London braked much too hard as the Ferrari skidded to a halt in front of the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc. Originally built as a private mansion in the style of Napoleon III, the hotel resembled a grand nineteenth-century country house. Leaving the car running, the muffled roar of the motor an affront to the pristine calm, she ran up the stairs and inside.
“Room 302,” she shouted. “Mr. Borgia is in trouble.”
A bellman hurried over. “Excuse me, madame?”
London hurried past him, searching for the elevator. “It’s an emergency. He phoned me. Please. We must hurry.”
The staff of the front desk, located in an alcove immediately to her left, reacted immediately.
“One moment, madame.” A concerned hotelier went straight to a back office. A minute later, a well-dressed man emerged, rushing to her side.
“Mr. Borgia, you say? Something is the matter?”
London nodded, still gathering her breath. “I believe he’s had a heart attack. Quickly, we must check on him. Room 302.”
The manager looked at London, tears streaking her cheeks, a woman in distress, then at the Ferrari, idling by the front stairs. He had been trained that a client was never wrong. He had also been trained that a guest’s privacy was inviolable. A final look at London’s imploring gaze, her state of distress. “Follow me, please.”
They rode the elevator in silence, except for London’s imprecations that they must hurry.“Il faut se dépêcher.”
They alighted at the third floor. The manager led the way, key in hand. By now, two members of the security team trailed behind them. The manager rang the doorbell, waited, then waited no longer. He inserted his key and opened the door. London barged past him, through an entry hall, through a grand living room, calling his name—“Luca!”—no sign of him here, and into the bedroom, light streaming through the tall glass doors, a view across a canopy of pines to the ocean beyond.
The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled. A peach-colored satin camisole lay on the floor; beside it, a pair of panties and stockings. Men’s clothing was folded neatly on the chair. No sign of Borgia.
London halted, unsure how to proceed. Wrongly, she’d assumed that she would find Borgia in his room. Somehow she felt betrayed. She realized she was still on a high from the ride in the car, some kind of adrenaline rush. It came to her that she had no business here, but there was no time for doubt. No room for hesitation. Lives were at stake.We’re relying on you!
“Luca, are you all right?”
Then she heard it. The sound of a shower coming from the bathroom. She opened the door, slipping the pistol from her waistband. Clouds of steam filled the room. She advanced a step, then another. A woman stood inside the glass stall, face to the jets, washing her hair. She sensed the intrusion and turned her head. Eyes open, she saw London and the gun. She recoiled, hand covering her mouth.
“Is he here?” asked London, opening the shower door.
The woman looked at her unashamed, her gaze forthright, defiant. “Who are you?”
“Is he here, dammit?”
“At the premiere,” said the woman. English. Educated. But why wasn’t she more frightened?
From the bedroom, the manager called out: “Madame, is everything all right?”
“Yes,” said London, still staring at the woman, feeling as if she should know her. “I’m fine.”
London called Simon from the hotel lobby. “He fooled us. He’s at the premiere.”
Chapter 71
Cannes
The van stopped.
The door slid open violently. A woman motioned for everyone to get out. “Come,” she said, her English heavily accented. “They are waiting. Please. Quickly.” Then: “But where are the others? There are more, no?”
Mattias left the van and, with his friends, was escorted along a narrow walkway and onto a broad red carpet at the base of even broader stairs leading to the Palais des Festivals. A legion of photographers faced them, shouting incomprehensible instructions. Omar put an arm around his shoulder, so Mattias put an arm on his, and on Hassan to the other side. Mohammed followed suit. The four stood like this for what seemed an eternity, smiling as flashbulbs popped and photographers yelled for them to turn this way and that. One of the escorts kept looking back toward the van, as if expecting someone else to join them.
Mattias felt exposed, vulnerable, certain that at any moment someone would remark on the bulk beneath their jackets. But no. There was only applause and the intermittent flash of the cameras.
And then it was over, as quickly as it had begun. Another woman accompanied them up the stairs and into the auditorium, showing them to their seats situated in the center of the cavernous space.
Mattias sat on the aisle—he would lead the attack—keeping his gaze lowered as the auditorium filled up. He was no longer able to smile, no matter how he tried. He apologized silently to Sheikh Abdul. He felt as if all eyes were on him, as if he were the subject of a thousand policemen’s scrutiny.They know,a voice whispered repeatedly inside his head. He shifted in his small, tight seat, his discomfort growing. More and more people filed into the auditorium, seemingly in little hurry to take their places. He could only sit and wait, each second a minute, each minute an hour.
