“Good night, Mr. Riske. And good night, Miss Brown. I hope to see you again.”
Simon guided Lucy across the floor, past a vodka bar carved entirely from ice and tended by pretty blondes clad in string bikinis and faux-furshapki. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Sun had returned to his table, taking his place at the center of his entourage. A moment later, a commotion as two security guards arrived at his table. One was Pierrot, no longer unconscious nor on the floor of Sun’s bedroom.
Time’s up.
Simon ducked out a side door, Lucy in tow, and onto the fantail. He glanced over the rear safety railing. Two RIB tenders—twenty feet long, rigid inflatable hull, dual Mercury outboards—sat moored to the floating dock, crew in white tunics and navy-blue shorts at the ready. Somewhere belowdecks there was a miniature submarine as well (for pleasure? escape?), but Simon was no Captain Nemo. He was, however, a good Marseille boy who’d spent enough hours making trouble on the docks of the Vieux-Port to know the difference between a half hitch and a reef knot, and how to drive anything with a motor, on land or sea.
“This way,” he said, setting off to the crew’s ladder, which descended to the floating deck. “If anyone asks, you’re sick. You need to get to a hospital straightaway.”
“I am?” said Lucy. “I mean,yes, I am.”
“Quick learner.”
Simon reached the bottom of the ladder, offering Lucy a hand. “The lady needs to get to shore,” he said to the mate. “She’s ill.”
“The boat will dock in forty minutes. We’re returning to port due to the weather.”
“Too long,” said Simon, palming the mate a wad of one hundred euro bills—he didn’t know how many.
The mate glanced at the money. The film festival. Movie people. Rogues. Rule breakers. He answered without hesitation. “Come aboard.”
Simon helped Lucy onto the nearer tender. A high-pitched whistle sounded as he placed his foot onto the gunnel. Pierrot was leaning over the railing above their heads, hand pointed at them. “Keep them here,” he shouted as he made his way to the ladder.
Simon jumped into the cockpit, tearing off his bow tie and throwing it into the sea. The engine was idling. The mate stood onboard, mooring rope in hand, looking confusedly between Pierrot and Simon. The tender’s skipper—eighteen, crew cut, yet to have his first shave—confronted Simon. “Sir, I can’t—”
“Get off,” said Simon.
“Yes, sir.” The skipper and the mate both stepped around him and boarded theYasmina.
Simon put the tender into reverse, spinning the wheel to port, then sliding the throttle forward. The nose rose. Wake spread behind the boat. Pierrot and another guard clambered aboard the second tender. Simon increased his speed. The sea was rising, wind from the Maritime Alps scudding across the surface, stirring up whitecaps, sending spirals of spume into the air.
Simon killed the running lights. The speedometer read 25 knots, and he was astonished to see the markings went to 80. “Hold on,” he called over his shoulder. “This is going to get bumpy.”
He shoved the throttle forward. The twin outboards roared. The hull slapped the water with force. Instead of heading toward shore and safety, however, he steered in a straight line, retracing theYasmina’s path.
“Where are you going?” shouted Lucy.
Simon ignored her. He looked over his shoulder. A quarter of a mile separated them from their pursuers. He searched the water to either side of the boat, looking for a head, an arm, any sign of the man he’d thrown overboard.There.He spotted him, the man no longer wearing a jacket, his white shirt visible. He was on his back, struggling.
Simon cut the engines and made a tight circle. “Give me a hand.”
Leaning over the gunnel, he grabbed the guard’s collar and, with Lucy’s help, hauled him aboard.
The guard lay at Lucy’s feet, coughing seawater, exhausted.“Merci,”he managed, weakly.
Simon freed the man’s pistol from his shoulder holster and threw it into the water. “Stay,” he said to his face. Then to Lucy: “Watch him. If he moves a muscle, shout.”
Simon removed his own jacket and tossed it to the guard, telling him in French to cover up.
He retook the wheel. A hundred yards separated him from his pursuers. Rain began to fall in earnest, wind freshening by the minute. He turned the boat toward shore and hit the throttle for all it was worth. The nose jumped precipitously, knocking him to his knees. It wasn’t a tender, it was a Cigarette in drag.
Across the bay, boats were making for port. On shore, dock lights blinked red. Danger. Storm conditions.
Simon scanned the coastline. He couldn’t go to Cannes or Antibes. Sun’s security team would have radioed ahead to arrange a welcoming committee. He fumbled in his pocket for his phone. UnderMhe dialed a number he’d sworn never to call again. A familiar voice answered.
“Ledoux. What now?”
“Where are you, Jojo?”
