by Lin Anderson
His next call was to Jean Paul, who confirmed that the English lady was currently in their kitchen chatting to his wife. Patrick, speaking in Cannois, used the code words they’d decided on, and Jean Paul replied that the hotel was shut until June, before ringing off to the background sound of female laughter.
Satisfied that Angele had the best bodyguard available and was not party to his plans, Patrick undressed and, steeling himself, went into the bathroom. He turned on the water and cleansed the bath of fingerprint powder before stepping in and showering as quickly as possible.
Before dressing, he called Stephen.
‘I need you to do me a favour,’ he said.
TWELVE
There was a party in full swing on Le Pantiero. A huge striped awning resembling an open-sided circus tent had been raised in case of May showers, although the sky was clear and bright with stars. Beneath it, beautiful people mingled in a flurry of scent, haute couture, champagne, live music and loud chatter. Beyond, in the bay, a thousand lights twinkled from anchored yachts, no doubt their revellers similarly occupied.
Cannes was doing what it did best. Having a party.
Patrick slipped through the side gate to the fisherman’s section. The contrast here with the glitzy goings on nearby couldn’t be starker. François sat under his faded awning, a glass of rosé and a battered tin plate piled high with fruits de mer on an upturned crate close by. He glanced up as Patrick appeared and only an amused glint in his dark eye acknowledged Patrick’s immaculate tuxedo.
Their conversation lasted twenty minutes. François listened carefully to the details of Patrick’s proposal, thought about it, then nodded. They arranged a time and Patrick left. Walking along the Allées de la Liberté Charles de Gaulle, he took stock of the plan. If he managed to pull it off, it would accomplish exactly what he wanted. Retribution for all concerned in Marie’s death.
If not …
Across the road, under the shade of the early leaves of the plane trees, he caught sight of the carousel. It was in motion, twirling children smiling out excitedly at their parents. He had a sudden memory of Marie’s tall figure passing that spot after they’d eaten crêpes together; of her laughing and wiping the chocolate from her mouth.
As he’d watched her disappear from view that night, he knew he would ask to see her again.
Something lost to him now.
Patrick slipped his hand in his pocket and checked for his wallet. Combining his own resources with the advances from Camille and Brigitte, plus Leon’s money, had given him a high enough stake to set the wheels in motion. All that remained was Chevalier’s support.
The casino was busy and a queue of casual visitors who required their identities checked had formed at the desk. Patrick nodded at the doorman and headed straight through. This time he avoided the lower hall, busy with the digital sounds associated with mind-numbing slot machines. An eruption of raucous cheers suggested gold had been struck in there somewhere, but he paid it no heed, instead making his way immediately to the lift.
The upper floor was hushed and decidedly more luxurious. As Patrick entered the bar he heard the beat of blades as a helicopter landed on the helipad. Double glass doors led to a roof garden, and through them he saw the manicured palm trees wave in the resulting breeze.
He ordered a bottle of chilled champagne and took himself out of sight of anyone entering from the helipad. Ten minutes from now, the game would begin. He raised a silent toast to Marie Elise then headed for the salle privée, his eyes bright with anticipation.
The chef de partie greeted him on arrival and removed the silken cord to let him through. The kidney-shaped table had ten places set, some of which were already occupied.
Patrick took a quick glance round his fellow participants.
Seat two was occupied by a young American male chatting intimately to a beautiful woman twice his age in the neighbouring place. Patrick thought the woman was the gambler and the man merely arm candy.
Seat five contained a distinguished grey-haired man wearing a crested pinkie ring on his left hand. An aristocrat, probably British, Patrick decided. At that point a short, plump, dark-haired man arrived, Italian by the brief exchange of words with the chef de partie. He took up his place at seat seven.
Patrick handed the croupier a blank card with the numbers 3, 5, 7, 8, 9 and 10 on it. The croupier nodded and set about filling the list before handing the card back to Patrick.
As his glass was refilled Patrick studied the names of his fellow players, only one of whom he recognized:
3 Anita Chevron-Barclay
5 Lord Rubert Osbourne
7 Severino Cassiopeia
8 Alexa Queen
9 and 10 Mr and Mrs Anthony Rogers.
As he scanned the card, Vasily Chapayev arrived and took his reserved place at seat six, directly opposite the seat which would be occupied by the banker. Patrick kept his glance averted while Chapayev squashed his ample girth into the chair. As Patrick raised his head intending to reveal his presence, his thunder was stolen by the arrival of the New York actress Alexa Queen, in a flurry of scent and silk.
She ran her beautiful eyes round the table, then settled her gaze on Patrick as she made her introduction, obviously expecting to be recognized. This wasn’t surprising since her face had been looking down from every billboard on the Croisette, and her film was short-listed for the Palme d’Or. As she settled herself, Mr and Mrs Rogers arrived in a much less pretentious manner and nervously took their seats, suggesting this was a new experience for them.
Chapayev had spotted Patrick’s presence by now and was eyeing him malevolently across the table. Patrick raised his champagne glass in salutation. At that point the banker walked in.
Le Chevalier welcomed the assembled company in French, English, Russian and Italian, even adopting a New York accent for Miss Queen, causing amused smiles from everyone, apart from Chapayev, who looked uneasy. Clearly, he had been surprised by Patrick’s presence, but even more so by Chevalier settling himself in the banker’s chair.
It had been a stroke of genius for Chevalier to come up with this part of the plan.
Apparently, he had bought the bank for the game from a Libyan syndicate, who were busy gambling oil money they’d spirited away in advance of the fall of the Gaddafi regime. Ironically, he had done so aided by the profit made on the sale of Villa Astrid. A substantial sum, he had informed Patrick, which he had every intention of increasing at Chapayev’s expense.
Chevalier was a serious gambler and a very good one. But no one was foolproof, and at Baccarat the odds against the banker and player were more or less even.
Chevalier cut the shuffled cards, the croupier fitted the six packs into the metal and wooden shoe and announced the game was about to begin. The bank was declared at 10,000 euros, which caused a little consternation from some of the prospective players.
Chevalier patted the fat pile of plaques in front of him and pronounced the bank ready. In position one, Patrick was required to start play. He received his first card, then Chevalier his. This was then repeated.
Patrick took time examining his two cards, his face suitably impassive. In Baccarat, court cards and tens counted for nothing, an ace as one. When added together only the last figure counted. He had drawn an eight and a nine, which meant together he had seventeen, but only the seven counted. Since the aim was to get closest to nine, the preferred option would be for Patrick to stand. He could of course take one more card and hope it was a ten, two or three, but that would be chancing his luck.
The pulse in his temple beating rapidly, Patrick indicated he didn’t want another card.
From this, Chevalier would now know the range of his cards. He would expect Patrick to hold a five, six or a seven. To be certain of winning, Chevalier would have to reveal an eight or a nine.
Chevalier examined his cards. A consummate gambler, there was no way of knowing what he held by his expression. He turned the cards with a snap. Two fours. Chevalier h
ad won.
‘Huit à la banque,’ the croupier declared. ‘Et le sept.’ He unceremoniously raked in Patrick’s losing cards and slipped them through the metal slot leading to the canister.
A quick glance at Chapayev revealed his delight at Patrick’s loss. Chevalier had already pushed forward the bank’s plaques, which had been raised to 50,000 euros. Patrick declared suivi, exercising his right to follow up his lost bet, and added his to the pile.
‘Un banco de cent mille,’ declared the croupier with no hint of emotion.
Patrick was no luckier the second time. To a three and a two, he added a useless ten. Chevalier scooped him with a nine and a court card.
By now Chapayev’s pleasure could not be concealed. His beady eyes glistened with joy.
Chevalier doubled the stakes. The rest of the table remained silent, eyeing one another, awaiting who might be brave enough to take up the challenge.
The Russian ran his glance round the assembled group, assessing their reluctance. For a moment Lord Osbourne seemed tempted, then wilted somewhat under Chapayev’s look. The Russian finally fastened on Patrick.
‘Banco,’ he said, challenging him.
It was at this point the bodyguard appeared opposite Patrick. He must have been lingering among the interested spectators hovering outside the playing area. From the quick glance he exchanged with the croupier, Patrick briefly wondered if an attempt had been made to bribe him, then decided not. Chevalier knew all the croupiers by name, and by much more besides. If Chevalier wasn’t concerned about the cards being doctored, then neither should he be.
Chapayev was waiting to see if Patrick would rise to his bait. When he didn’t, the Russian gave a curt nod and was dealt his cards. After a quick glance at them, he flipped them over with a flourish, to expose a clear nine.
There was a combined gasp from the assembled company and Alexa let slip an expletive that betrayed her Bronx origins.
Next to Patrick, Ray Silver gave an exasperated little noise as though he had really intended taking up the challenge and been prevented somehow from doing so. He whispered something in his paramour’s ear. Her expression remained blank, but her hungry eyes said it all, just like everyone else’s around that table. If only I had taken the chance.
Patrick drained his champagne, glanced at his watch and stood up, excusing himself in a slightly embarrassed fashion, as though his funds were insufficient, or his nerve had gone. Neither Chapayev nor Chevalier paid his departure any heed. Only Alexa seemed disappointed. She caught his eye, looking for an excuse to go with him. When none was forthcoming, she pouted and turned her attention back to the game.
Patrick weaved his way through the gathered throng, feeling Korskof’s eyes on his back, guessing the bodyguard would have preferred to follow him, but couldn’t, without a direct order from Chapayev.
Which suited Patrick just fine.
He swiftly exited the casino and headed along the busy thoroughfare to the old port. It was up to Chevalier now what happened in the casino. Patrick had other fish to fry.
THIRTEEN
The car was parked alongside Les Trois Soeurs just as he’d requested. Stephen was sitting on deck, a pint of Guinness in front of him. There was no sign of Colm. Patrick checked the trunk and was pleased to see his orders had been carried out in full.
Stephen bestowed a large grin on Patrick as he approached.
‘Himself is still out for the count. What the hell did you give him?’
Patrick didn’t answer. Just said thanks and went below.
Leon lay where he’d left him, face to one side, drool running from his part-open mouth. He wasn’t a pretty sight, but judging by his pulse he was alive.
As he re-emerged, Stephen downed the last of his Guinness and stood up.
‘Where are we headed then?’
Patrick regarded his eager face. ‘I want you to stay here.’
‘You need a buddy on a night dive. What if—’
Patrick cut him off. ‘I have one.’ He observed the Irishman’s hurt expression, but didn’t change his own. ‘Lock up and bunk down when you’re ready.’
‘When will you be back?’
Patrick shrugged. He had no idea when, or even if he would return.
The texture of the Mediterranean changed at twilight, becoming limpid, as reflections from the strong sun died away and the breeze dropped. He loved night dives, even when on a job. No matter how many he did there was always a ripple of excitement and anticipation. Tonight more than ever.
The coast road was quiet, the headlights like underwater torch beams in the darkness. Above, stars glittered in a blackened sky. In the open-topped car Patrick breathed in the sharpness of Mediterranean pine and the even stronger fragrances of scent-laden gardens.
The car park was empty, the beach below a ribbon of white sand, fringed with green. Moonlight played on the water between the shore and the red rock of the island. The surrounding sounds of small insistent swishes as each fragile wave broke.
This must have been how it had been when the Allies arrived in 1944. Frightened young Americans who had never been outside their small Midwest towns, who had never seen an ocean, suddenly wading ashore on a foreign beach into Europe’s war.
Patrick at least knew what he was risking his life for.
Minus headlights, he eased his way down the gravel road towards the restaurant and parked behind the main building, well out of sight of prying eyes. The only light was on in the kitchen. Angele’s cabin was in darkness. She was either asleep or still chatting with Joanne. Either way was good.
He carried his gear to shore and kitted up by moonlight. He’d made the call before he left Cannes. The Swede knew where the booty was. He need only retrieve it.
Patrick watched as the inflatable from the Heavenly Princess appeared from behind the Île d’Or. The skipper would line up via three onshore landmarks, the restaurant probably being one. There was only one point at sea where three objects were in the same position relative to one another. A good skipper didn’t need a GPS reading to guide his boat to the spot Patrick had given.
Soon he heard the engine cut out and the plop as the anchor dropped.
They were there.
Patrick walked into the water west of the island and was soon submerged. He knew exactly where he wanted to be. He was familiar with the varying depths of water. He was clear where he’d instructed François to drop his line.
Patrick glanced at his wrist computer, checking the depth. Everything depended on whether the Swede dived alone (Patrick was certain he would) and how clearly he would follow the directions.
Turning on his torch, Patrick illuminated a bright circle in the darkness. Below him, ripples in the sand ran parallel to shore. He allowed himself a sweet moment of anticipation, before kicking off towards his goal.
Gradually, creatures of the night appeared. The ones that lurked in dark holes and crevices during the day now hunted for those asleep in their nests and burrows. Below were what François sought for the restaurants of Cannes – lobsters and crabs moving as in a dance. A rare ray fish glided past, skimming the sand, smelling prey buried beneath. Patrick’s movement disturbed water around the western outcrop of the island, resulting in a firework display of phosphorescent creatures, instantaneously lighting up the sea, to disappear just as quickly.
He switched off his torch and was instantly plunged into a suffocating darkness.
After a few moments he saw the circle of light that was the Swede’s beam. Only one, which meant he was diving alone. Patrick smiled, remembering Stephen’s scorn when he spoke of the diver they’d used in the shooting of The Black Pearl. How he had required the onboard decompression chamber.
It seemed Gustafson, like Patrick, took chances.
He watched from behind a rock as the Swede approached. His beam eventually focused on the sunken village, centring on the miniature church, its tall steeple long gone, removed by divers as a souvenir. Patrick watched as the Swede finned towards i
t, hand already outstretched for the bag the steeple contained.
Centimetres from his prize, he came to a sudden and abrupt halt.
Thin taut fishing lines were the curse of the diver, especially at night. Unseen in the torch beam, they caught on your equipment, anchoring you. Gustafson was finning but suddenly going nowhere. Turning, he tried to see what held him, his torch dancing wildly in the darkness. Twisting had been a mistake. Realizing this, he turned back, but by now the line was caught round his cylinder.
He tried to free himself, a little more frantically this time, but only succeeded in making things worse. A buddy would have realized by now that something was wrong. A buddy would have come back to cut the line and free him.
But the Swede had no buddy.
Patrick watched as the panic built up. The struggle as Gustafson flailed and twisted the dropped torch, the regulator torn from his mouth as he breathed in a foamy mixture of seawater and air. Gustafson’s hands scrabbled to find his second regulator, which, like the other, floated free in the darkness.
Patrick switched on his own torch and the Swede swivelled desperately towards the light. For a moment his eyes held hope, until Patrick removed his own regulator and mouthed the words, ‘For Marie Elise.’
It was over in seconds.
Patrick replaced his regulator and finned towards the inert body and took a closer look to make certain. Then he turned and finned swiftly away.
When he’d accomplished his final task, Patrick headed for shore, where he changed back into the tuxedo behind the restaurant, then headed for the car.
The drive back to Cannes was as fast as it was invigorating. Screeching into the underground car park by the casino, he entered by a side door. In the upstairs bar he ordered a bottle of champagne, then chose a poker table in full view of anyone emerging from the Baccarat room. Bolstered by adrenaline, he played well enough to make back most of what he had lost earlier.
Forty-five minutes later, the door opened and Chapayev and Korskof appeared. Korskof, like a good bodyguard, noted his presence. Patrick, engrossed in his game, pretended not to see him.
