FINANCIER CARL BIELKE SAT ON THE PLANE FROM LONDON EN route for Nice. He had spent a good weekend in the British capital and his business deals had been wonderfully successful. He had managed to acquire two properties in the city center from a bankruptcy and had already signed the contracts and transferred the 380 million that the deal cost. He would have the sewer pipes replaced and do some renovation on the facade in one property, and a luxury makeover of the vista apartments in the other, and then he could soon increase the rent considerably. That would bring in many millions over the years. Now he could really indulge in a few days’ vacation!
He and his two secretaries got off the plane in Nice and when they had gone through customs he went straight across to the counter for the helicopter service and slammed his briefcase down.
“The same as usual. Full speed to Saint-Tropez, please!”
Very pleased with himself and in an excellent mood, he sat down with the two young ladies and waited for the helicopter to be ready. Meanwhile, he phoned his standby crew in Saint-Tropez and asked them to prepare for a little outing.
“What about a week touring the coast, with some visits ashore here and there?”
“Sorry, we can’t do it,” said the captain, his voice sounding unusually pitiful. And, yes, then with a broken voice he had said that Bielke’s new motor yacht had sunk. His Aurora 4 must have gone to the bottom and, according to the preliminary reports from the harbor authorities, the vessel had vanished from the screens at lunchtime that same day. The weather had been good and no collision had been registered. But the boat had disappeared and was presumed sunk.
“What the hell!” shouted Bielke.
The captain tried to explain and didn’t manage very well. He mumbled something about a new crew having borrowed the boat to train how to handle it, and when the yacht disappeared from the screens he himself had thought that they had turned off the transponder on purpose and anchored at some secret place for some nefarious reason. Yes, the ladies from the Saint-Tropez fashion week were still in town . . .
“Yes, you understand,” said the captain. He said that several hours later, when there were still no signals from the vessel’s AIS, he had got suspicious. “We were conned,” he sighed. “Those people disappeared with the boat out to sea.”
Carl Bielke was so angry he could hardly breathe. Earlier, the captain had told him of a gang of pensioners who were going to charter the boat. Had they had with them a crew of their own, an incompetent pack who had let the boat founder? But then surely the rescue services would have been involved, an SOS sent out, and the seniors would have been reported missing. But just think—God forbid—what if somebody had hijacked the boat? The captain, whose voice now sounded even more pathetic, did indeed claim—after being pressured by Bielke—that it was the seniors who had stolen the yacht after he himself and the others had ended up in the water. They had later found the little motorboat abandoned in a bay. But Bielke did not believe that, of course. Pensioners with walkers can’t steal a big motor yacht, that much was obvious, so naturally it was the captain and the others who had drunk too much, enjoyed themselves with the young models from Saint-Tropez and then tried to explain away what had happened. Presumably, one of the girls had cooperated with the mafia—probably a boyfriend who had asked his girlfriend to put a sedative in the crew’s drinks. Then when the captain and the others snoozed away, they had been dumped somewhere—after which the gangsters had returned to the yacht and steered it out to sea. And then, of course, they had turned off the transponder. Now all they needed to do was rename his newly acquired boat, repaint it and perhaps make a few changes to the furnishings, and they would have carried off a fantastic coup. Yes, that’s what must have taken place. And the fact that Aurora’s motorboat had been found was a clear indication that something had happened. What a farce! How could the crew fall for such a simple con? And by now the cunning scoundrels would be on their way to Naples or some other mafia port.
While the helicopter approached Saint-Tropez, he looked out over the glittering sea and thought about what he should do. Already, a year before, he had come to the conclusion that it was hard work having three large motor yachts in different ports. So for quite a long time he had been contemplating selling one of them and concentrating on two really large yachts instead. He would have one for himself and the other for chartering. So from that angle, what had happened perhaps wasn’t such a bad thing after all, but a turn of fate that had made the decision for him. Yes, good God, it wasn’t such a total disaster after all. Now all he had to do was rake in the insurance money and move on with life—even though he would miss that Chagall painting, of course. With these thoughts, he calmed down, put his arm around the ladies and kissed first one and then the other.
“You know what? Let’s spend tonight at a hotel and then we’ll decide what to do tomorrow. There’s a market, if you want to buy something. And we can go to Club 55 and swim. If we get tired of that, we can wander around the town. I need a watch and Van Cleef’s jewelry store has lots of beautiful jewels that would suit you. What do you say?”
The young ladies looked admiringly at him, so delighted that he hugged them both. Then he went to a luxury hotel with the two beauties and enjoyed himself royally all night. It wasn’t until the next morning that he remembered that the insurance papers were in the map room on board the motor yacht. In his yacht that had sunk! Or been hijacked . . .