pair of aviator shades with mirrored lenses that had an iridescent quality like soap bubbles in the sunlight.
The captain of the yacht was a friendly young man with a round belly, the result of years of over-indulgence in fine food and wine. The other three crew members were kitted out in a white uniform that bore the yacht’s name and emblem. As soon as they stepped aboard Amanda and Jeremy were presented with glasses of chilled champagne. Amanda dropped a fresh strawberry into her glass and watched it float to the top as the bubbles came to life, gathering about it like bumblebees on a honeycomb.
When she looked out at the seascape around them she delighted in the myriad of deep blues and emerald greens that greeted her eye. The sky was a brilliant azure and the sun shone brighter than ever. The picnic that was served to them was so generous and varied that Amanda felt as though she had been invited to dine at the captain’s table on a luxury ocean liner. There were fresh mangoes, papayas and melons, soft ripe French cheeses, patés and foie gras, complemented by fine caviar and blinis.
They proceeded to enjoy a scenic tour of the bay, the gentle breeze lifting the coolness from the ocean and transferring it to their warm skin. Their forty-five foot yacht was one of the largest in the vicinity and it drew envious looks from the passengers of smaller boats. Their occupants probably imagined them to have glamorous backgrounds as wealthy tycoons or European royalty. Purely in the name of detective work, Jeremy had arranged for them to moor their yacht in St Tropez. As they moored alongside other equally impressive power boats they caught sight of a young and beautiful couple lost in an embrace on board one of the yachts beside them.
Once disembarked, Jeremy and Amanda headed for the celebrated club 55 (Cinquante-Cinq) on Pampelonne beach. Previously a ramshackle beach hut, it had been transformed into a glamorous destination after becoming a favourite of Brigitte Bardot in 1956 while her crew was filming in the area. Here skinny young model types mixed with faded film stars, whilst muscular barmen served the snowy-haired million- and billion-aires. Settling into one of the white banquettes, Amanda enjoyed a freshly squeezed orange juice that was as expensive as a glass of champagne, while Jeremy sipped a cool slimline tonic water with a twist of lime.
Opposite them, perched on the edge of her chair and peering through half-moon spectacles at a copy of Le Figaro sat an older lady with red-dyed hair who appeared to have had so much plastic surgery that her eyes could no longer open fully. Her male companion was an extremely good-looking young man with a tanned torso and tight jeans who looked as though he might have just stepped out of a Calvin Klein advert.
On the other side of the bar a couple who were the exact opposite were sitting together – a very old man and a very young woman. The young woman was an animated conversationalist and gesticulated energetically as she spoke, allowing anyone who happened to be looking in her direction to marvel at the sparkling diamond-laden jewellery that glinted back at them. When she smiled her perfectly aligned white teeth were dazzling. The older man was tremendously fat, gorged on his own self-importance. He could not stop himself glancing around the venue every so often to ensure people were looking at his beautiful trophy. Amanda realised that, to the outside world, she and Jeremy probably looked like a couple too. Little did they know what had actually brought them together.
As they sipped their drinks the relaxing background music began to be replaced by louder dance tunes with a heavy baseline. Obviously the crowd was getting into the party spirit as Amanda noticed a couple of young men ordering a pitcher of apple sorbet with an entire bottle of Calvados mixed into it. Looking at her watch she saw it was only four in the afternoon.
From the glamorous Club 55 they headed for a stroll along the beautiful beach. Amanda’s previously routine life in London seemed a million miles away as men and women in fashionable bathing attire dotted the landscape, their skin drinking in the sun and graduating from deep bronze to dark mahogany.
Amanda: Tales of an international female spy Page 6
