He shrugged. Louise picked at the food and ate a forkful of eggs. Her stomach growled its appreciation, but her heart sank from the CNN news ticker. She put her fork down.
“Any word from Charlie?”
“If y’all don’t eat my cookin’, I goin’ on strike.”
Louise bit off a corner of the toast and chewed joylessly.
“By the way,” Big Steve said. “Charlie contacted me this morning and said he’d be passin’ by soon.”
“Why didn’t you say so? I better get ready.” Her mood lifted and Louise ravenously forked eggs and toast into her mouth then ran to her bungalow.
Big Steve shook his head. “Girl sho’ can eat.”
All dressed up with nowhere to go, Louise glared at the group of divers disembarking on her beach. She could always tell what kind of customers they would be at first glance. Usually, it was a mix of affable older married couples, newlyweds, and a few singles out to discover the underwater wonders of nature. But occasionally they were spoiled assholes literally in over their heads. The arriving group appeared to be the latter, twenty-something guys on a bachelor party excursion. They invaded the island and thought it was funny to sound like the Pirates of the Caribbean.
“Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me! We pillage, we plunder, we rifle and loot! Drink up me ’earties, yo ho! We kidnap and ravage and don’t give a hoot! Drink up me ’earties, yo ho!” sang one diver with a slight Texas twang.
“And a bottle of rum!” shouted the guy who appeared to be the organizer. He raised his arm holding an invisible sword. “To the Tiki bar! Argh!” He ran toward the bar and the others followed making pirate sounds.
“Éti, can you deal with these guys?” Louise asked using his undercover moniker.
“Sho’ ’nough,” Big Steve said. They swarmed in, and Big Steve seated them all together near the terrace, away from the bar where Louise started to prepare drinks.
“A bottle of rum, arghh, matey!” the leader said.
“Y’all settle in and we’ll take care of everything,” Big Steve said calmly and professionally.
The dive master shook Big Steve’s hand. “How’s it goin’ there, Éti? Just give everyone the usual.”
“Ten Diver’s Delights, comin’ right up,” Big Steve said.
The conversations overlapped as the young men excitedly recounted their dive of the Bloody Bay Marine Park, so named after a naval battle.
“That wall dropping off a sheer 3,000 feet into the blue was amazing! Did you see that shark, y’all? I almost shit my wet suit!” said the twangy Texan.
“It was just a reef shark,” the group leader said. “They have no interest in you.” He turned and tipped an invisible hat toward Louise behind the bar. “Excuse my buddies, ma’am. They’re a little excited about the dive.”
“It’s quite all right.” Louise replied. “I’ve done that dive many times, and it’s always amazing.” Big Steve came over to help Louise with the drinks and food. “I thought Charlie was coming today,” she muttered.
“Maybe he already here,” Big Steve said, subtly nodding to a single man at one of the tables.
“You might be right. We don’t know what he looks like.”
As the divers’ conversations rose to a din, Louise eyed the man sitting quietly alone staring into his drink. He was tall and muscular, his face framed by a carved jawline and distinguishing gray temples. He had the air of a former marine or perhaps a Navy SEAL. He felt Louise watching but avoided eye contact. Oddly, his ominous presence was reassuring.
“I served him a rum shot with a beer chaser,” Big Steve said, reading her mind.
“He sure is taking his time drinking it,” Louise said.
“Maybe he’s lonely.”
Louise went to his table. “Anything wrong with the rum?”
“Sorry?” he said, looking up from his glass.
“Are you just going to stare at it or drink it?”
“It’s funny you should ask,” he said. “Recently, I find that looking at it is just as satisfying as drinking it, and therefore I don’t drink as much.”
“Yeah, I do the same thing with French pastries.”
“Cheers.” He raised the shot glass and drank it down, then swallowed the beer in one gulp. His face brightened into a gluttonous grin. “Even better than French pastry.”
“To each his own. Can I get you another?”
“Depends. Will you join me?”
“I’m a little busy right now,” Louise said, indicating the noisy group.
“Come ’on. Let me buy you a drink. It won’t kill you.”
Loaded words, Louise thought. “But will it change my life?”
“Tough terms.”
“It’s all about the negotiation,” Louise said.
“Are we still talking about rum shots?”
“I don’t know, are we?”
“You seem to live a sheltered life here.” As he said it, the bachelor party, which was on the third round of drinks, started getting ugly. Big Steve moved closer to triangulate with the dive master, both of whom had seen it all before.
“I keep up-to-date where it counts. Banking and finance regulations, global warming, rising sea levels,” Louise said. “Is there something I missed?” But the man wasn’t listening to Louise and focused on one of the divers who now approached Big Steve.
“Hey, brotha’, you gotta mighty fine woman there. Y’all couldn’t get away with that where I come from.” The man with the Texas twang said. Then he swigged the rest of his drink and slammed it down on the table. Big Steve took the stance of security guard, feet wide, arms crossed, composed, neutral expression.
Charlie got up and placed a generous tip and a folded pieced of paper on the table. “I have a new client for you,” he muttered to Louise. Then he walked toward the exit past the divers.
“Thanks.” Louise cleaned his table, pocketing the tip and picking up the note. It contained simple directions, longitude, latitude, time, date. Signed, Charlie.
Big Steve eyed Charlie and said, “How’s it going?”
“All in, all the time,” Charlie replied. The Navy SEAL reference was not lost on Big Steve, the dive captain or the leader of the bachelor party, who placed his hand on his buddy’s shoulder.
“Come on, bro. Don’t run to your death. Your wedding is soon enough for that.”
After a moment of strained silence, the tension broke and everyone laughed. The Texan approached Big Steve still puffed up. But he suddenly relaxed, grinned and held out his hand, which Big Steve shook. The Texan sat back down and Big Steve went to the bar to turn up the stereo and the party resumed.
Louise looked for Charlie, but he was already gone. She wiped her hands on the bar towel and handed it to Big Steve.
“Hold down the fort.” She went to her bungalow to change.
With the wind in her hair and 600 horsepower twin engines under the hull, Louise sliced through cobalt waters. There was no better way to travel. Her 36-foot Spectre Power Cat got her quickly off her little island with two electronic fuel injection engines in case one engine broke down or if she needed swift evasive tactics. She neared top speeds almost blowing her favorite hat off. It was a cotton pinstriped men’s bucket hat that she had stolen from Jean-Philippe on a trip to the Caymans, which had become perfectly broken-in over the years.
She checked her GPS headings for the coordinates on the handwritten note Charlie had given her. Careening through the wakes from crafts of all sizes, she passed yachts coexisting with fishing boats, all taking varying degrees of care to avoid dive boat mooring buoys. September 11th had impacted travel, so the traffic was lighter than normal at this time of year. That, along with her GPS, made it easier to track down Charlie’s location. Before May 2000, GPS signals had been subject to Selective Availability, or SA, which meant that for ordinary users, the signals were only accurate to approximately 50 meters. Since then, SA had been removed and GPS signals were generally accurate to a few meters. Louise spotted a
boat at the exact coordinates and made a beeline for it.
“Right on time!” The former Navy SEAL shouted to Louise as she expertly maneuvered the unwieldy high-powered engines alongside his 60-foot Marlow Explorer and tossed Charlie a line.
“Yes, old banking habits die hard.”
“Climb aboard,” Charlie said as he tied up. She deftly stepped over the gunwale and onto his deck. “Nice hat.”
“Nice boat,” Louise said, running her fingers along the gleaming hardwood finish. “This teak wood is stunning.”
“Thanks,” Charlie replied. “She’s a dream come true. Every Marlow Explorer is crafted from a single teak log, handpicked in Thailand to ensure that the wood is consistent throughout the boat.”
They entered from starboard into an enclosed fly bridge. The pilothouse featured a fully equipped gourmet galley, a dining settee, and a very spacious helm area. The natural marble and granite countertops in the galley enhanced the luxury. There was even a Sub-Zero refrigerator and Fisher-Paykel dishwasher.
“I could definitely live aboard,” Louise said.
“While I’m working, I do,” Charlie replied.
Two steps down they entered the large saloon with horseshoe seating, a teak dining table for ten, and a large-screen television. There was also a custom bar with built-in barstools where a bottle of Veuve Cliquot chilled in an ice bucket. A man seated at the bar rose to greet her.
“Mademoiselle Moscow.” He shook her hand. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
Louise was taken aback. All of the other clients that Charlie had sent her had accepted the Karen Baker moniker, no questions asked.
“You’re welcome,” Louise replied. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
Charlie made introductions. “This is Patrick Roblot, from Monte Carlo.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Louise said. “But I get the feeling this isn’t a pleasure cruise.”
“Please, have a seat,” Roblot said, offering her the barstool. “Champagne, Mademoiselle Moscow?”
Louise took the glass and they clinked. “To family.”
“You two have known each other long?” Roblot asked.
“I just met Charlie today,” Louise said. “But he seems like family. Right, Charlie?”
“Since Louise moved to her island paradise, she has become a highly sought-after consultant for her knowledge of offshore business. I have referred several satisfied clients to her.”
“But I only work with legitimate businesses.” Louise felt there was no time like the present to preface her working terms. “Certain international companies are inherently logical candidates. In such circumstances, it makes perfect sense for a company to be based in a tax-free territory if most or all revenues are of foreign origin. However, I won’t take a client who appears to be funneling illegitimate money into a legitimate business for the purposes of laundering it. I can tell the difference. Which category do you fall into?” She asked Roblot.
Charlie cut in. “Inspector Roblot is not my typical referral,”.
“Inspector Roblot?” Louise echoed.
“Charlie said you could help me with a case that has gone cold,” Roblot continued. “At least as far as I’m concerned.”
“Oh, Charlie said that, did he?” Louise was catching on quickly that her father was behind the mysterious rendezvous.
“Patrick was superintendent of Urban Police Division of Monte Carlo during the time a high-profile murder took place,” Charlie added.
Louise took a sip of champagne. “I’m listening”
“It happened almost exactly two years ago, and it has been one year since the case was solved.” Roblot said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Let me guess. The murder of the banking mogul, Ekram Almasi,” Louise said. “Didn’t the trial already end with a conviction of their prime suspect, the male nurse?”
“I see you aren’t completely shut off from the rest of the world,” Charlie remarked.
“My news sources are mostly the Tiki bar grapevine and occasional perusal of Usenet. CNN used to be reliable but…”
“Calling Crossfire a debate show is like calling WWE an Olympic sport,” Charlie said, finishing her thought.
“Usenet is the only news source I can even tolerate.”
“The first rule of Usenet is that you do not talk about Usenet,” Charlie said.
“Say no more,” Louise said, punctuated by the pop of a cork from a bottle that Roblot took the liberty of opening.
“You both lost me at grapevine,” interjected Roblot. “More champagne?” Louise didn’t refuse.
“So, Patrick, how are you involved with this cold case?”
“Let’s just say that I retired from the UPD. But I am not completely retired,” Roblot explained. “I’ve been hired by an interested third party for my special skills, who put me with Charlie for his special skills,”
“You strike me as Navy SEAL,” Louise said, eying Charlie.
“Correct. My dad was my hero, so I followed in his footsteps and joined the Navy, became a SEAL and helped fight the Hong Kong triads, among other missions. I’m also an advanced certified pilot, skydiver, and open water scuba diver. But now I work as a private detective specializing in maritime crimes, mostly in the Atlantic. This case is related to international banking, the kind of work, as you know, I have been referring to you.”
“It’s nice to finally thank you in person,” Louise said.
“You’re quite welcome. As I said, this is your domain.”
“So, you’re thinking follow the money?” Louise surmised.
“Exactly,” Roblot replied, “You were right, Charlie. Ms. Moscow is very astute.”
“Why do you think the case is unsolved, Patrick?” Louise asked, staying on topic.
“Monaco wanted it all hushed up,” Roblot said. “But my investigation pointed to any number of other entities such as the Russian Mafia or Middle Eastern terrorists, with stronger motives to do away with Almasi.”
“Almasi wasn’t really known to the public at large,” Louise said. “But he was very prominent in the worlds of international banking and high society and also for his philanthropy. I even had dealings with him at BCCI. He was highly respected and even considered the most brilliant banker of his time.”
“Precisely,” Roblot agreed. “And yet, the only suspect in his murder was his nurse, Todd Mayer.”
“Wasn’t he Green Beret?” Louise tried to remember aloud.
“Yes, but Mayer trained as a medical auxiliary in the Green Berets. He had no experience in combat. He was there to tend to his employer in a nursing capacity, not to protect him. For that, Almasi had Mossad bodyguards. But he didn’t house them in the Monte Carlo residence, because he felt safe enough to keep his security detail 10 miles away at his villa La Leopolda.”
“Was there any evidence of other suspects at the crime scene?” Louise asked.
“Mayer’s own testimony for starters,” Roblot replied. “In Mayer’s early statements, he claimed that two hooded intruders penetrated the apartment, stabbed him, and started the fire that killed Almasi. However, after three days of interrogation, Mayer changed his testimony and confessed to having started a fire in a wastebasket so he could come off as a hero by saving Almasi.”
“What about the stabbing?” Louise asked.
“Mayer also claimed that the stab wounds were self-inflicted,” Roblot explained. “Which would have been consistent with the official evidence showing no holes from the stabbing through his clothing, only directly to his abdomen and leg.”
“Would have been?” Louise repeated.
“His clothing was lost in evidence too.”
“Interesting,” Louise said.
“Also, at any moment during the fire, Almasi could have saved himself by opening the door to the saferoom. But he was so afraid of being murdered by the intruders that he refused to unlock the door, even for the fire brigade. When we finally got into the saferoom two hours
later, he and his other nurse, Theresa Leigh, were dead. She had a cell phone on which we noted several outgoing calls. Todd Mayer admitted to giving her the cell phone to call for help.”
“That sounds premeditated,” Louise conjectured.
“Another thing,” Roblot continued. “According to the medical examiner’s report, Leigh’s neck had been crushed.”
“Did the report say how?” Louise asked.
“That information was not made public on the premise that Almasi could have done that to keep her from trying to escape. He was known to be paranoid, and rightly so. His specialty was private banking for wealthy clients, something you can relate to,” he added, to which Louise nodded in agreement. “He would have known all the secrets of the financial planet.”
“Meaning, he had enemies,” Louise concluded.
“Almasi insisted on keeping eleven bodyguards, outfitted with machine guns, working in shifts to always be with him, often to the consternation of friends who disliked being surrounded by armed men every time they arrived for a visit.”
“I would be too,” Louise said. “Wouldn’t it be ironic if the death was in fact caused by a clumsy attempt by a sycophant?”
Roblot shook his head. “It’s just too convenient. One year before his death, Almasi provided information to the FBI on Russian money-laundering activities at Bruce Rappaport’s Bank of New York. Almasi collaborated with the FBI to expose the Russian Mafia’s international money-laundering operation. Ten months later, he had been seen with Boris Berezovsky, the Russian oligarch implicated in the 1999 Aeroflot scandal, in which tens of millions of dollars were diverted from the state-controlled airline. Then in the restaurant of Hotel Martinez in Cannes the two men had a three-hour conversation in raised voices, after which Almasi fled in a panic to his heavily fortified Monte Carlo residence. Two months later he was burned to death in that penthouse.”
“It does sound like KGB tactics,” Louise said, thinking of Vladimir. “Also, correct me if I’m off base, but so much of the story reminds me of the BCCI scandal,”
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