APOLLO
“What’s Eli Carver’s Secret Service code name?” I asked, and Justine grabbed her phone to search the internet.
“According to a Rolling Stone profile, Secretary Carver has mixed feelings about his code name,” Justine read from the article, “‘because he isn’t quite as fleet of foot as the Greek god Apollo.’”
“I bet this is information Duval was supplying on him,” I said. “Can you send these messages to Weaver, while I call Carver?”
Justine nodded and sat at Mo-bot’s workstation.
I dialed the Secretary’s personal line.
“Yes?” a woman said.
“Secretary Carver, please.”
“One moment.”
The line went silent, then I heard heavy breathing and the sound of sheets rustling.
“Mr. Morgan, this is Henry Wilson. How can I help you?”
“I need to speak to the Secretary.”
“Secretary Carver has given strict DND orders,” he replied.
“DND?”
“Do not disturb. He’ll surface just before qualifying, I imagine. You’re very welcome to join us.”
“I have reason to believe the Secretary is a target. We discovered—”
He cut me off. “Mr. Morgan, we’ve discussed this.”
“We found text messages on a conspirator’s phone that mention the name Apollo. I haven’t been able to decipher the rest of the coded messages, but that’s the Secretary’s code name, isn’t it?”
There was a moment’s hesitation.
“Mr. Morgan, do you have any idea how many threats the Secret Service addresses every single day? Do you know how sophisticated our threat matrix is?”
“I don’t give a damn,” I replied, allowing my frustration to get the better of me. I wished I’d controlled my emotions more effectively because I must have sounded a little unhinged. “I’m telling you, this is a real and present threat.”
“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Morgan. I’ll inform the head of the Secretary’s detail. I do hope we’ll see you later.”
And with that he hung up on me.
“That son of a...” I said.
“I’ve sent the messages to Weaver,” Justine responded. “But he probably won’t see them for hours. It’s the middle of the night on the East Coast. What do we do now?”
“We’re going to have to split up,” I replied. “I want you to find Carver. Make him listen to you. He’ll be at the grandstand overlooking the Louis Chiron. It’s one of the most famous features of the course.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to the port to find the boat Roman is using,” I said. “If you can’t get Carver and his people to listen, we’re going to need to stop this ourselves.”
Chapter 76
Justine walked with Jack as far as the corner of Avenue du Port and Boulevard Albert 1er. The city was packed with race fans being channeled along the temporary walkways and tunnel bridges. The noise of the crowd and race cars being prepped and tuned was deafening. The atmosphere before qualifying already rivaled the excitement of any event Justine had experienced, so she struggled to picture what the energy of the city would be like for the race the next day. But she couldn’t get caught up in the anticipation and enthusiasm: she had other things on her mind.
“Be careful,” Jack said before giving her a kiss.
“You too,” she replied.
He headed south, climbing steps to a tunnel bridge that would take him to the grand port and marina, full to bursting with luxury yachts.
Justine went east toward the race command center and the Louis Chiron, the infamous chicane located nearby, directly opposite the port. The first roaring Formula One car racing along the city streets told Justine qualifying was underway. In between the sound of gear changes came the cheers of crowds in the grandstands and gathered around the city.
She headed for the Monte Carlo Casino stand, which was located opposite the Louis Chiron. Carver had told Jack that’s where he’d be, and as Justine worked her way through the crowded walkways and neared the location, she could see why the Defense Secretary had chosen this stand to watch the race from. It was in a magnificent setting on a tight bend that forced the powerful cars to slow in front of the spectators, before rocketing onto the next straight. The stand was set tight against the bend, so the people in the front row might believe they could reach out and touch the cars, putting them in the action, rather than consigning them to merely spectating.
Justine surveyed the stand at a distance, but couldn’t make out Carver, so she approached an entry gate and joined a small group of people looking to get into this section of the race. She was soon at the front, facing an admissions marshal.
“Pass?” he said.
“I don’t have one,” Justine replied. “I just need to talk to someone in the Casino stand.”
“You can’t enter without a pass,” the marshal said.
Justine suddenly remembered Carver had invited them to be his guests.
“I have a pass, but it’s with my friend,” she responded. “He invited me.”
“If your friend has arranged a pass,” the marshal said, “it will be available for collection at a ticket kiosk.”
He gestured toward a row of white huts on the other side of the pedestrian walkway.
“Simply present your passport or identification card.”
“Thank you,” she said, before joining a line for one of the booths.
Ten minutes later, after making it to the front of the line and presenting her passport, she was given her pass. She went back to the gate and this time was allowed in.
As she crossed a footbridge to take her to the grandstand, Justine’s senses were assailed by the roar of a race car passing beneath her, the smell of high-grade fuel, and the cries of the crowd.
She hurried on, eager to reach Carver before it was too late.
Chapter 77
I felt uncomfortable leaving Justine, but our team was short of people and I wanted to make sure Eli Carver was fully informed of the threat.
The route to the marina was crowded and took in more loops and turns than would have been normal so as to avoid the racetrack, the temporary media center, and stands around the edge of the port. I could hear a car tearing around the track, engine screeching at the upper end of the revs, the vibration so forceful I felt it touch my bones. It was something no television or home speaker could convey, the sheer body-trembling power of the vehicle was awesome, and sufficiently loud to drown out the cheering of the crowds it passed.
I pressed my way through the crush of slow-moving pedestrians and finally managed to turn off the main walkway serving the marina berths and toward the fuel depot. There wasn’t a single empty mooring, and shoals of tenders skimmed across the water carrying people from vessels anchored in the bay to the shore, and vice versa. The yachts closest to the promenade were full of spectators on their highest decks, trying to get a good view of qualifying.
When I glanced over my shoulder, I could see the Monte Carlo Casino stand in the distance, but I wasn’t able to pick out Eli Carver or Justine on any of the balconies.
I hurried along the main jetty toward the branching pontoon that was home to the fueling station. There were two attendants dressed in smart navy-blue overalls. One was filling the fuel tank of a Beneteau motor yacht while the other stood by a small office and watched.
“Oui?” the unoccupied man said to me.
“Do you speak English?” I asked, and the man nodded.
“I need to know about a boat that refueled here last week,” I said. “Invoice number one-six-one-nine.”