by Adam Gittlin
Though the Côte d’Azur was my given escape route, there were still obstacles to be considered. The towns I knew the best were actually off limits. Cannes, Antibes, Juan-les-Pins, Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat—the hot spots for me could unfortunately prove exactly that, too hot. This was summer, high time. The chances were strong that I knew people—from business associates in Manhattan to other vacationers or locals I’d met over the years—in each of them. The best bet for me was a simple one. I had to pick one of the sleepier, tier-two towns.
Local time was about midnight. The road alternated between one and two lanes. The thirty-five-mile-per-hour pace was just right, fast enough that I was moving yet slow enough I was able to breathe, think. A steady stream of warm, salty air flowed through the car, down my shirt. Each town I passed through—the ocean on my left, beachside bars and restaurants to my right—reminded me of a happier time. I had never imagined being on the Côte d’Azur in the pursuit of anything other than topless, tanning women and an endless party.
About an hour later, still a good twenty miles or so north of St. Tropez, I rolled into St. Maxime. I didn’t know St. Maxime for shit. Which meant it was perfect. I had passed through it almost every time I’d been on the Côte d’Azur, but never stopped. It was almost an afterthought. Now I needed a remote nook in the world, but I couldn’t fight the paranoia that comes with living in the information age. A portrait of the cop I killed in New York had already been on CNN before I left. Had I already been flashed across CNN around the globe, along with other news outposts, as well? Had the whole world already learned who I am? If yes—how many people are really paying attention? How many people could possibly spot me?
Was I really ready to find out?
Due to the late—or early, depending on your habits—hour, traffic was light. It was easy to maintain my pace and scope my surroundings. After a few minutes I slowed on the sight of the La Belle Aurore. It looked to be a small, clean, quiet hotel on the cusp of calling itself a resort. It was understated, dim. It looked to be the perfect place for me to lay up as I got my head in order.
As I pulled off the road, up away from the beach, within seconds I was faced with the easiest decision I had to make in what felt like an eternity: valet or self-parking. Valet was to the left, so like a robot I stayed right. I scoured the lot, scanned every single space to see which made the most sense. The answer was easy. One of those closest to the main road should I need to break in a hurry.
I pulled into the third spot from the entrance and turned the key, silencing the engine. There was an unexpected, eerie sensation, like I had closed the lid on the box holding my past. All I could hear was the gently crashing surf on the opposite side of the street, the interspersed passing cars, and my thoughts. Anything and everything, each breath that would pass through my lips from here on out, would be about my future. I was shocked by how distant a life I had left only half a day earlier could seem.
The lobby was beachy, comfortable. It was also empty. A thin, rust-colored rug held yellow couches that surrounded iron-framed, glass-topped coffee tables. One of the tables had a sterling silver bucket in the center filled with water—no doubt previously ice—and a spent, overturned bottle of cheap champagne floating in it. The corners of the room were adorned with assorted potted plants. The wooden walls held a few simple lithographs of scenes of the Riviera. The solid white ceiling was smooth and undisturbed aside from a couple small spotlights.
I walked up to the reception counter. I placed my briefcase and Neo’s carrier at my feet. I was greeted by a forty-something female with bobbed red hair and fair skin wearing a navy pants suit with the La Belle Aurore logo on her blazer.
“Bonjour,” she said. “Comment je peux aider ce soir?”
“Bonjour,” I responded.
I had picked up a good amount of French from all my time spent here, but again, I’ll go with the English version to make things easier.
“Unfortunately, my plans changed at the last minute and I don’t have a reservation this evening. I’m hoping you have something available.”
She looked down at her computer and began typing.
“I do, in fact, have something Mr.—”
I paused. She looked up.
“Gordon,” I said, hoping she didn’t see me swallow. “Roy Gordon.”
Boarding an airplane as Roy Gordon was one thing. Referring to myself as Roy Gordon was another.
Her eyes returned to her computer.
“I do have a few available rooms, Mr. Gordon. Unfortunately, they’re all suites. Will this be okay?”
Little did she know I would have settled for the basement. Or a cabana.
“Sure—that will be fine.”
“Terrific,” she went on, “The rate is five hundred seventy euros per night, plus tax. And how many nights will you be staying with us?”
“I’m not sure,” I answered.
I needed to come up with something, and quick. Not having a clue about how long I was staying would seem suspicious. Or would it? This was all so new.
“My current plans tell me three nights. But it may be a bit longer, depending on how some business affairs fall into place.”
That’s the fucking spirit.
“Will that be okay?”
“It will be just fine,” she answered, fingers still typing. “I have a beautiful suite with a magnificent view of the gulf.”
After a few more seconds, her head popped up again.
“You’re all set, Mr. Gordon. The last thing I need from you is a major credit card to keep on file.”
I had practiced the upcoming conversation in my head at least twenty times.
Confidence. Always.
Own every word that comes out of your mouth.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have one on me,” I said as I reached into my front pocket. “I lost my wallet somewhere in all of my last-minute-preparation-for-departure errands.”
I took a wad of euros out of my pocket. Her eyes caught it immediately. I started counting out bills.
“Anyway, American Express is sending a new card. I have been promised it will arrive no later than the day after tomorrow. So why don’t we just handle it this way? You said five hundred seventy euros per night. I’m happy to give you twenty-five hundred euros, which should cover the three nights I’ll definitely be staying as well as any taxes. Sound good?”
“Well, unfortunately, we require a major credit card for reasons other than just room-rate considerations. There are liability issues that—”
Improv time. Her name tag read Brigette. I smiled and cut her off. “Brigette, I absolutely understand your situation. I really do, you guys have rules. But you don’t have to worry about me trashing the room. I promise you I’m probably the most boring guest you’ll have in here all summer—and I don’t make much noise. If it makes you feel better, I’m happy to give you my passport so you can make a copy for your records.”
The door closed behind me. We were in the living room. I let Neo out of the carrier for good and tossed his carrier, my gym bag, and my briefcase on one of the two yellow couches. The only light fell from a lamp on a white wooden desk. The desk had been positioned between the French doors leading to the terrace and the entrance to the bedroom. The suite was mellow, actually charming. The walls were the same yellow as the couches. The rug and curtains were the same orange hue I’d seen in the lobby. An antique-looking armoire I opened, white-painted wood like the desk, revealed an older, chunky TV. The coffee table matched those found in the lobby as well—iron-framed with a glass top.
Neo immediately went to work sniffing out the entire suite. I zeroed in on the television. I powered it on and went straight to CNN’s international channel, the only station I had ever really watched outside of the United States. Charles Hodson was in the middle of a financial report, first discussing the results for the day on the American stock exchanges followed by those of exchanges around the globe. I sat on the end of the bed, my eyes glued. After a couple of minu
tes he seemed to be nearing the end of his report. I literally inched forward, only to have him flow right into a story about banking powerhouse J. P. Morgan’s impending merger with Bank One.
Dejected, antsy, I stood up and walked over to the French doors leading out to the terrace. I went out. The whispers of the Riviera, the gentle crash of the surf below, softened the sound of the reporter’s voice. Fragrance from the fruits and flowers of the Maures Mountains, hovering behind, rolled downhill and filled my nose, my every pore. I stepped outside, right up to the ledge of the waist-high, top-floor terrace. I looked out over the dark, moonlit waters of the Gulf of St. Tropez. Taking a deep breath, I wondered if Perry was going to follow me.
“An unbelievable situation is taking shape in New York City—”
I ran back inside. International correspondent Becky Anderson was reporting from London. As always, her angular jaw was perfectly framed by her cropped brown hair. Her thick British accent that could make the weather sound dire added to the intensity of her words.
“In a storyline seemingly ripped from the world of fiction, two headline news stories seem to be crashing into one another. Just last Saturday morning, prominent Manhattan real estate figure Stan Gray was gunned down on the stoop of his townhouse on the Upper East Side—one of the city’s most posh neighborhoods. Thus far, there have been no arrests.”
And there wouldn’t be anytime soon, I thought, exterior footage of my childhood home filling the international airwaves. Lloyd Murdoch had covered his tracks well. The only reason the prick is still breathing, after taking my father down like a dog as a message to me over a deal that was all bullshit, was because I hadn’t killed him—though I certainly came close. The only reason I hadn’t turned him in was because I hadn’t had time.
“Meanwhile, in what seemed like a completely unrelated matter, approximately forty-eight hours ago a New York City police officer was pulled out of Manhattan’s East River. He had sustained a single gunshot to the head and his body had been stuffed postmortem in a duffel bag. Few details are being released at this time, the one individual the authorities are seeking in relation to this crime is…”
A photograph of me—taken from my father’s house—filled the screen. The picture was snapped at his sixtieth birthday party.
“Jonah Gray. Mr. Gray is a successful commercial real estate broker in New York City and the son of Stan Gray. That’s right—the same Stan Gray whom we just mentioned gruesomely murdered on—”
I grabbed the remote and clicked it off. I decided right then and there to never look again. It simply didn’t matter anymore. Everything had gotten so fucked up. Now I was running for my life. Unknown to the rest of the world, the cop whom I had killed wasn’t some sympathetic figure, but a crooked lowlife who had violated every oath to serve and protect. He was a greedy, loathsome miscreant, shaking me down for Danish Jubilee Egg. And, if you recall, I didn’t mean to actually shoot him. The gun went off accidentally. My father, animal that he was, was killed because of a deal I was involved in that turned out to be a ruse created by my half-brother Andreu Zhamovsky to get Prevkos shareholders’ money into the States. Money that he and his crazy fuck mother would use to get their hands on the coveted missing Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs.
What’s worse? What’s maybe the hardest part of the whole sick scenario to swallow? Danish Jubilee Egg ending up in my briefcase was never part of Andreu and his mother’s original plan—it was a contingency plan that went sour. I was simply somewhere the egg was to be parked for a day or so—a middleman. Only I wasn’t having it. In the process of safely returning the rare treasure for transport to the U.S. Capitol where it was headed for display, I managed to piece together the location of the other six believed missing since the Russian Revolution. They were with a man named Pavel Derbyshev in Baltimore. Pavel Derbyshev is a direct descendant of a man named Piotr Derbyshev. Piotr Derbyshev, though a master stone carver in the House of Fabergé, but never previously in the driver’s seat when it came to their creation, was mysteriously asked by Maria Feodorovna to oversee the creation of these particular eggs.
Now why would the czarina of the Russian Empire ask a certain man who worked in the House of Fabergé to craft the eight eggs that would ultimately go missing?
We’ll get to that.
Same way we’ll get to the fact Galina Zhamovsky—Ia—is a direct descendant of Czar Alexander III: Maria’s husband. And the fact these eggs may hold secrets that will ultimately alter the course of history.
For almost thirty years, when it came to things such as the secret of Andreu as well as the truth about the missing Fabergé Imperial Eggs, Galina would communicate secretly through artwork sent to my father that then hung in our home.
My mother’s home.
It all still sickens me.
Anyway—none of this mattered now. I had to worry about me. I had to keep moving, and thinking, forward.
I tossed the remote on the floor and lifted my palms up in front of me. My hands were shaking. The last few weeks had been so crazy I doubted it was simply nerves. Was I hungry? No, even though I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten. Was it some kind of withdrawal? These last days I’d shunned the cocaine and weed in exchange for a clear head, but had these substances been more engrained in my being than I ever realized?
I opened the minibar. Figuring a little alcohol would dull the edge, I grabbed a Heineken, popped the cap with a bottle opener, and headed back outside. I fell onto a lounge chair and took a long, savoring sip of my beer. Neo, having concluded his surveillance of the place, leaped into my lap and curled up so tight his head rested on his tail. He was spent, like me, from our journey. The difference is he fell right asleep. Scared of what sunrise would bring, I could only focus on the stars.
I thought I might never sleep again.
CHAPTER 6
ST. MAXIME, FRANCE
2004
Neo’s sandpapery tongue swept over my lips. When I opened my eyes, the sunlight was so intense I could only squint. We were nose to nose. He was on his hind legs, his two front paws using my chest for balance. It took me a few seconds to remember where I was.
I grabbed Neo under his stomach and put him on the ground. I sat up. I looked at my watch, at the Audemars my mother had given my father. I touched it, remembering all the times she made me smile before she died just days before my fifth birthday. The watch was still on New York City time. The 2:00 a.m. I was looking at translated to 9:00 a.m. local time. I stood up and walked over to the edge of the terrace. The sky was solid blue, like a reflection of the sapphire water below. The gulf was teeming with life. Boats of all colors and sizes drifted about. Down below were scattered people sunbathing at the pool, as well as on the beach just beyond.
I thought about Perry. How much I missed her, hoped she was safe. I wondered if I’d ever see her again. I thought about my father, who I knew I’d never see again. I became choked up. I thought about Jake and Tommy, too. Sure, they were my partners, but they were also two of my closest friends. I feared they were being pressed about things they knew nothing of, and I was sorry for that.
I walked into the suite, into the bathroom off of the living room, grabbed one of two lowball glasses next to the sink and filled it with water. I walked back out to the terrace, put it on the ground so Neo—following me at my heels—could enjoy it in the warmth of a beautiful morning. I returned inside. It occurred to me that water was one thing, food was another. I contemplated my options. I could order room service or venture out. Either way I would have direct contact with someone new. I decided the farther away this person was from this location, the better.
I walked into the bedroom for the first time since I’d arrived. I stripped off the suit pants and button-down shirt I’d been wearing for almost twenty-four hours, leaving them on the floor. I headed for the door in the far left corner leading to the second bathroom.
With a flip, I turned on the single light in the center of the ceiling. With a counterclock
wise twist of a knob, I ran the shower. I tested the water with my hand. Cold, but beginning to even out. My eyes caught the mirror, my bald head. To my palm it felt stubbly and was a touch itchy. It dawned on me that aside from food for Neo, I needed other items. I needed food, toiletries, and casual beach wear that would help me maintain the identity of someone living a normal St. Maxime life. Someone who blends in.
After toweling off, I grabbed the gym bag off the couch in the living room and brought it into the bedroom. I took out the plastic bag containing the clothes I’d picked up at the airport, as well as a pair of underwear and socks. As I slid into the jeans, it occurred to me I had no idea who made them. I chuckled to myself. Days earlier, the only jeans allowed to touch my body had trendy labels and couple-hundred-dollar price tags. Now I was just happy not to be in a jail cell. Or dead.
I put on a black Hanes t-shirt and Yankee cap.
Fuck.
Shoes. All I had were the Ferragamos. The fact that they didn’t exactly match my outfit wasn’t the issue. The fact that such a mismatch might stick out was.
I was stuck and could do no better than wait until my first opportunity to replace them. The issue at hand was Neo. Did I leave him here in this room? Even though I didn’t plan on being long, what if I got held up? Or my plans called for quickly changing course? I needed to be agile. He didn’t even need a leash as he always stayed right at my feet. Still—what if we had to run? What if he couldn’t keep up, or we got split up? I exited the hotel, Neo slung on my shoulder in his carrier. I pulled my Yankee cap as low to my eyes as possible without interrupting my vision. The previous evening, I recalled, I had passed St. Maxime’s main port, and center of town, only a couple of kilometers before La Belle Aurore appeared. I turned right on Boulevard Jean Moulin, the portion of the Bord de Mer that brought me into town the night before and headed back the way I’d come.
