“Quentin said no one is sure.”
“You’re chummy with Quentin Sault, these days.”
Dieter said, “Your contract to provide security for your sister is my highest prioritized assignment. We liaise with the Monegasque security team to facilitate that job.”
“That was stiff.”
“I don’t like Quentin Sault’s training or his methods, and I think he’s under orders to prioritize Pierre’s safety over Flicka’s.”
“Of course, he is. Prince Rainer would have explicitly stated that, or he should have. That’s why you’re there.”
“And he’s easy to pump for information.”
“That benefits us.”
“And everyone else he talks to. She thinks that she slips away from them and us often.”
“She has always done this.”
“She’s getting better at it.”
“Evidently.” Wulf’s tone was as dry as Dieter had ever heard it. “After Maxence, the next person in line for the throne is Alexandre Grimaldi. I can’t imagine he would take it, and his sister Christine wouldn’t, either. If Pierre and Flicka divorce, Rainier is going to have a game of regal hot potato on his hands.”
Dieter didn’t keep up on aristocratic gossip if it didn’t impact Flicka or his other clients. “The problem is that a divorcé would be excluded, but a widower wouldn’t.”
Wulf looked at the carpet under their feet. “Pierre has been one of my closest friends since we were six. I can’t imagine he would murder my sister.”
“Then it’s a good thing it’s my job to imagine it,” Dieter said, “because it may not be up to Pierre. His uncle will not tolerate a succession crisis.”
Dieter needed to find out what was on Flicka’s flash drive, soon.
Saving Flicka
Dieter Schwarz
Because she makes music,
or she used to.
Dieter wandered through the reception, inspecting his men at their duties. He climbed a rear staircase to the balconies. Up there in the dark, the oily scent of clean guns and the sulfurous tang of gunpowder overpowered the white flowers’ fragrance.
Musicians played and sang for entertainment. The lights had been turned down very low over the crowd, so his snipers had gone to night-vision goggles for surveilling the dark part of the room. A few guys without goggles watched the entertainers on the dance floor, where a piano had been stationed.
Dieter braced his arms on the balcony railing to watch Flicka and Christine Grimaldi play a short duet for piano and violin.
They laughed at each other through the performance, each trying to play louder than the other one or flailing around in ever-more dramatic flourishes, and their excellent musical performance turned into a half-drunk comedy routine.
Christine played the violin too close to Flicka, poking Flicka in her ear with the tip of her bow at the end of each stroke.
Flicka kept transposing the piano part farther and farther down the piano to get away from her, until she played only the most thundering bass notes on the keyboard.
In the last few measures, she fell off the piano bench and landed on her ass, kicking her feet in the air, but she kept her fingers on the keyboard and played the last few notes by reaching above her head, jostling the tiara she wore.
At the end, a spotlight picked out her hand, stretched above the piano in triumph.
Flicka was beautiful when she played.
After that, Dieter managed to slip away to look at Flicka’s flash drive and hack France.
