“Russian mafiya?” Vladimir’s words echoed in her ears.
“Three factors pointed to Russian mafia.” LaFontaine started counting on his thumb. “First, New York Republic Bank’s dealings with Russia were well documented. Under license from the U.S. government, New York Republic shipped around $10 billion of U.S. currency a year to Russian banks. Although perfectly legal, the shipments alarmed some U.S. state agencies. The problem was that about fifty Russian banks that New York Republic Bank was trading currency with were suspected of being fronts for the mafiya.”
He held up his index finger making a gun. “Second, at the time of his death, Almasi was negotiating the sale of New York Republic Bank to HSBC. But the sale was stalled because the Russian accounts were frozen due to a U.S. Federal investigation into money laundering, which New York Republic Bank itself prompted by alerting the authorities to its concerns. The Russian mafia is ruthless. More than ninety bankers have been killed in Russia since the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991. Since 1989, most of the two thousand Russian banks that were set up have collapsed. Many of the people behind them were from the black market with criminal backgrounds. So, when a Russian banker is killed, he was likely mafiya. Many believe a short-changed mafia chief sought revenge on Almasi.”
He put up his middle finger, making a double-barreled gun. “And third, since the collapse of the Soviet Union, the French Riviera saw a sudden influx of newly wealthy Russians. The stories of Russian businessmen buying yachts and property became the gossip among salespeople up and down the coast. In the past three years, Monaco has expelled fifteen Russians suspected of illegal business practices, including a former KGB colonel. Some lawyers have said that Monaco has adopted an unofficial policy of refusing entry to all Russians. A French investigation has shown that the mafiya has been laundering money through real estate, trusts, and the casino.” LaFontaine paused and took a long sip of champagne.
“So, you believe it could have been Russian mafia?”
“Why do you think Almasi was so paranoid and superstitious? He was obsessed with the number five and always carried blue gemstones that ward off the evil eye because he was terrified of being kidnapped. In Mayer’s initial testimony about the morning of the fire, he told Almasi’s nurse that there were intruders and gave her a cell phone to call the police. When the nurse told Almasi about the intruders he locked himself and the nurse in the saferoom. When Mayer came down from the sixth-floor penthouse with knife wounds, the building receptionist called the police.”
“Where was his wife Julia at that time?” Louise asked.
“Asleep.”
Louise was taken aback. “In the same penthouse?”
“It is difficult to convey just how big the Almasi’s flat was. But his wife’s apartment was a good distance from his, and each door in between was reinforced. The whole time, the drama didn’t even wake Julia. By the time the firemen had contained the fire, smoke was only beginning to affect her wing. That’s when she came down and told the UPD officer, Patrick Rublot, that the head of security had the key to the saferoom. But by then it was too late.”
Suddenly Louise interrupted. “What if…” Louise snapped her fingers as if trying to remember. “What was the CPD officer’s name again?”
“Paul Dupont,” LaFontaine replied.
“Right. What if Dupont had been preventing the firefighters from entering for two reasons? First, to give the intruders time to escape, and second, to let the fire finish off Almasi.”
LaFontaine was visibly impressed with this theory. “Very interesting. The assumption has been that, there were no attackers, because no one knows how they got into the flat, or how they escaped. That’s what convinced the police that it was an inside job and within two days of Almasi’s death, Mayer was arrested. Shortly afterward, he confessed that he had stabbed himself, started a fire and there were no intruders. He said he was attempting to gain his boss’s respect because the head nurse didn’t like him, and he wanted to show his loyalty to Almasi. It was a very credible suspension of disbelief because it portrayed Mayer as trying to recreate his past.”
“His past?”
“The reason Almasi hired Mayer in the first place was because Mayer found a lost camera in New York and was determined to return it to his rightful owner. That owner was Almasi. When Mayer returned the camera, Almasi was so impressed with his honesty that he hired him as a staff nurse.”
“That story is damaging to Mayer. But that’s exactly how the KGB functions. Creating credible lies to obfuscate the truth.”
“Exactly. It corroborates the extraordinary turnaround from a story of high-financial corruption and international mafia, to a misguided attempt at a job promotion.”
“It seems impossible that law enforcement would throw out so much other evidence of other suspects,” Louise said.
“The judge handling the case even order a staged re-enactment. It was held in Almasi’s penthouse from 10:30 at night until 5:00 in the morning. Everything exactly as it was on the night of the fire. Everyone who had been present during the hours of the fire was ordered to be at the reenactment, including Julia Almasi.”
“That must have been awkward.”
“Indeed. It was the first time that Julia was in the presence of Todd Mayer since Ekram’s death. She had three lawyers, while Mayer was in handcuffs and a bulletproof vest. Mayer demonstrated everything including how he used a scented Howard Slatkin candle to set toilet-paper on fire in a wastebasket.”
“Did the reenactment include intruders?” Louise asked.
“No, Mayer took full responsibility.”
“Occam’s Razor, the simplest answer is usually right.”
“Except that nothing is simple. There was overwhelming evidence of other suspects. For example, Ekram and Julia Almasi had just received their Monegasque citizenship papers the day before he died. And, just days before that, shareholders had approved the sale of New York Republic Bank. Ekram had been so eager for the approval of the sale to go through that at the last minute, he lowered the price by $450 million, a totally uncharacteristic action for him to take. It broke Almasi’s heart to sell his bank. He had wanted it to last forever, but he was ill, and his brother Alberto had his own bank in Brazil. Almasi’s greatest disappointment was that he had never had children of his own to whom he could hand over the reins. On the day of Almasi’s funeral, the U.S. Federal Reserve approved the sale of New York Republic Bank to HSBC. Four weeks to the day after Almasi’s death, the $10 billion deal was completed, netting Almasi’s heirs $3 billion.”
“That gives Julia motive,” Louise interjected.
“That’s where there are more irregularities in the case. The prosecution’s official statement was that Julia Almasi was asleep and did not speak to her husband while he was in the saferoom. But, Julia’s attorney, Marc Bronson, said that Ekram Almasi telephoned and spoke to Julia twice that night. Then he also spoke to his bodyguard, and to the police by phone.”
“Then why didn’t Almasi come out of the saferoom?” Louise asked.
“Bonnant said that everyone was still under the impression that two armed intruders were in the building, which is also why the fire brigade wasn’t allowed to enter. Even stranger is that Julia said there were two fires. That corroborated witnesses who said that an incendiary device had been thrown into the penthouse.”
“The intruders on the balcony in Mayer’s initial testimony?” Louise took many mental notes. LaFontaine was clearly someone close to the facts of the case, but he would give them away only on his own terms.
“It would explain how the fire burned out of control,” LaFontaine said. “Is that enough drama for your book?”
“More than enough.” Louise played along. “But there are too many loose ends. I’d love to interview Todd Mayer.”
“Hélas. The problem with that is, Mayer is not motivated to change his story again. He has been in prison now for eleven months. The prison in Monaco has forty-one cells for only twenty-
two prisoners.” LaFontaine swept his hand over the horizon. “He has a nice view of the Mediterranean and well-tended gardens below. On clear nights, the reflection of the moon ripples on the water. He can talk to his wife for twenty minutes once a week. Plus, he’s an international hero. The Internet has been hot with indignation because of Mayer’s imprisonment awaiting trial as a scapegoat for Russian money-launderers. He is referred to as a prisoner of war. But his own defense team does not see him as the victim. His priority is likely to do his time and stay alive.”
Louise was overwhelmed with the information, but still needed to understand the link to Burgundy. She recalled the Fontaines Salées from her research. “What about Almasi’s superstitions,” she asked, hoping to keep LaFontaine talking. “What about alternative medicines?”
LaFontaine opened his eyes wide in realization. “Very astute,” he said, pouring the last of the champagne into their glasses. “Almasi had progressive Parkinson’s disease and wished to do everything necessary to keep himself mentally sharp. He even experimented with holistic medicines and sent Mayer all over to research cures. Mayer returned with news of a cure involving rituals performed using a lost relic.”
“A relic?”
“It was said to be an ex votos of some kind.”
“Ex votos?”
“A symbolic offering, usually small carvings of body parts, feet, hands, head. Mayer reportedly told Almasi of a very elusive ex votos, like a holy grail. In desperation Almasi went with Mayer to Burgundy, France on a quest for the object. But they quickly returned because Almasi became frightened.”
“Burgundy, France.” Louise was getting that queasy feeling in her stomach. This detail was too coincidental to ignore. “Isn’t that where the pinot noir grape is grown?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’m not very familiar with pinot noir wine.”
“You’re in for a treat!” LaFontaine said. “I have been saving a wonderful Grand Cru for a special occasion.”
He waved over one of his crew. “Open that bottle of the 1987 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, s’il te plaît.” The crewmember decanted the wine as LaFontaine explained. “This wine comes from the grand cru zone, that has a perfect eco-system for fine wine production known as the miracle of Burgundy. This is a prized pinot noir made with grapes that have been cultivated since 1241.”
“Is it rare?” Louise asked nervously.
“Only 1.4 percent of Burgundy wines bear Grand Cru appellations. The second-highest classification level is Premier Cru making up 10.1 percent of total wine production. This 1987 bottle that we are decanting is worth over $10,000.”
Louise’s eyes opened wide as the crewmember poured the wine into large glasses. Louise and LaFontaine piously went about the tasting ritual, swirling, looking, smelling, toasting, tasting, and only then swallowing.
“I’m going to Burgundy,” Louise said.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.” They clinked glasses and sipped. The light claret color and the aromas of dark cherries, licorice, and exotic spices made the wine incredibly palatable.
“You can taste the explosive flavors, dry on the tongue from the acidity of the limestone soils,” LaFontaine said. “It demands slow drinking.” But LaFontaine seemed lost in thought.
“Are you disappointed in the wine?” Louise asked.
LaFontaine pensively took another sip. “Not disappointed at all. It’s superb.” He looked at Louise with his blue eyes. “Where are you staying in Burgundy?”
“I booked a gîte. It’s an apartment in the center of Beaune.”
“That’s an excellent choice. However, may I suggest another gîte? It is a cottage on a very well-known vineyard. They grow pinot noir grapes and make a wonderful grand cru.”
“That sounds ideal.”
“I’ll have the concierge at l’Hermitage arrange it for you,” LaFontaine said. “Give me the name of your gîte, and the concierge will cancel it and book the other cottage.”
“How kind of you.” Louise took the paper with the gîte reservation from her bag and handed it to LaFontaine. They took another sip, and Louise closed her eyes, wishing this were the only thing she had to do.
When they headed back to the dock, the setting sun cast a glow in the evening sky. “Thank you for the tour. Are you staying at the hotel too?”
LaFontaine laughed then indicated the boat proudly. “I live aboard. A man without a country.”
“Like living on a private island,” Louise said.
LaFontaine gave her cheek kisses, then whispered, “Bon voyage, mademoiselle Moscow.” Louise gave him a look of acknowledgement.
“I will have the concierge make the arrangements for your gîte in Burgundy. You have my coordinates.”
“Thank you,” Louise said. “I’ll be in touch.”
She went back to her hotel room, her head spinning from wine and wonder. It was impressive how LaFontaine had privileged information, including her own true identity. She entered his contact information into her phone, then texted Michael.
“F O L I A G E”
“R E A L L Y?” Michael responded.
“Y E S. S E E Y O U T O M O R R O W”
S I X T E E N
January 2, 2002
Louise woke up early and packed. She put on blue jeans and the white blouse with the cashmere sweater around her shoulders. Then she fished in her suitcase for her favorite bucket hat that she had stolen from Jean-Philippe and put it in her purse.
At check-out, Beatrice gave Louise the directions to the gîte in Burgundy that LaFontaine had arranged. Then Louise left her suitcase with the valet, handing him five Euros to watch her car for a few minutes. She grabbed the road map from the glove compartment and walked over to the newly minted HSBC building where Almasi’s penthouse had been. She ducked into a cobblestone lane and rolled her jeans up to the ankles, put the bucket hat on and unfolded the road map. As she approached the HSBC building’s residential entrance, an armed security guard eyed her but then resumed his patrol. He turned away and Louise wandered nonchalantly through the door and approached the receptionist.
“Well, these are some fancy digs,” Louise said, gazing from floor to ceiling. “Is this the HSBC bank?”
The receptionist of a certain age was used to greeting confused tourists entering into the wrong door. “The banque is next door, mademoiselle. This is a résidence,” she said politely in English with a French accent.
“Oh, the residence!” Louise moved closer to whisper. “You mean the place where that young man started that horrible fire? You would never know it. It’s just gleaming! I could not believe that young man would do such a thing. An American no less! So tragic. Seems a little extreme to me. If you want to get a promotion, do a good job. Don’t go stabbin’ yourself and start the place ablaze!” Louise took out the camera pen Charlie had given her and began to write on the map.
The receptionist became flustered. “Mais…”
“What was that poor man’s name again? Agassi?” She clicked the pen taking a photo of the foyer careful to capture the security cameras. Then she clicked an image of the distraught receptionist. “Oh, I am sorry my dear, bringing up such a subject.” The receptionist blushed and her lip quivered. “Are you all right?” Louise clicked the pen twice to initiate video recording.
The receptionist began babbling in French. “They made a liar of me! I almost lost my job of twenty years. I am trained in emergency medicine. That knife wound could not have been self-inflicted. It’s not possible that Monsieur Mayer stabbed himself.” Not only did Louise understand what she said, she got it on video.
“Well, I’m sorry to have upset you. Have a nice day.” Louise clicked the pen again stopping the recording just as the security guard walked in. Louise folded the map and hurried toward the exit, nodding to the security guard while snapping another photo. “Bye bye, now.”
Louise drove back to Nice and caught the first flight to New York. With the time change she landed a
t almost the same time she took off. In a rented four-wheel drive SUV, Louise made her way up the Hudson River toward the Catskill Mountains. She got out and walked down the snowy path to the reservoir where Michael waited, arms folded, toe tapping, next to a snowbound rowboat.
“Aren’t we a little old for this?”
“Speak for yourself.” Louise pointed to his temple. “The gray looks good on you.”
The compliment activated his dimples. “You like that?”
“It’s too cold out here.” Louise shivered. “Let’s go back to my car.” They crunched back up the path, reminding her of their college days together.
Michael read her mind. “Remember that time we drove all the way up to Niagara Falls, then all the way down to Pennsylvania to see the Liberty Bell?”
“You forgot, in the pouring rain. Taking a road trip in the middle of a deluge? No plan, just drive.”
“That was the point. We didn’t plan it. We just did it.”
“You mean like today?” Louise unlocked the car and they got in. She revved the engine, encouraging it to warm up.
“Payback is a bitch,” Michael said.
“Speaking of payback, I need to pick your brain.”
“Nothing classified.”
“You owe me.”
“Like I said, payback is a bitch.”
“You got that right,” Louise said. “What do you know about the Almasi murder? Was there a cover-up?”
“That’s a question for your friend Vladimir.”
“Believe me I’ve already dipped into that well.”
“Any buckets of wisdom?”
“Barely a drop. He gave me some vague but potentially important leads. I’m going to spend some time in Burgundy and do a little digging around.”
Pinot Noir Page 14
