“It’s nine o’clock on a Wednesday night. Where do you think I am? In the middle of ten plates ofmoules-frites.”
Jojo Matta was a lousy hood and a gifted cook. Once, a very long time ago, they’d worked together committing all manner of illegal acts. Last year Jojo had helped Simon with a small problem in Monaco. As payment, Simon had helped Jojo open a restaurant in Juan-les-Pins, a leafy hamlet adjacent to Antibes.
A spit of land extended into the bay to his right, the peninsula that separated the Bay of Cannes and the Bay of Nice. At its very tip, barely visible, two lights burned red.Maybe,he thought.
“Jojo, how long to get to Eden-Roc?”
“People like me don’t go to the Du Cap unless we’re lifting something.”
“Du Cap” for the Hôtel du Cap, built in 1870, long home to wealthy Europeans, cosmopolites, and their hangers-on.
“Tonight you do.”
“I’m in the middle of a shift.”
“You own the place. Your sous-chef can fill in. Be there in twelve minutes.”
“Get lost. I’m not your errand boy.”
“Who paid for your restaurant? I’ll yank it. Watch me.” There was only one way to talk to a gangster.
“That’s not fair.”
“Twelve minutes, Jojo.”
Without warning, the windscreen shattered. Something struck one of his engines. The men were firing at him.
“Lie down,” he called over his shoulder. Lucy didn’t need telling. She was already flat on her belly.
The other tender had shortened the distance between them. Visibility was deteriorating. Rain fell in sheets, the wind a pernicious force, howling like a banshee. Lightning flashed nearby, a bolt running from heaven to sea. For a moment, the bay was illuminated, vessels of all kinds frozen in place by the burst of white light.
Simon saw his path.
Directly ahead, another mega-yacht, theEclipse—five hundred feet, shark’s snout, a radar globe like a Christmas ornament—Abramovich’s before he sold it to an Emirati prince. A small armada had grouped off its port side, five motor yachts, give or take. He steered toward the immense vessel, speed 40 knots despite the wild bucking. He hugged the giant boat, starboard side, aware of its crew gesturing madly at him…then he was past it, spinning the wheel to port, cutting across its bow, perilously close, a 180-degree turn. He straightened out the tender, coming back along theEclipse’s port side, darting in and among the smaller vessels. He cut his speed. The only sound, rain pummeling the vessel, as loud as a corps of drummers. They were a shadow bobbing on the waves, black on black.
He caught the other tender’s lights rounding theEclipse’s bow, turning toward them, slowing, confused, its prey lost.
Suddenly, the rescued guard was on his feet, arms waving. “Pierrot! Over here! Pierrot!”
Simon turned to see Lucy on her feet, driving her shoulder into the man, sending him toppling into the sea. “And this time you can stay there!” she called.
Simon hit the throttle and the tender sped away, the man lost among the whitecaps.
The guard shouted for help. A spotlight from another boat searched the water and found him.
By then, Simon and Lucy were far away, headed in the opposite direction, out to sea.
The second tender picked up their colleague. A moment later, it headed away, returning to theYasmina.
Simon guided the boat to the dock by the Eden-Roc. A man dressed in a chef’s smock, soaked to the bone, caught the mooring rope.
“I thought you were in trouble,” he said as Simon cut the motor.
“I was. Now I’m not.”
Jojo offered Lucy a hand. She stood unsteadily on the dock, shivering. Simon followed, taking the mooring rope and fastening it to a cleat. They climbed the stairs and walked along a gravel path beneath the pines. Jojo had parked in a lot at the base of the hotel’s driveway. It was the same beat-up Peugeot he’d driven last year.
“Keys are in the ignition,” he said.
