NICE, FRANCE
MONDAY
Nikolai Nekrasov, the billionaire owner of the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc in Antibes, told his driver, Valery, to pull over. Nekrasov had grown up on the rough streets of Moscow and still enjoyed a good brawl.
“A thousand euros on the Arab,” he said, pointing to a group of teens that had gathered in a trash-strewn vacant lot.
The only thing Nekrasov liked more than watching a fight, was betting on its outcome. He had an uncanny ability to assess a conflict and immediately know who was going to win. It was a skill that had served him well—not only recreationally, but also as he had scaled the sharp heights of one of Russia’s deadliest crime syndicates.
And while it was his gifted mind for strategy that had gotten him to the top, it was his unflinching willingness to resort to absolute brutality that had kept him there—and for far longer than anyone would have ever imagined possible.
Of course, if you had asked Nekrasov the true secret to his success, his sophistic response would have been that he placed loyalty—particularly to friends and family—above all else.
It would be a bullshit answer, but in addition to overflowing with money, the man was also overflowing with bravado. No matter how far he had risen above the gutter into which he’d been born, he still maintained a cavernous insecurity over who he was and where he had come from.
That insecurity drove him to put forth a façade that even the most decent, upstanding Russian couldn’t compete with. For instance, wanting to appear ever the perfect family man, Nekrasov would have others believe he had left his hotel on a busy workday to meet his wife at the Centre Antoine Lacassagne—a leading cancer research institute in Nice—in order to discuss her oncologist’s plan for her ongoing treatment. But nothing could have been further from the truth. Nekrasov was going along for one reason and one reason only.
Believing her breast implants were the source of her illness, Eva wanted them removed. Nekrasov had made it clear, though, that the only way that was happening was over his dead body. He had spent good money getting her tits absolutely perfect and he would be damned if she was going to have some French doctor cast the deciding vote for having them yanked out.
What’s more, after several years of marriage and a couple of kids, it was about the only part of her that he still found attractive.
Eva drank like a fish, smoked like factory chimney, and ate whatever the hell she pleased. Early in their marriage, she had been stunning—the toast of Moscow. The Russian President himself, Nikolai’s best friend since childhood, had not so subtly hinted that if not for their friendship, he would have wooed her as his mistress. But then, suddenly, she had just given up.
Perhaps it was the stress of motherhood. But as Nikolai had looked around, he had seen plenty of his contemporaries’ wives taking exceptional care of themselves. They had armies of nutritionists, private chefs, personal trainers, and plastic surgeons. As they dieted, worked out, cool-sculpted, and Botoxed themselves without end, they seemed to not only hold aging at bay, but in some cases to reverse the process altogether. Not Eva, though.
Even before her cancer diagnosis, she had been slipping. It was sad to watch. No matter how much he had tried to encourage her, she hadn’t been interested in taking care of herself. Her health and her appearance had taken an obvious turn for the worse. Now, she wanted to get rid of the implants.
Nekrasov supposed he loved his wife. She was the mother of his children after all, but in addition to her appearance going downhill, so had their sex life. They used to make incredible, passionate, swing-from-the-chandelier love. In the early days, they would make so much noise the neighbors would call the police. Those were good times. Those times, though, were gone. Long gone.
Her breasts, on the rare occasions that they made love, were the only part of their marriage that he still felt passionate about.
In fact, despite his well-crafted image, he had recently begun toying with the idea of getting a divorce. Then, Eva’s cancer diagnosis had arrived.
He couldn’t leave her in light of such news. That wasn’t the kind of man he wanted others to see him as. So, he had stayed.
And now here he was—late to his wife’s oncology appointment, double-parked in a shitty part of Nice, a part the tourists and wealthy residents rarely saw, waiting for a street fight to take place.
“Are you in?” he asked again. “One thousand euros on the Arab.”
Valery, the driver, counted the number of young Frenchmen arrayed against the skinny Arab. He couldn’t understand why his boss was backing such a hopeless cause. But he had been working for Nekrasov long enough to know he was never wrong in these matters. “I know better than to bet against you, boss.”
“For Christ’s sake, Valery. Come on. It’s five to one. Even you have to like those odds.”
Putting the pearl-white, bullet-proof Bentley Mulsanne in Park, the beefy driver turned to face his boss. “In my heart, I love those odds. Even in my gut, I know there’s no way he can win. But in my head—”
“In your head, what?” Nekrasov prodded.
“In my head, I know you’re like an old witch. You see things before they happen. Somehow, you know. You always know. So, I’m not betting. Not on this.”
Nikolai enjoyed the compliment, but at the same time he was disappointed that his driver had refused to bite. As much of a dumb beast as he understood Valery to be, perhaps, in the end, there was a little wisdom hiding inside the man.
Depressing the button for the refrigerator behind his armrest, he removed two chilled shot glasses and a small bottle of exquisite Polish vodka. Though it was considered a sacrilege to drink anything but Russian vodka, he and Valery had an understanding—what no one else knew wouldn’t hurt them. Pouring one for himself, he handed the other forward. The two men clinked glasses, then settled back in their seats to watch the fight. Things didn’t take long to kick off.
Normally in these situations, there was a lot of posturing—taunts, a bit of shoving, and a wait for an antagonist to identify himself as the chief aggressor against the victim, who in this case was the Arab.
Unlike the French, Nekrasov didn’t look down his nose at the country’s Arabs. Most of them were descendants of Arabs from the French colonies of North Africa who had come over in the 1960s and 70s looking for better lives for themselves and their families. They had worked in the most thankless, most menial jobs imaginable, hoping their kids would have it better. But even their children, who had been born and raised in France, were never accepted by the French as full French men and women.
Nekrasov loved France and loved all of its people. He didn’t give a damn what color or what religion they were. If you could hold your own, you were worth giving a shit about. It was why he wanted to watch this fight.
The Arab couldn’t have been more than fifteen. The other boys gathered around him were about the same age, but Nekrasov couldn’t be sure. A couple of them looked like they might have been a year or two older.
It didn’t make a difference. What mattered was that the Arab was outnumbered five to one. You never would have known it looking at him. He stood in front of the French teens, his birdlike chest puffed out, defiant.
He didn’t stare at the ground, eyes downcast, already beaten; hoping they’d take pity on him. He glared at all of them, his face a stony mask, giving nothing away. His confidence radiated all the way into the plush interior of the armor-plated Bentley. This young man was something special.
Nekrasov couldn’t wait to see him fight. If his fists were anything like his attitude, he was going to be a full-on force of nature. It didn’t take long to find out.
Like most mobs, a member of the pack, emboldened by the presence of his comrades, eventually develops enough confidence to step forward and act. When it happened, the skinny Arab was ready and knocked him out cold.
For a moment, the rest of pack was stunned, unsure of what to do. But the moment quickly passed and they set upon the young man en masse.
He seemed to be expecting it, because out of a pocket of his jeans, he produced a straight razor and as the pack attacked him, he slashed back and forth.
It was bloody. It was barbaric. And Nikolai Nekrasov loved it.
It was like watching some crazy form of ballet. He had never seen anyone move like this kid. He parried and pirouetted—moving from one attacker to the next as if he was some master swordsman, marking his hapless opponents with whatever cuts he saw fit to deliver.
Nekrasov chuckled. No matter how pissed Eva might end up being with his tardiness, this was worth it. Totally worth it.
He had known the young Arab had something up his sleeve. He could tell just by watching him.
To be honest, he had figured there were seven or more Arabs just around the corner, waiting for their signal to pop out and overwhelm the French teens in support of their buddy. But that wasn’t what happened.
The fact that the lone teen had stood up to such a larger force and was prevailing, impressed the hell out of the Russian billionaire. This kid, properly mentored, would go places.
Pouring another shot of vodka for himself and his driver, Nekrasov continued to enjoy the display.
The French teens were pissing their pants with fear. They had all been slashed, though not as bad as the Arab probably could have delivered. They were also shocked. They had the greater force and should have already won this fight. Their egos had gotten the better of them—and were continuing to do so. Self-preservation dictated that they disengage, but they were young and stupid and had apparently not yet endured enough punishment.
Scouring the lot for weapons, the French teens picked up whatever they could find—rocks, sticks, broken bottles, even broken pieces of concrete—and dabbed at their bloody wounds with dirty hands and tee-shirts as they prepared to finish off their victim.
Standing his ground, the young Arab smiled and beckoned them forward with his razor.
The leader of the mob had been cut badly enough that he had dropped back. Now, a new leader had taken over. After giving his colleagues a few instructions, he turned to face their opponent.
If the skinny, brown-skinned teen was frightened, he gave no indication. His face retained its inscrutable visage. His apparent calm must have been terrifying for his enemies.
Nevertheless, the French teens mustered their courage and came at him from multiple angles.
Once more, the Arab spun and slipped their strikes, like an experienced surfer allowing a wave to pass overhead. What he didn’t do this time, though, was strike back. He allowed them all to pass by unscathed. Nekrasov sat riveted, fascinated by the spectacle of it all.
The young Arab had them exactly where he wanted them. He could have ended the fight right there, but instead he had danced away from their attack and had allowed them all to move right by without consequence.
The only explanation was that he enjoyed toying with them; that he enjoyed flaunting his superior skills.
At some point, though, he was going to have to bring things to a close. That’s what Nikolai wanted to watch. Unfortunately, it never came.
From a building nearby, an old woman leaned out her third-story window and shouted that she had called the police. The French teens froze. The threat, if real, presented a problem. It also presented an opportunity.
Judging by the looks of them, these were neither local honor students nor altar boys. These were rough young men. It was likely they’d all had run-ins with law enforcement—possibly multiple times. If the cops were on their way and they didn’t disperse, who knew what kind of trouble they could be in. This was the “problem” part.
The “opportunity” part was that they had been handed an excuse to flee, before the Arab could finish them off. Later, they could buck themselves up and soothe their wounded egos by claiming that if it wasn’t for the old lady calling the cops, they would have finished off the Arab and left him in a bloody heap.
And so, like a murmuration of starlings, they turned together and fled down a narrow alley.
Discretion being the better part of valor, the Arab turned in the opposite direction, and ran as well.
To Nikolai’s amusement, he was headed right toward him. Rolling down the Bentley’s window, the Russian beckoned the boy over.
Wary of the myriad of wealthy sexual predators who trolled the Riviera, the teen approached the expensive car cautiously.
“That was quite impressive,” said Nekrasov. “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
“From my brother,” the young Arab said, the pride evident in his voice.
“Sounds like someone I might be interested in hiring. Where can I find him?”
“Clairvaux.”
Nekrasov knew the high-security prison well. Russian anarchist Peter Kropotkin—who had helped to establish socialism in France—had been housed there, as well as the international terrorist Carlos the Jackal. It was not a nice place and was reserved for some of the most serious criminals in France.
“What does your father do?” the Russian asked.
“He’s dead.”
“Your mother?”
“She cleans the houses of rich people like you.”
Nekrasov smiled. The boy was fearless and also highly intelligent. He reminded him of himself at that age.
“Do you work? Go to school?”
The teen shrugged. “Work, yes. School, sometimes.”
“Do you want a better job?” the Russian asked.
“You don’t even know what I do.”
“I don’t care. I’m giving you one chance. Take it or leave it. Do you want a better job?”
The young man nodded.
Removing his business card, Nekrasov wrote something on the back. “What’s your name?”
“Beni.”
“Come by the hotel Friday,” he said as he handed the card out the window. “You’re not a guest, so make sure to use the service entrance.”
It wasn’t meant as an insult and Beni didn’t take it as such. Rich people, in his experience, were simply direct.
Pocketing the card, he stepped back as the man gave a command in Russian and the driver pulled away from the curb.
He stood watching until the huge car turned a corner and disappeared from view. Then he did the same, calmly making his way down the nearest side street. He doubted the cops were coming. If they had actually been on their way, he would have already begun hearing the staccato, high-pitched wail of their klaxons. Besides, they had better things to do than break up groups of teenagers fighting. Nice was awash in drugs, gambling, human trafficking, and organized crime—industries he suspected his new benefactor was all too familiar with.
In the back of the Bentley, Nekrasov’s thoughts should have returned to Eva and her oncology appointment. But they didn’t. Instead, his mind was focused on a bigger problem.
He had fronted one hundred million dollars to activate the most lucrative murder-for-hire contract in history. His assumption had been that by opening it up to multiple assassins, the rush would be on to kill the target as quickly as possible and be the first to claim the prize.
The contract, though, was still open. The target had yet to be taken out. He was not happy. In fact, the more he thought about it, the angrier he became.
By the time Valery had brought the Bentley to a stop in front of the Centre Antoine Lacassagne, Nekrasov knew what he had to do.
It was time to start letting people know what would happen if he didn’t soon see results.