Chapter VIII

MADDUX’S SUPERIORS PUT UP some resistance to his idea of traveling to Monaco. They expressed concern about him racking up a large tab on the expense account while staying in one of Europe’s playground for the wealthy. But he convinced them that the trip to scout shooting locations for television ads was worth the investment.

The next morning, Maddux visited Rose Fuller in the bowels of the Bonn station. She wore a knee-length skirt and had her hair tied up in a bun. Maddux’s footsteps arrested her attention as she looked at him over the top of her glasses from across the room.

“I’ve been expecting you,” she said.

“And I’ve been looking forward to visiting you again down here,” Maddux said as he surveyed her vast work area.

He picked up what looked like a piece of coal and tossed it up in the air several times.

“Don’t do that,” Rose said as she hustled across the floor toward him.

Maddux furrowed his brow and ignored her. “What does this thing do?”

She enclosed her hands around his and gently pried the rock from him. She set it down on another table and gave him a sideways glance.

“It’s a bomb, Ed.”

“A bomb?” he asked, mouth agape.

“Yeah, the kind that goes boom if you tinker with it.”

Maddux stooped down and studied the object. “That little thing right there will explode?”

“It would blow your head off if you were that close to it when it detonated.”

Maddux studied the rock for several seconds before Rose walked up behind him and grabbed him as she yelled, “Boom!”

Maddux jumped back several feet. He glared at her while she giggled with delight.

“Oh, so you think that’s funny, do you?” Maddux asked.

“We need moments of levity around here,” she said, gesturing toward a nearby table. “Do you see all this here? Poison, bombs, guns—I spend most of my time creating devices that will either kill or severely injure opposing spies. I think I’m entitled to a laugh at your expense every once in a while.”

“Maybe I’m just not in the mood today. We have serious work to do.”

“Yes, we do,” she said, gliding across the room toward a worktable. “We need to get you equipped to plant a bug as well as open any envelopes our target might receive without him realizing someone has read his mail.”

Maddux settled onto a stool on the other side of the table from Rose. “Show me how all this works.”

Rose began a fifteen-minute tutorial on how to work the gadgets. The bug planting kit was designed for any agent to stealthily plant a bug in a wall or furniture without getting detected. Small hand drills along with other devices eliminated any visual clues that someone had been drilling into a surface and leaving a microphone. The mail-reading tool cut a small hole into an envelope before the user turned the handle, wrapping the letter tightly around a shaft and pulling the note out without breaking the seal. Once the letter had been read or photographed, it could be reinserted without as much as a wrinkle made.

“And do you have my credentials?”

“Of course I do,” she said, handing him a badge that identified him as a reporter for TheMiami Herald.

“Miami?” he asked as he read the name. “Why not New York or Los Angeles or Chicago?”

“The Miami area is fond of open wheel racing,” she said. “The nearby city of Sebring has a big Grand Prix event every year and recently hosted the U.S. Grand Prix. And Miami once had a great grand prix track before the Great Miami hurricane wiped it off the map. To top it all off, the newspaper wasn’t sending anyone, so I fabricated everything for you. You’ll be able to walk right in.”

“And take pictures?”

“In broad daylight.”

Maddux sighed. “Well, that’s unfortunate. I was looking forward to using one of these cameras.” He glanced down at the table at the pack of Marlboro cigarettes that hid a camera inside.

“You’ll get to use that camera, too,” she said. “We’re going to need some photos to verify that Gunnar Andersson is the same man in the photographs that Kensington gave us. People can look similar in pictures, but when you see them in person, they can look completely different.”

“Anything else I need to know?” Maddux asked.

“Yes,” she said, nodding slowly. “Don’t do anything stupid that will get both of us killed.”

“What makes you think I would do any such thing?”

She cut her eyes toward him before looking away but remained silent. “I’ll see you in Monaco.”

* * *

MADDUX DONNED A LIGHT JACKET for the breezy spring weather in Monaco. Aside from serving as a warm barrier against the wind blowing in off the Mediterranean, an extra layer of clothing provided an inconspicuous place to hide all the gadgets Rose had loaded him down with. As he secured each kit and device she had given him, he considered the term pack mule would be more appropriate than spy in this case. If any security guard attempted to pat him down, Maddux conceded that he would be exposed as something other than a reporter.

Maddux slid the final—and most crucial—element into his pocket. The pit pass Rose replicated for him would allow him unfettered access into the pits the day before the race and would accomplish both his objectives. The first thing he needed to do was plant a bug in Andersson’s vehicle. For a man who was on the move all the time, the open wheel racer would likely be somewhere in the vicinity of his competition car. And Pritchett suggested that placing the bug in the driver’s side door would give the CIA an opportunity to capture candid conversations between the suspected Russian super assassin and his handlers.

After pulling into the parking lot designated for the press, Maddux gave himself a final once over before getting out. He snatched his briefcase off the passenger side seat and ambled toward the gate. In the distance, he could hear the roar of the engines as well as the waxing and waning of cars making warm-up laps. The race was still several hours away, but Maddux felt the anticipation building as he neared the entrance.

Another man dressed in a dark suit with a press credential hanging from a lanyard around his neck nodded at Maddux as he waited approval for entry. The crush of reporters attempting to get in created a bottleneck.

“Just be patient, all of you,” snapped an elderly gentleman seated on a stool just outside the track entrance. “We can only go one at a time, but you will all get in eventually.”

The reporter who had wandered up behind Maddux and joined him in line groused about the procedure.

“They do this every week,” the man said, his voice rising as he spoke. “You’d think that by now they would’ve figured out how to handle things more efficiently. But, oh no, checking each individual reporter and verifying their press credentials five different ways means that we all have to stand out here waiting when we should be in there doing our jobs.”

The man’s open complaint was met with head nods, which spurred others to share their stories of long wait times and general incompetence in ushering reporters through the gate. Maddux wondered if all newspapermen regarded themselves as so self-important or if it was unique to those covering the Grand Prix race circuit.

The line moved along systematically, but Maddux was inspected and granted access within fifteen minutes, a wait which he deemed reasonable. He waited on the reporter behind him who had been griping so loudly inside the gates.

“Excuse me, but can you tell me where the pits are?” Maddux asked.

“You must be a rookie,” the man answered. “What paper are you with anyway?”

“The Miami Herald.”

“The Herald is covering the Grand Prix now? Now that’s surprising.” The man offered his hand to Maddux. “Bill Newton with The New York Times.”

While Maddux’s employers sent him to Monaco on official business, his CIA duties required an alias.

“Paul Miller,” he said. “And, yes, I am new to this, so you’ll have to pardon my ignorance.”

“We all had a first time,” Newton said, gesturing to his left as he started walking in that direction. “The second I walked into a stadium and smelled the burning rubber and watched the cars zip past me, I was hooked. I still remember it like it was yesterday.”

Maddux hustled to keep up with Newton’s swift pace. “Do you talk with the driver’s much before the race?”

“That’d be a rookie mistake,” Newton said. “Most of the guys don’t like to be bothered while they’re getting ready. But a few of them don’t mind. It really just depends on who you’re wanting to interview.”

“What do you know about Gunnar Andersson?”

Newton took a deep breath and stroked his chin as he stared off in the distance. “That guy is an enigma. I’ve spoken with him on several occasions, but I can never really get a read on him. Is he in it for the love of racing? Or does he just love the money? Not that it really matters, but I’ve found that the ones who love the sport, the competition, the thrill of it all—they’re much more open than the men who would be doing something else if it weren’t for all the fame and money associated with the sport.”

“And where does Andersson fit in?”

“That’s what I mean about him being an enigma—he doesn’t seem to fit anywhere. He’s nice enough when I’ve spoken with him in the past, but I don’t know if he’s seeking glory, fame, and riches or if it’s all about the money.”

“Thanks for the heads up.”

“Oh, sure. Any time. If you ever need anything while you’re covering the sport on the circuit, just come find me. I’ll be happy to give you the scoop on any procedures that you might be unsure about.”

“I appreciate that,” Maddux said.

Newton stopped. “Now, the pit gate is straight ahead right there,” he said, gesturing toward the opening in the chain link fence. “That guard’s name is Monty, and he’s still torn up about the Dodgers leaving Brooklyn, so don’t mention anything about baseball and you’ll be fine.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” Maddux said again.

“It’s nothing. Go have fun. Today’s gonna be a hell of a race.”

Maddux proceeded to the gate and had no problems getting inside the pits. Monty was friendly and asked Maddux for his opinion on who was going to win the race.

Maddux shrugged. “I have a hunch about Gunnar Andersson today.”

Monty laughed, bordering on a guffaw that attracted the attention of several people passing by.

“Andersson? Are you out of your mind? He’s always in the middle of the pack. No way he’s going to win today. What would make you say such a thing?”

“Like I said, it was just a hunch.”

Monty looked down at Maddux’s credentials again. “Okay, Mr. Miller. I’ll be sure not to ask you again. I didn’t realize The Miami Herald was hiring comedians as sports writers these days.”

Maddux knew the likelihood of Andersson winning wasn’t high, but it was a safe answer. Had Maddux listed any of the top drivers, he could’ve entered into a long debate about who might currently be the best driver on the circuit. And he didn’t have time for that.

Weaving his way through the pits, Maddux found himself dodging hustling crew members every few feet. Tires were rolled along, engine parts were carted around, inspectors scurried from garage to garage in order to complete their pre-race check of all the cars. He was overwhelmed with the busyness before finally stopping and asking one of the crew members who nearly flattened Maddux with a tire about Andersson’s garage.

“It’s the one on the far end,” the man said, pointing across the pit area.

Maddux strode toward the garage but was stopped short by a pair of men standing guard, both wearing dark sunglasses.

“That’s far enough,” one of the men said in English with a tinge of an Eastern European accent.

Maddux grabbed his credentials and held them up so the man could read, but he didn’t budge. “I’m with the press, and I’d like to speak with Mr. Andersson.”

Neither guard cracked, both appearing to keep their gaze forward in the distance.

“My name is Paul Miller from The Miami Herald, and I’d like to conduct a brief interview with Mr. Andersson before it gets too close to race time.”

“No interviews,” the other guard said. “Now run along.”

Maddux shrugged and started walking away before peeling back around and angling to get into the pit and get Andersson’s attention.

“I don’t think so,” one of the guards said as he grabbed Maddux’s bicep. The other guard followed suit as they lifted Maddux off the ground, turned him in the opposite direction, and launched him forward. Maddux stumbled as his feet hit the ground, but he placed his right hand on the ground to maintain his balance and keep from falling.

“And don’t come back,” the guard said when Maddux looked up at him.

Maddux looked down at his press credentials.

A lot of good this thing does me.

He dusted himself off and glanced once more over his shoulder at Andersson’s garage. With the driver nowhere in sight and the two guards proving to be menacing, Maddux decided to regroup and consider another approach. He strolled past more cars, stopping to get a closer view of several engines with those racing teams that were more amenable to his presence in the garage. He was staring at a Lotus-BRM engine with his mouth agape when someone pat him on the back.

“This doesn’t look like Gunnar Andersson’s car,” Rose Fuller said.

Maddux turned around to see Rose wearing a pit pass and camera draped around her neck.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked.

“Same as you,” she said. “Covering the race.”

“But as a photographer and a—”

“I know, I know—a woman. I have attracted more attention than I anticipated, but that shouldn’t be a problem since I spend most of my time locked away in a lab dreaming up ways to kill, maim, or otherwise injure people with small objects.”

“When you put it like that, it sounds like you’re talking about The Three Stooges,” he said.

“What I do is far less entertaining,” she said. “But enough about that. Tell me how things went with Andersson.”

They both backed away from the vehicle and walked together around the garage.

“He’s got two men standing guard over his garage, making sure no one gains access to his pit.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Maddux shook his head. “I was unceremoniously tossed aside when I tried to slip past them after they’d already denied me.”

“Sounds like a challenge I would love to take on.”

“Only if you’re crazy.”

Rose smiled. “I have my ways.”

“Using one of your gadgets to incapacitate them is going to attract plenty of attention.”

“Who said I’m going to use any devices?” she asked with a wink. “I have other ways.”

“Fine. Do what you’ve gotta do. I’d just love to see how you could pull this off and get the bug installed in his car.”

“I’ll grant you that it won’t be easy, but I can handle myself in the field. Sometimes there is no gadget that can replace a human.”

Maddux handed her the bug kit and watched her walk away, her hips swaying from side to side. He’d never noticed her walk like that before. She looked back over her shoulder and winked at him again.

He smiled and huffed a soft laugh through his nose. “I hope this works.”

* * *

ROSE HAD ENOUGH TRAINING to be a credible field agent, even if it was about her least favorite assignment. At one point, she had dreamed of becoming a spy, stealing ciphers, and traveling to exotic locations to satiate her thirst for adventure. But the work in the field wasn’t fully satisfying. Manipulating people with mind tricks and outright lies made her feel slimy. Plus, she eventually discovered how much she enjoyed using her creativity to craft tools for spies that would enable them to rely less on manipulative tactics. At the time, making such a shift seemed like a noble thing to do. Eventually she concluded that nobility could only be ascribed through a person’s actions, not simply by the omission of certain acts.

However, there were times when nobility wasn’t part of the assignment and the only thing that mattered was results.

This was one of those moments.

She fluffed her hair as she walked away from Maddux and smacked her lips. In a public situation where an agent had to slip past a pair of guards, gadgets were of little use. Knocking out one or both men would only result in unwanted attention. And the CIA always preached the first rule in penetrating enemy lines was to do so without raising an eyebrow from other onlookers. The more one stood out, the more people would remember details about the scene. Rose wanted to be entirely unforgettable to everyone else around.

Approaching Andersson’s garage, she identified the two guards who Maddux pointed out were standing a few feet apart, hands clasped behind them. Neither one of the men even glanced in her direction as she made her way toward them, instead appearing to stare off into the distance.

“Is Gunnar available?” she asked with a smile and a wink.

Neither of the men moved.

“What is this? Buckingham Palace? I said is Gunnar available?”

One of the guards turned slowly and looked down at her. “No, he’s not.”

“Tell him to come out here right now,” she said. “I had a great time with him last night at La Rascasse, and I need to give him something. It’s for good luck.”

The guard returned to his previous pose, refusing to comply with Rose’s request.

Rose crossed her arms over her chest and poked out her lip. “This isn’t very nice. He promised me you two would let me pass.”

“Perhaps Mr. Andersson changed his mind.”

“Changed his mind? Changed his mind? Are you insane? We had an amazing time last night, and I’m confident if I would’ve stuck around long enough, he would’ve proposed to me.”

“Proposed to you? As in marriage?” the other guard asked before breaking into a chuckle.

“That’s right,” Rose said. “Laugh it up. But I’m telling you he was on the verge of breaking out a jewelry box he had hidden away. I just know it.”

“Lady, it’s time for you to move along,” the other guard said with a subtle head nod. “Mr. Andersson is happily married to a model and was with her all last night.”

She unfurled her bun as her brown locks fell around her shoulders. Shaking her head slightly, she gathered up her hair again and retied it. She strode up to the first guard who had addressed her and poked him in the chest with her index finger.

“You’re going to wish you let me in after I tell Gunnar to have you fired,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You’ll be sweeping streets or taking out rubbish.”

“I’m about to take out some rubbish right now,” he said, peering down at her finger, which was still pressed against his chest. “I suggest you step back and be on your way.”

Rose stamped her foot. “Not until I speak with Gunnar.”

The guard looked down again at her finger before she withdrew it. Once she did, he looked straight ahead again.

“I’m not going to ask again,” she said.

Neither guard responded.

“Fine,” she said as she backed up slowly. “I don’t need your permission.”

As soon as the word permission came out of her mouth, she exploded forward, pumping her arms as hard as she could in an attempt to slip between the two men. However, just as she expected, they caught her. That’s when Rose broke into her act.

She thrashed back and forth while she screamed, shaking so violently that her bun broke loose. Her hair twirled around her, shielding anyone from seeing her face.

“Put me down,” Rose yelled. “Help! Help! These men are attacking me.”

Almost immediately, they released her, placing her feet on the ground and backing away. She smoothed out her dress before sneering at them.

“Go ahead, lady,” one of the guards said. “We don’t have time for your games.”

The other guard scowled and glanced at his colleague but didn’t say anything.

“Don’t worry,” she said before taking a deep breath. “I won’t be long.”

Rose pulled her jacket taut across her waist and approached the enclosed tent near the back of the garage area. She poked her head inside and entered gingerly.

“I thought I told you not to disturb me,” Andersson growled before he turned around. When he swung around in his chair to see who was standing in the entryway, the scowl on his face transformed into a warm smile.

“Well,” he said, cocking his head to one side, “I guess we can make an exception for you, doll.”

She forced a smile and took a seat at the table across from Andersson. He was polishing his gun.

“Smith and Wesson 41,” she said, staring down at his weapon. “Nice choice.”

Andersson continued polishing, pausing only to glance at Rose and flash a smile. “I like a woman who knows her guns. Do you shoot?”

“Only when I have to.”

“In that case, I hope I don’t give you reason to shoot me.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not armed. I just wanted to bring you something.”

“What? You don’t want an autograph? Or perhaps a midnight rendezvous after I’m crowned champion?”

Rose stared at him blankly. “What would your wife think about that?”

“Ex-wife,” Andersson corrected. “And I doubt she’d mind since we haven’t spoken in months.”

“Regardless, I’m not interested.”

“And why would that be, Miss —”

“Delilah Boneparte,” she said, offering her hand.

Andersson took it and kissed it slowly and deliberately. “Those supple hands don’t look like they should be firing guns.”

“Like I said, I only fire out of necessity.”

“Well, Miss Boneparte, you still didn’t answer my question. Why would you not be interested?”

“I only came to drop off some information for you,” she said. “I had to be discreet about it.”

“And screaming and yelling outside my garage is how you define discretion?”

“My job was to deliver something to you—and failing to do so wasn’t an option.”

“I also love a woman who won’t take no for an answer,” he said, leaning across the table to take her hands.

Rose withdrew and wagged a finger at him. “Just because I don’t take no for an answer doesn’t mean I don’t know how to say it and enforce it.”

Andersson sat back down in his chair. “Hence your range practice.”

She nodded. “Now, you’re starting to get it.”

“Well, Miss Boneparte, I suggest you make this delivery of yours in short order before I have to go out there and claim my crown.”

She reached inside her jacket and produced a packet. She slid it across the table to him and stood.

“Leaving already?” he asked. “I didn’t really mean that you had to go right away.”

She walked over to his side of the table and took his face in her hands. “If we had all the time in the world, you still wouldn’t have a chance with me.”

As she turned away, he lunged for her, groping her rear end. Rose turned around and smacked him.

“Don’t make me use my gun,” she said. “All the information is there for your next target. Don’t blow it.”

She snapped a quick picture of him and exited the tent. The two guards didn’t acknowledge her as she split them on her way out of Andersson’s garage area.

Weaving her way back through the busy garage area, she struggled to hear herself think over the roar of the engines firing up. Crews pushed cars toward the starting line as the buzz of the crowd had grown to a constant hum.

Eventually, she reached the media viewing area near the starting line and saw Maddux. She stood next to him but never acknowledged him directly.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

“I made the delivery and snapped his picture,” she said.

“You make it sound like it was easy.”

“It was.”

“How were you able to get past the guards?”

“I have my ways,” she said. “Now, let’s watch the race. You know I’m always looking for ideas on how to make agent cars go faster.”

* * *

MADDUX STOOD IN SILENCE, taking in the scene of the popular raceway that would snake throughout almost every nook and cranny in the tiny country of Monaco. He glanced at Rose, who seemed equally in awe of the atmosphere.

The drivers paused to wave at the crowd and posed for pre-race pictures as journalists from all over the globe scrambled to some of the more popular racers to snap a picture. Flashbulbs exploded amidst the cheers and anticipation building from the grandstands.

Once the drivers climbed into their cars and the press returned to their safety zone, the grand marshal welcomed the crowd and wished everyone good luck before dropping the green flag. The automobiles roared down the track to a thunderous applause from the onlookers as they rose out of their seats for the first lap.

Maddux enjoyed the atmosphere, drinking it all in as he took a break from his espionage duties. One of the reasons the chance to move overseas with his company—and the CIA—was for these moments. While his fascination with racing started at a young age, he never had an opportunity to witness such a famous Grand Prix until this assignment. As the cars zipped past, he imagined what a commercial might look like for Opel, rushing through the streets of Monte Carlo along the same path as the Monaco Grand Prix. If he could sell upper management on the impact a commercial filmed here would make, he might earn a return trip next year.

Rose kept her distance, meandering away from Maddux for a while to gain a better vantage point for photos. He kept an eye on her while he noted the leaderboard. Andersson was running his best race of the season, fending off several challenges from British drivers Jackie Stewart and Graham Hill and Swiss star Jo Siffert, who were all piloting British Racing Motors cars. Andersson’s Ferari engine purred as he zoomed past, pulling away from the pack.

But on the final lap, a disastrous spin out on the 180-degree turn at Gazometre put Andersson in a hole he couldn’t climb out of. Hill and Stewart sped past Andersson as he struggled to get going amidst the wave of cars enveloping him. By the time he returned to full speed, the race was over with Hill crossing the finish line first.

Maddux watched as Andersson climbed out of his car in disgust. He threw his helmet, and it spun on the road. For good measure, he kicked the helmet, sending it sliding into the pits and clipping one of the other drivers on the back of the leg. Andersson received an earful but ignored the verbal lashing as he marched toward his garage area.

Maddux followed the throng of reporters who gathered near Andersson’s tent and waited for him to emerge.

“Well, that was interesting,” Maddux said to Rose as she joined up with him again. “You must’ve given him one hell of a pep talk. He hasn’t come close to winning a race all season.”

“If he was trying to impress me, he failed,” she said. “However, if I didn’t know better, I would’ve guessed he spun out on purpose. He had been navigating that Gazometre turn all day long as if it was child’s play. But then with the race virtually in hand, he spins out? Something didn’t seem right about that.”

“Did you see it happen?”

She nodded. “He overcorrected for some reason. It’s like he meant to do it.”

“Maybe he did—or maybe he was thinking about his next assignment.”

“Makes no difference to me, just as long as he shows up in Barcelona like we planned.”

Maddux smiled and nodded. “Let’s hope so.”

The reporters mobbed Andersson as he stepped forward to answer questions. The throng pressed upon him so hard that he had to move, stepping away from the car. Maddux glanced over to see Rose slipping a bug into the car’s frame, which was already being partially dismantled. She used a small clamp to attach the bug to the inside of the driver’s side door, almost invisible to anyone working on the vehicle.

“Think that’ll hold?” Maddux asked Rose as she rejoined him at the back of the pack.

She shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But at least it’s in place. Once he gets to Barcelona, we’ll be able to monitor that bug around the clock. Until then, let’s just hope no one notices it.”

Maddux glanced over his shoulder and saw a couple men standing in the shadows. He thought they looked out of place, perhaps even Russian. After waiting a beat, Maddux turned to get a better look—but they were gone.