Although Le Bataillon was only fifteen minutes away, Justin did not want to get bogged down in traffic, in case of an accident or a detour. According to Valerie, Romanov’s Bugatti Veyron, polished and ready, was going to be delivered at the hotel at 10:30 a.m. Justin wanted to be there when it arrived, to make sure everything was in place for the meeting with the Prince.
“Relax, Justin. We got it all under control.” Carrie held his right arm as Abdul stopped in front of a discrete, low, iron gate. A video intercom box with a black buzzer was attached to the white wall on the left. On the right side of the gate, small blue letters announced the visitors had arrived at Le Bataillon.
Justin nodded, as Abdul rolled down the window and pressed the buzzer. He smiled at the tiny camera mounted on top of the intercom box monitoring the entrance gate. Two seconds later, the gate swung open without a sound. Abdul pressed on the gas pedal and the Mercedes slid forward, beginning the uphill climb along the private driveway leading to the hotel.
“Let’s see if the welcome team is still at two o’clock,” Abdul said.
Yesterday, he had spotted two security guards hiding behind the perfectly trimmed hedges and tall cedars along the narrow road. They were stationed about a hundred feet from the gate.
Justin glanced casually at the expected guard post but did not see anyone.
“Maybe they change positions daily,” Carrie said.
“I guess so,” Abdul said.
Justin slid his hand over his right thigh, at the place where usually rested his Browning 9mm.
“I feel naked without my gun,” he whispered in Carrie’s ear.
Abdul, their bodyguard, was the only one carrying a pistol.
“Hopefully, this will be peaceful,” Carrie said.
Justin snorted. “You wish. Abdul, stay close to us.”
“Of course, boss. I’m your bodyguard, remember?”
The car rounded a corner and a wide vista of the Mediterranean Sea opened up in front of them. Justin caught a glimpse of the turquoise waters and the red-roofed houses along the coast, before the lush shrubs closed the view. Then, he looked straight ahead and saw a black Rolls Royce Ghost coming from the other direction.
“Don’t stare,” Carrie said, “You’re a Russian oil thug. You can have any car in the world. In fact, you’re dumping the most powerful car ever built.”
“I know, I know, but the Ghost is just… it’s a work of art.”
The road curved downward and Abdul slowed to take the sharp turn.
“Watch the tree.” Justin glanced at an overhanging branch of an old mulberry tree. “Don’t scratch the car.”
“Boss, you need to relax.” Abdul gazed at Justin in the rear-view mirror.
“My darling, you should try to loosen up, seriously,” Carrie said in a flirty voice with a fake Russian accent.
“You know you can do better than that,” Justin replied, unamused by Carrie’s half-hearted effort.
Carrie shrugged and offered no reply.
Abdul turned another corner and the splendor of Le Bataillon appeared in front of their eyes. Built in a style blending late Gothic, early Renaissance and Belle Époque architectures, the palace was a miniature castle. Grayish-white stone walls with small balconies and arched windows were arranged in perfect symmetry. Green-roofed turrets and a great dome rose above the main entrance. No signs advertised the purpose of the building. One could easily mistake the palace for the residence of a French tycoon or a celebrity.
“Hey, check this out.” Abdul pointed to his right.
His remark was unnecessary, for Justin had already seen the blue transport truck. Prestige Transport was written in large white letters on its side. A man dressed in a blue uniform was resting against the truck door, a clipboard in his hand. Behind the truck, Justin saw the taillights of Romanov’s supercar.
“The Veyron’s here,” Justin said, trying to suppress the alarm in his voice.
“Our Prince is here too.” Carrie nodded toward one of the hotel windows. “First floor, fourth window. Three o’clock.”
Justin first glanced to the other side and slowly moved his eyes to the fourth window. A man in a red-and-white checkered headdress and a white robe, sitting on a couch, was looking at them behind dark sunglasses. He was flanked by two tall, thick men, in black suits. A second later, the man stood up, turned around and disappeared inside the room.
“Park there, at the corner,” Justin said.
Abdul followed the driveway, which encircled a tall, marble fountain depicting a woman taking a bath from a jar on her shoulder.
“Let’s do this.” Justin opened the door.
He marched in long, hasty strides toward the truck. Abdul hunched his back and followed him closely, wearing a menacing look on his face. Carrie stood by the Mercedes, deciding to apply some lipstick and fix a few hairs that had escaped her pinned up bun. She lifted up her sunglasses and used her mirror to check the treed area along the parking lot and across the driveway.
“You’re early, very early,” Justin shouted at the delivery man in Russian, waving his arms wildly in the air, pointing at the Bugatti Veyron and making a phoning gesture. “You should have called, you useless man.”
Justin’s outburst caught the attention of a couple entering the hotel. The man, perhaps in his late forties, was dressed in a gray, pinstriped suit. The blonde-haired, long-legged model in a white and blue dress hooked onto his arm was twenty years his senior. She gave Justin a smile, which was cut short by Carrie’s arrival. The man simply nodded at the two of them.
“Dobry den,” Justin greeted the couple. Then, he returned his attention to the delivery man, who was staring blankly into Justin’s fuming face. “You should have called in advance,” Justin barked at the man in heavily accented English.
“Eh, yes, we should have,” the bearded redhead replied. “I couldn’t find your phone number.”
The calmness in his voice surprised Justin. He must be used to rich pricks yelling at him all the time.
“I assume you’re Mr. Arkady Alexandrov,” the delivery man said.
“Yes, of course, I am.” Justin kept up the arrogance in his voice. A moment later, he resented it and decided to cool off his pretense. “Abdul, take care of the paperwork.”
Abdul showed the delivery man Justin’s Russian passport and signed the necessary documents for the delivery, while Justin walked to the Bugatti Veyron Super Sport. Carrie was ignoring the supercar and was typing on her BlackBerry, standing at a distance of a few feet. Justin caught himself gawking at the supercar. He slid his hand over the sleek carbon fiber body and rested it over the driver’s door handle.
“Can we get in now?” Carrie asked in a boring tone, playing her part.
“Hey,” Justin called to his bodyguard in a snappy voice, “the keys. Now.”
Before Abdul could fetch him the keys, Justin noticed two tall, thick men, in black suits coming out of the wide doors of Le Bataillon’s entrance. Two feet behind, the man in the headdress walked with purpose, followed by another two bodyguards, a perfect copy of the first pair.
“They’re headed this way.” Justin whispered to Carrie.
“We’re unprepared,” she replied.
“We’ll improvise.”
Abdul stepped in front of Justin, as the group crossed the fifty feet distance between them and the team. Carrie stood to the side, blinking nervously.
“Arms up,” one of the bodyguards ordered Abdul.
Justin nodded to Abdul and he raised his arms for the obligatory search. One of the bodyguards removed Abdul’s Glock 19, unloaded it, and gave both the empty gun and the magazine to the second bodyguard. Then, he found Justin’s passport in one of Abdul’s pockets, inspected it for a few seconds and then handed it back to Abdul.