“Why?” he asked.
“I’m a detective,” I replied. “They owe a client of mine some money.”
The man frowned.
“I’m willing to pay for the information,” I told him, producing my wallet.
“I’m a friend of justice,” he replied with open arms.
“Invoice number one-six-one-nine,” I repeated.
He sauntered into the office and picked up a ledger. He removed his sunglasses and flipped the pages until finally settling on one.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I can believe they owe money. They didn’t give a gratuity.”
I took five twenty-euro notes from my wallet and handed them to him.
“The yacht is called the Sunset Prince,” he revealed. “It left port a few days ago. Probably moved along the coast.”
I frowned. That was not what I expected.
“Are you certain?”
He nodded. “I saw it leave.”
“Thank you,” I said, before turning to go. I wondered what to do now.
“That’s not true,” his colleague said, looking up from the fuel tank he was filling. “They left, but they took a mooring in the bay. I saw them on my way in this morning.”
He nodded toward a RIB with a single 150 horsepower Yamaha outboard engine.
“Where?” I asked.
“South-east, maybe half a kilometer offshore,” he replied.
Well within sniper range for a good marksman.
He stopped filling the tank and stepped away from the motorboat, leading me to the edge of the pontoon.
“Over there, you can just see the black-and-white navigation unit,” he said, pointing into the distance.
As I peered through the forest of masts, I could make out the satellite array he was talking about. It belonged to a large motor yacht.
“How much to charter your RIB?” I asked, and the two fuel attendants exchanged a look that told me we were about to start negotiating.
Chapter 78
Justine hurried along the walkway toward the Monte Carlo Casino stand, but was stopped by a man in a dark gray suit. His large build, aviator sunglasses, buzzcut, Stars and Stripes pin and MARIE transceiver in his left ear all screamed Secret Service.
“Ma’am, this stand is off-limits,” he yelled above the thunderous roar of an approaching race car. His Texan accent was another giveaway.
“I’m a guest of Secretary Carver,” Justine said. She craned to peer around the man, but couldn’t get a view of the stand, just the steps that led to the seating area.
“Name, please,” he responded automatically, producing a tablet computer.
“Justine Smith.”
He checked the device and frowned.
“I’m afraid your invitation to be in the Secretary’s party has been rescinded, ma’am,” he revealed. “I’m sorry. You’ll need to make your way to another part of the course.”
Justine stood in stunned disbelief for a moment.
“Ma’am, you’ll need to move along.”
She couldn’t understand why Carver would retract her invitation.
“What about Jack Morgan? Is he still on the list?” she asked.
“Ma’am, I can’t share any details about other people in the Secretary’s party,” he replied. “I have to ask you to move along, please.”
Justine found herself eyeing the stand. She couldn’t have been more than forty feet from the steps and thought about pushing past the huge guy and making a run for it, but there were two more agents by the grandstand, and she had no doubt the men were armed and would shoot her if they deemed her a threat.
“Could you check with Secretary Carver,” she said. “I think there’s been some mistake.”
The thunder of the engines, clamor of the crowd and wild atmosphere made the conversation even more difficult and fraught.
“I can’t do that, ma’am,” the agent replied loudly. “The list doesn’t make mistakes.”
“I saw the Secretary yesterday,” Justine said. “He reiterated his invitation. Why would he have done that?”
The Secret Service agent shrugged. “I can’t answer for the Secretary, ma’am.”
“Could you please, please, please check for me?” she asked again. “I really do think there’s been a mistake.”
He set his jaw and his tone turned darker. “You need to move along, ma’am.”
Justine glanced around desperately and saw a familiar face coming along the walkway. Henry Wilson, Carver’s aide, was talking on his phone. His jovial expression fell away momentarily when he saw Justine, but he recovered with a quick, false smile. She wondered why she was suddenly unwelcome. Was it because she and Jack had warned of danger? Were they regarded as obsessive alarmists?
“Ms. Smith,” Henry said, a little too sweetly. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you had your hands full.”
“I need to talk to the Secretary,” she told him. “But this gentleman says my invitation has been rescinded.”
“We reviewed the Secretary’s security protocols on your recommendation and pared the guest list down to the absolute minimum,” Henry replied.
“Does he know?” Justine said.
The aide didn’t respond.
“Does he know? Or did you do this?”
Henry drew close. “Ms. Smith, please don’t cause a scene. The Secretary doesn’t need the scandal associated with your abduction and alarmist talk of conspiracy with the Dark Fates, Propaganda Tre and Roman Verde.”
Justine stepped back and studied him.
“Who told you about Roman Verde?” she asked.
“The Secretary. It was in the intel you sent him,” Henry replied, but he seemed flustered.
“His schedule had to have been leaked by someone close to him,” Justine remarked.
“Oh, come now,” he scoffed. “You don’t seriously think... Please don’t draw me into your web of insanity.”
“Show me your arm,” Justine said, and lunged for him. “Show it to me!”
He stepped back. “I don’t know what’s got into you, Ms. Smith, but this is precisely why you were removed from the list.”
He turned to the Secret Service agent.
“Get her out of here. Eject her from the course and take her pass. Now.”
The huge guy grabbed Justine, who screamed and fought against him as he marched her toward the exit. Her cries were lost beneath the cacophony of the race and hardly anyone noticed her being taken away.
Chapter 79
THE YAMAHA 150 outboard growled as I piloted the RIB through the port. The yacht berths were jam-packed port to starboard and bow to stern. The bay beyond was smooth as a boating lake.
The popularity of the race was advantageous to me because all the vessels gave me useful cover as I took a circuitous route to the Sunset Prince.
I steered the RIB on a wide, sweeping arc west, keeping as many boats as possible between me and the large motor yacht that was now my target. My aim was to approach the vessel from its port side because I figured if there was a shooter on board, all eyes would be on the race and the open-water side would be less likely to be watched.
I could hear the roar of engines in the distance, the rising and falling cheers of the crowds, and from the decks nearby came the excited shouts of people watching qualifying from their boats. I hoped Justine had reached Carver but couldn’t count on him or his people to take the threat seriously.
I turned north toward the Sunset Prince, a blue-and-white Beneteau 46 powerboat with four decks. I couldn’t see any obvious signs of a shooter, but I was coming at the vessel from the wrong side of the action.
When I was fifty feet away, I cut the RIB’s outboard engine and ran silent, allowing momentum to carry me toward the stern of the Sunset Prince.