“Let’s end with a headstand,” Iqbal said.
Louise imitated him, crouching down on her knees, interlacing her fingers and nestling her head on the sand supported by her linked hands. It took a few attempts with Iqbal spotting her, but she was finally able to balance herself, raising her knees slowly, then straighten her legs.
“You have a new perspective on the world,” Iqbal said. “This pose opens the crown chakra. The most important, connecting to your spiritual self.”
“It really works!” she said, feeling the benefits of the yoga like an epiphany. She lowered out of the headstand and faced Iqbal. She imitated him placing her hands together in front of her heart.
“Namaste.” Iqbal bowed his head and Louise did the same.
As if on cue, Big Steve brought out a tray of fruits, beverages and other breakfast items. “Bon appétit,” Big Steve said.
Louise was sweaty and winded from exertion, but she smiled. “I’ve never been so hungry,” Louise said. “Thank you, Iqbal and Éti,” Louise said as tears flooding her eyes. “It feels like I’m waking from a trance.”
“You are most welcome,” Iqbal said. “Now, enjoy your breakfast and continue your practice. I will return next week. When you are ready, I recommend taking part in the intensive yoga retreat on my island.”
“I’m looking forward to it!” Louise said. “Would you like to join me for breakfast?”
“No, thank you. I must get back.” Iqbal and Louise exchanged a hug and Big Steve escorted Iqbal back to his boat.
Louise devoured the food. It was as if a whole new perspective about her situation had suddenly occurred to her. Perhaps this was paradise.
PART I
TROUBLE IN PARADISE
O N E
December 3, 1999
The 18th century building, a bastion of affluence and luxury, stood sentinel in the darkness. Its marble floored corridors festooned in tapestries and antiquities provided safe passage between sumptuous chambers where its residents slept in tranquility.
“Help! Someone, please!”
Nurse Theresa Leigh was startled awake. The clock glowed 4:40 a.m. and the light under the door alarmed her. She put on a robe and cracked open the bedroom door. Her fellow nurse, Todd Mayer, held his hand over what appeared to be his own blood staining his shirt. Her first instinct was to rush out and help him.
“Stay there!” Todd whispered, coming closer.
“You’re bleeding!” Theresa whispered back.
“I’ve been stabbed! Someone has broken in!”
Theresa tried to remain calm. “Who? Where?”
“Two men, I don’t know who they are. They were wearing masks.” Todd handed her a mobile phone. “Call the police and get Mr. Almasi to his saferoom. I’m going to get help!”
Theresa retreated back into her room and locked the door. She opened the inner door that led to her employer’s adjacent bedroom.
“What the devil is happening?” Her boss, the 67-year-old Israeli banker, Ekram M. Almasi, stood next to his bed looking panic stricken. He suffered from Parkinson’s disease, and the terror in his eyes made him appear even more helpless.
In a calm but forceful tone Theresa said, “There are intruders. We must move to safety.”
Theresa entered his bedroom and darted into the large dressing room. Almasi followed her, slammed the armored door and activated the deadbolt. The expansive chamber had been converted to a bunker-like fortified room that included ample supplies, a wet bar, and a full bathroom.
Theresa pushed buttons frantically on the mobile phone. “I’ll call Sofia.”
“Call the police!” Almasi shouted.
Theresa ignored his order and continued to call the head nurse Sofia Helm. “It’s Theresa. There has been a break-in. Todd has been stabbed. Please call the police!”
“A break-in?” Almasi echoed. “That’s not possible. This is a secured building!”
Theresa stared at the phone poised to answer. Finally, at 5:12 a.m. they heard the bleating of approaching sirens. “The police are here. We are safe.” Theresa moved to open the door, but Almasi pulled her back.
“No!” Almasi shouted. “The intruders!”
Theresa waited, listening. Then they heard more sirens and Theresa called Sofia again. “What’s happening? We hear sirens from the fire brigade.”
“Tell her to call my security team!” Almasi shouted.
Theresa listened to Sofia, then hung up. “The police are in the lobby searching for the burglars.”
“They are not burglars!” Almasi insisted. “They’re assassins!”
“Assassins?” But Theresa was suddenly distracted by smoke. “There’s a fire!” Almasi and Theresa coughed violently as smoke billowed in through the ceiling. “Please open the door, Monsieur Almasi! We won’t survive this smoke more than ten minutes.”
“Stand back!” He forced her into the corner. “Call my security team!”
“They are not here in Monte Carlo! We must get out now!”
“No! They’ll kill me!” Terror fueled his panic as he scrambled to place wet towels along the bottom of the door in a futile effort as the conflagration engulfed the penthouse. Almasi groped for the pendant around his neck and held it up like a talisman warding off evil.
Theresa frantically made one final call to Sofia. “Please help us! We are dying!”
Flames burst through the ceiling, but Almasi kept Theresa pinned in the corner until she fell unconscious. Almasi inched toward the door, hearing shouts from the firefighters just on the other side. He made it to the armchair before collapsing. The yelling faded as the fire chief moved his team out of the doomed penthouse wing. The saferoom was now a furnace, the smoke searing Almasi’s lungs, his eyes bulging with the realization of his self-fulfilling prophesy, being murdered by the devil himself.
The first rays of the sunrise shimmered on the serene Mediterranean Sea, waves lapping the shores beneath the soaring bluffs. Palatial structures adorned the cliff tops, as seagulls busy with their breakfast squawked overhead, oblivious to the singular devastation. A Maritime Police chopper hovered over the duplex penthouse, the pilot surveying the rooftop blaze, which was burning out of control. Vacationers crowded onto the terrace of the luxury Hôtel Hermitage across the street and gawked at the frantic activity.
Unsure if it had been a terrorist attack, the city was on high alert. Police, fire, and military personnel rushed to impose a sense of order. Emergency vehicles lined the cramped streets where buildings huddled at angles to fill every meter of real estate.
“Where is Almasi’s chief of security?” shouted Patrick Roblot, Chief Superintendent of the Monte Carlo Urban Police Division. He was middle-aged tall and burly, with a buzz-cut that minimized his male-pattern baldness. Taking control of a situation was second nature for him. One of his officers approached for instructions. “The owner of this building, Ekram Almasi, has a private security team. The head of Almasi’s security detail is Jordan Coen. Find him and bring him here, now!” Roblot barked. The officer nodded in affirmative and ran off to fulfill his mission.
Roblot was scribbling notes on a small pad when the Superintendent of the Criminal Police Division, Paul Dupont, approached with two of his own officers.
“I’ll take over from here,” Dupont said.
“What the hell is the CPD doing here?” Roblot protested. “This is an Urban Police Division matter.”
“Correction,” Dupont said. “I am responsible for coordinating with Interpol. If we don’t get this situation under control, it will cause an international incident.”
“Correction,” Roblot countered. “You are responsible for protecting Monaco’s image.”
“CPD has been instructed to take over,” Dupont said in rigid defiance.
“By whom?” Roblot asked.
“By the Minister of State.”
“What the devil is going on?” Roblot shouted. “Who is running this thing?”
“The Minister of State, the highe
st authority after the Prince of Monaco, is responsible for the administration of the military forces,” said Dupont.
“I’m aware of the Minister of State’s authority,” Roblot said.
“Then you understand that my orders come from him, not from you.”
“Listen, you ill-informed bureaucratic…”
The fire battalion chief approached. “Our firefighters are now in defensive mode. The fire is out of control. We even tried to use axes to enter through the walls, but that saferoom is like a fortress. There is no recourse but to allow a controlled burn. It is unlikely there are any survivors.”
Dupont stepped away to speak privately on his mobile phone just as Roblot’s officer returned.
“Almasi’s chief of security is here!” the officer said.
Just then, a tall, dark former Mossad agent, Jordan Coen, approached the men.
Dupont rushed back and shouted, “Take him into custody!”
“Take me in?” Coen asked. “On what charge?”
“I have been instructed to transport the suspect to the military prison,” Dupont said. “Monsieur Coen, you are being detained for questioning in the death of Ekram Almasi.”
“Place your hands behind your back, sir,” one of Dupont’s officers said. Coen complied and the officer handcuffed him. Then he patted down Coen, confiscating his Beretta Model 70 single-action .22-caliber semi-automatic pistol and brass knuckles.
“This is an outrage!” Coen protested. My team and I weren’t even in Monte Carlo. Almasi dispatched us to his guest house at La Leopolda. He had no need for a security team here.”
“He’s right,” Roblot said. “There is one police officer for every hundred people in Monte Carlo and my department’s reputation for safety is undisputed. In any case, you have no jurisdiction to arrest this man.”
“Take him to military detention,” Dupont insisted.
“I demand to know where Monsieur Almasi is!” Coen shouted.
“He locked himself inside his saferoom,” Roblot informed Coen, pointing to the plume of smoke overhead. “He refused to open the door to anyone, not even the fire department.”
The officers forced Coen into the squad car. “Wait, you idiots!” Coen shouted. “I have the key to the saferoom! Mrs. Almasi gave me the key! Check my pocket! It is the only way to get him out!” The CPD officers ignored his pleas and drove away.
As the squad car sped off an elegant woman of a certain age ran up to the men.
“What are you doing?” Julia Almasi shouted. “He has the key to the bunker!” Mrs. Almasi had just awoken, her blonde bouffant needing a comb, her eyes carefully cleansed of her usual dark liner and heavy mascara, and her skin well hydrated from night cream.
“You have a key to the bunker?” Roblot asked.
“Coen has the key!” Mrs. Almasi urged. “I gave it to him!”
“Tell the officers to return Coen immediately!” Roblot ordered. “He has a key to the saferoom.”
The fire chief listened to his walkie-talkie. “It is too late for the key,” he said.
Julia Almasi was grief-stricken and Roblot tried to calm her. “S’il vous plaît, Madame,” Roblot said. “You were lucky to be in your wing of the penthouse.” He signaled for one of his men. “My officer will accompany you home while we try to sort this out.”
“No! I’m staying right here,” Julia Almasi insisted.
“Madame, we do not have the resources here to protect you now,” Roblot explained. “There has been a stabbing, and you could be in danger.”
“A stabbing!” Julia exclaimed. “Who has been stabbed?”
“The male nurse,” Roblot replied. “His injuries were not life-threatening. He has been treated and is now in custody.”
“Who stabbed him?” Julia asked.
“That is what we are trying to find out. I have orders to lock down this area. This entire perimeter is now secured, no one in and no one out. That includes you. Now, please go back home and wait for further instructions.”
The officer escorted Julia back to her wing of the penthouse. The Fire Chief muted his walkie-talkie, waiting for Julia to be out of earshot before updating the men.
“The fire is out. It took two hours to break through the door of the bunker. My men have confirmed, the fumes and heat overtook Almasi and his nurse. They are deceased.”
“Merde!” Roblot said. “Call your men back and I will send in my team. This is now a crime scene, and we must take every precaution to collect and preserve the evidence. We will want this investigation to be airtight.”
“That is acceptable,” Dupont replied. “As long as it’s done under my observation.”
“As you wish,” Roblot said.
Roblot and Dupont stood over the carcasses of the billionaire and his head nurse. The ghoulish sight of Ekram M. Almasi, his eyes popping out of his head, his remains blackened with soot, his skin incinerated, gave Roblot a sense of foreboding.
“Mon dieu,” Dupont said.
“Such a respected public figure perishing in this way will create a shitstorm,” Roblot said. “My forensics team will collect and log every crumb of evidence. I will leave nothing to chance.” He scribbled notes and Dupont observed closely as the forensic team began the gruesome task of picking through debris to recover evidence. They placed the cell phone found near Almasi into an evidence bag, tagged and logged it, then repeated the process with the cell phone found near Theresa.
The medical examiner and his assistant arrived. “Bonjour, Inspector Roblot.”
“Bonjour, Doctor,” Roblot replied.
The ME shook hands with Dupont and introduced himself. “Doctor Gilles Masseron, médecin légiste, and my assistant, Jean Ambroise.”
“Paul Dupont, Superintendent Criminal Police Division. I’ll be overseeing the investigation, so you’ll be reporting your findings to me.”
Masseron put rubber gloves on and kneeled to examine the remains while his assistant prepared the body bag and trolley. “Based on the bulging of the eyes, the cause of death appears to be asphyxiation. But I will need to do a thorough examination back at the lab,” Masseron said.
Roblot took notes. “You are welcome to observe as long as you don’t interfere with my operation,” Roblot told Dupont.
“It’s a national security issue for CPD,” Dupont insisted, testing Roblot’s patience.
Oblivious to the ongoing power struggle, Dr. Masseron interrupted them. “This woman’s neck has been crushed.”
The superintendents shifted on their feet and turned to the medical examiner in a display of surprise.
“Possibly by Almasi himself,” Roblot speculated. “To keep her from opening the door. Almasi was a known paranoiac.”
“I’ll know more after I question the suspects in custody,” Dupont said.
“Excusez-moi,” persisted Roblot. “But the UPD will be conducting the interrogations.”
The medical examiner jotted notes on his clipboard. “There’s not much else I can do here. I will confirm cause of death after I get the lab work.”
“Continue to gather evidence here while I go speak with the minister of state,” Roblot told his officers then walked out.
“I’ll join you,” Dupont said, following Roblot.
“With all due respect, Minister, why did you order Almasi’s chief of security to be taken to military prison for questioning when he had the key to the safe house?” Roblot asked. “A key that may have saved the lives of monsieur Almasi and his nurse. That makes CPD partially responsible for Almasi’s death and now they are interfering in my investigation.”
Minister of State Lévêque listened to Roblot respectfully. His impressive career spanned over thirty years of consulate, embassy, and government posts for France, London, and the United Nations. His ability to pick up verbal cues as well as body language gave him an advantage when dealing with members of law enforcement.
“Superintendent Roblot,” Lévêque replied. “You are a good man and a great cop. Howev
er, this is an international incident. I’m sorry, but this is no longer your jurisdiction. Anything you uncover in your investigation must be shared with the CPD.”
“But, Minister!”
“Monsieur Roblot,” Lévêque interrupted. “I am aware of your passion for justice. But this is not your cause célèbre.”
Roblot was flustered by Lévêque’s very personal admonishment. “Understood, sir,” was all Roblot could muster.
“Thank you, Roblot. You are excused,” the minister replied. “You too, Superintendent Dupont, sauvez-vous.”
Dupont followed Roblot out of the minister’s office. “No hard feelings, mon vieux,” Dupont said, giving Roblot an overly chummy but firm slap on the back.
Roblot stopped and looked Dupont in the eye. “Make no mistake,” Roblot said. “I’m not backing off this case.”
“You are no longer in charge of investigating this case,” said Dupont, stepping into Roblot’s personal space.
“Try to stop me,” Roblot said, breaking the staring contest by walking away. “And, I’m not your old man.”
“You will have to share any evidence you uncover with the CPD!” Dupont yelled after Roblot, who kept walking.
December 14, 1999
“You must be very proud of your niece, Monsieur D’Atout. She is quite an accomplished young lady for a fourteen-year-old.” The woman was in her forties and spoke English with a combined posh British and literary Central Russian accent. “She has been a wonderful student. I shall miss her.”
“Your tutelage made all the difference, Madame Petrov,” Arnaud D’Atout said. He looked expectantly around the room. “Where is Annabel?”
“She’s saying good-bye to my daughter, Evelyne. They have become quite close over the time she has spent here.” Like her name, Madame Petrov was stony-faced as she summoned the girls. “Evelyne, it’s time to say good-bye.” The two girls emerged from the adjacent room their arms interlocking and their foreheads touching. Evelyne was emotional, her wide blue eyes teary and her fleshy red lips quivering. Annabel was tall and svelte and carried herself with the grace of a dancer. They both had long blond hair, but Evelyne’s natural platinum hair with her striking facial features threw Arnaud off. “Say hello to Monsieur D’Atout, Evelyne.” Evelyne curtseyed politely.
Pinot Noir Page 2
