Back in his upscale hotel room, Gabriel looked at his watch. 11:00 p.m. Dinner had been as he expected, if brief and a bit strained. He’d at least had a chance to enjoy his steak and the Malbec was credible. Poor Mr. Weber left his dinner untouched, although he had ordered and downed a second glass of wine. He may have wanted to leave; he didn’t dare. Gabriel found his terrified ambivalence amusing.
When they’d finished, the waiter arrived, not with a check—which Gabriel had already paid—but with a courtesy nightcap. That small ritual had completely unnerved the attorney. Gabriel imagined he was at this very moment in his apartment trembling either with fear or relief. Most likely both.
Weber really was most fortunate, Gabriel mused. Yes, he had perhaps lost his great love. And he had parted with a valuable piece of information that would earn him the everlasting enmity of his employer. At least he would continue to live, especially if he got out from under Kemp’s shadow.
Gabriel surveyed the room with pleasure. He could not deny he appreciated the benefits that went along with his assignment. The hotel wasn’t one he could have afforded on his teacher’s salary. Back when he and his wife were more compatible, they took advantage of her family money. It never made him completely comfortable, although he didn’t begrudge the luxuries it afforded.
This little project involved someone else’s money as well. He’d committed to do his part and had been provided with nearly unlimited resources. He would have undertaken the work for nothing. Since he wasn’t expected to, he intended to relish his present circumstances.
His nonstop flight didn’t leave until midmorning tomorrow. Might as well take advantage of the Jacuzzi in the other room.
~
At 11:00 p.m. on the same evening, Lisette stalked through her walk-in closet, pulling items off hangers and out of cubbyholes and drawers. She tossed everything on the bed. The weather in the south of France was more unpredictable than in Florida. She had plenty of options from which to select, clothes that would allow her to be both stylish and warm. Besides, choosing what to pack kept her mind off the significance of her latest and more far-reaching choice.
She’d taken risks as a younger woman. She took up with and cast aside her heroin-loving partner, the father of her only child. She never regretted that decision. Mo was a danger to them both. She did regret the several desperate years that followed. She’d lowered her standards almost to the ground. She sought companionship as a way to stave off loneliness and the perils of aging. Her daughter had suffered. She’d never apologized to Suzanne. She’d only recently admitted to herself she’d been a terrible parent.
After she’d tossed out her only child, Lisette had slowly extricated herself from her dependency on men. Yes, there were a couple of opportunistic marriages. Those served to move her out of San Francisco and eventually into her own life.
Now she was about to travel abroad with a man about whom she knew little. Was this a late life slide into neediness or simply a much-deserved adventure? Without question, Gabriel was both attractive and attentive. As befits a stereotype, he was the younger suitor to her older wealthy woman. This was not uncommon in Europe. Fortune hunters came in all shapes and sizes.
He surprised her with his offer of an all-expense-paid getaway to Nice. Lisette found it curious that an unemployed teacher and part-time cabana boy had the resources to spring for such a trip. She couldn’t help but wonder if this was part of a long con; pay now and reap substantial rewards later. He should expect to be disappointed.
She told herself to stop spinning out various scenarios. Gabriel was a skilled but not overly demanding lover. He seemed to enjoy her company. The affair had thus far been sweet and satisfactory. Some men appreciated mature women. Maybe there was nothing more to it than that.
She didn’t fool herself into thinking love was involved. She didn’t require love. If this February fling turned out to be a late autumn escapade, she still intended to enjoy every minute of it.
~
Several time zones to the east, Victor Kemp aka Johan Krüger looked out over the village of Èze Sur Mer from the back of a well-appointed hillside villa. He could just make out the jutting contours of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. A full moon hung low in a starless sky. Dawn wouldn’t arrive for two more hours.
He inhaled deeply and picked up a faint aroma of mimosa. Spring came early to the Côte D’Azur. Kemp was used to being up long before the sun. He never slept well. Even in such a lovely spot, he couldn’t entirely relax.
Just ten days earlier, he’d quit London for good and moved to this exclusive neighborhood. Arkady Dyukov was ordered to remain behind, though it clearly displeased the enforcer. Kemp arranged to install his personal physician and family close at hand, promising them a two-month vacation in return for which the doctor would remain on call.
His health needs covered, he contracted a local housekeeper/cook and a clever computer technician and offered them more money than they had ever dreamed possible. He also hired three men to provide security.
While Krüger listed a postbox in nearby Monaco, Kemp refused to live there. He found the place to be utterly sterile, drained of history and personality, and blatantly in service to conspicuous consumption. He rented in France because he could afford to, and because he liked the old buildings and the absence of anonymous highrises. There were plenty of occasions to spend lavishly. At least the galleries, restaurants, shops, and boutique hotels more or less blended in with the ancient walls.
Kemp’s newest business venture didn’t need a tax shelter. On paper the fledgling company operated in the red until investors could be satisfied. In reality his business had moved chiefly into gray and black markets. He didn’t have time to work carefully or adopt the pretense of legitimacy. His ships carried eighty to ninety percent contraband. The stakes were higher. Consequently, the fleet was smaller, faster, and even further under the radar. The people he employed were merciless, willing to take on anyone. This wasn’t a problem either at sea or at the docks, where bribes and threats still figured prominently in his plans.
He thought about the former assassin on the private flight from Gatwick. The flight attendant was a slender woman with light brown hair who might have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five. Attractive yet ordinary, with the kind of malleable face beloved of photographers and film directors.
Susan Smith had such a face. She could make herself unmemorable or beautiful. She could transform into someone else with very little effort. Kemp had made note of that very quality when he met her. He had assumed her personality might prove as pliable as her physique. He had been utterly mistaken, and it had cost him dearly.
They weren’t done with each other yet. Her son lived, to be sure. Neither of his did. This alone suggested scores still to be settled and odds to be evened. A part of him engaged in working out exactly how that might happen. The rest focused on other tasks he had yet to complete.
Nearing seventy-two and with a permanent injury that constantly invited infection, Kemp nevertheless felt he had years left. He came from hardy stock. His mother had lived to be 104 years old. His father might have equaled or surpassed that achievement had he not run afoul of local gangsters. The shipping business was nothing more than a way back in. Kemp wanted to sit on top of the world, control its events, and feed its insatiable appetite—and his.
He couldn’t help but feel the tug of mortality and regretted the absence of a family. Without blood heirs, he wasn’t certain to whom he might bequeath his reconstituted empire. He respected Arkady Dyukov and admired the way in which he’d made something of himself. He certainly appreciated the man’s singular devotion over the years. He simply felt the enforcer lacked the polish to head an international enterprise and move among the world’s power brokers. As for Weber, he’d never considered the lawyer, a glib man with a big brain and, Kemp concluded, small balls.
He did know someone he thought worthy of the crown, someone whose amoral hunger matched his own. Luisa had a nephew, a handsome refined sort with impeccable credentials, including an MBA from Wharton. He lived in Chicago. Like his aunt, he worked in real estate, albeit in the commercial side. While Luisa never explicitly asked Kemp to leave her family out of his dealings, she indicated her brother was well situated and needed nothing from Kemp. The implication was that she preferred to keep it that way.
Kemp had no interest in the brother. The man was vain and weak. His son was another matter. Luisa might not realize her nephew already worked on behalf of some shady operators, including people with whom Kemp did business. Nor did she know those people had described to Kemp a cold-blooded man willing to say or do anything in service to a particular goal. He might or might not be a psychopath, but he was reportedly indifferent to the emotional consequences of any act, large or small.
Kemp decided to reach out to the nephew once he settled in France. He wasn’t sure where the younger man’s loyalties lay, but he believed he could offer a reasonable explanation for his actions. Kemp admitted he anticipated reconciling with Luisa at some future point. A nephew wasn’t a son—no one could replace hers—but she might appreciate that he viewed her family as his. Such things were important, especially to South Americans. He would win her back and have her by his side many years in the future, before he decided how and when it was time to go.
~
The man with the violet eyes rose well before the sun. He pushed open the heavy curtains and opened the windows. The Hôtel Dieu afforded a decent view of Marseille’s Vieux Port. This late at night, or rather early in the morning, the harbor was quiet, the pleasure crafts and sailboats pushed against one another by the relentless mistral. Marseille took the brunt of the icy wind that flowed from the Rhône Valley to the sea, especially in February. Locals claimed it caused depression and irritability. It was all nonsense, of course. People survived the dreary bitter winters back in the States and the oppressive damp of London.
As far as he was concerned, Marseille was still low-rent, lacking much in the way of world-class culture. Many neighborhoods reminded him of cities like Detroit or even Mumbai: run-down, over-crowded, filled with despair. On the other hand, things were looking up with the promise of a renovated waterfront and a new tram. The appearance of new eating spots forced the old ones to up their game. He’d paid dearly for his dinner at Le Ventre de l'Architecte, but the established old restaurant had offered impeccable service and a good enough meal. Not that the cost mattered; he wasn’t paying.
He looked forward to heading up to Geneva for some real relaxation mixed with a bit of scouting. All before returning to the port city to complete another bit of business for his demanding boss. Then it was off to the Côte d’Azur for phase three.
He wondered how many bodies it would cost.