I Kill (51 page)

Morelli and Frank leaned forward into the space between the two front seats, trying to see without blocking each other’s view. The agent pointed to the red dot, which was now moving.

‘That’s the mobile phone that made the call. We found it through satellite signals. It’s in Nice, right around Place Île de Beauté. We’re in luck. He’s
on this side of the city. He wasn’t moving before, but from the speed, I’d say he’s on foot.’

Frank turned to Morelli.

‘Call Froben and tell him what’s going on. Tell him we’re on our way and get them there, too. Keep contact so you can tell them the subject’s movements.’

The driver was burning the tarmac.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Frank.

‘Xavier Lacroix,’ the agent answered in a calm voice, as though he were taking a walk rather than shooting down the road like an Exocet missile.

‘Okay, Xavier. If things work out, I’ll do all I can to get you into motor racing.’

The agent stepped harder on the gas, perhaps as thanks for the appreciation. As Morelli spoke excitedly to Froben, Frank turned to look at the display, where the red light was now flashing.

‘What does that mean?’

The agent answered without turning around. ‘He’s making a call.’

‘Can we hear him?’

‘Not with this equipment. All it does is locate the signal.’

‘It doesn’t matter. The only thing that counts is knowing where that son of a bitch is.’

They raced along the Basse Corniche at a speed that would have made any Finnish rally champion jealous. The racing driver – Frank thought it was the right thing to call him – drove
that fireball through the city traffic with a coolness that comes only with natural talent.

Froben wants to know where—’

‘He’s going up Rue Cassini . . . Now he’s stopped. He’s making another call.’

There was a small traffic jam at the beginning of the square and Lacroix swerved around it by driving in the wrong direction and then raced up Rue Cassini as though qualifying for the Grand
Prix. The agent in front of the monitor gave directions and Morelli passed them on to the Nice police.

‘Left here and go up Emmanuel Philibert.’

‘Emmanuel Philibert,’ repeated Morelli.

‘Right on Rue Gauthier.’

‘Rue Gauthier,’ echoed Morelli.

They turned right practically on two wheels, tyres smoking. When they reached the end of the short street with cars parked on either side, there were police cars blocking the junction with Rue
Segurane in spoke formation. The uniformed police were standing in a group near by. One of them was replacing his gun in its holster. They stopped their car next to the others, jumped out, and
sprinted over. Froben saw them arrive. He looked at Frank and spread out his arms with the expression of someone who has just stepped in a large pile of shit.

Standing in the middle of all those policemen was a little boy, about twelve, in a red T-shirt, lowrider jeans hanging down to his knees, and Nike sneakers. He was holding a cell phone.

He looked at the policemen one after another, not in the least afraid. Then he flashed a huge grin, revealing a broken tooth, and remarked in earnest, ‘Holy shit, man! Cool!’

It was almost two in the morning when Hudson McCormack pulled up near the wharf at the Fontvieille marina, stopping in front of a large cabin cruiser with blue fenders, moored
between two yachts. He got off his scooter and kicked down the stand before taking off his helmet. He had rented a scooter rather than a car, because he thought it would be easier in the Monte
Carlo traffic. The city was already chaotic in the summertime and getting around by car was a real drag, despite the many parking garages. But during the regatta, Fontvieille was a huge scrum of
people coming and going – crews, media, sponsors and their representatives, not to mention the hordes of fans and onlookers.

Getting anywhere was a constant obstacle course and the best way to wriggle through the commotion was by motorbike. Plus, wearing goggles and a helmet was an excellent disguise to keep from
being recognized and stopped at every turn by someone asking about his boat.

Looking at the enormous cruiser, Hudson McCormack thought of the endless debate over yachts and motorboats that often exploded in furious bar-room arguments between aficionados of one or the
other. To him, the distinction was meaningless. They were
all
motorboats, except that a yacht doesn’t have a traditional propeller or gear cranks, cylinders, pistons and fuel located
somewhere under the hull. A yacht’s motor is the wind. And like all motors, it has to be analysed, understood, its pulse regulated, and its natural advantages exploited to the utmost.

While watching car races, which he loved, he had seen engines explode in a sudden burst of white smoke. Many times, he had seen single-seaters pull off the track as the others raced past, and
the driver would get out of his car and bend over the rear axle, trying to understand what had betrayed him.

It was the same for boats. A yacht was also subject to the whims of its motor – the wind – which twisted, changed direction, rose or fell as it pleased. Unexpectedly, without any
warning, the sails could fall limp while just a dozen yards away your opponent’s boat was speeding along with the bright-coloured spinnaker so swollen that it looked like it might burst.

And sometimes that too could happen. The ripping of the sail made a noise like a huge zip, and organized chaos ensued: the excitement of changing the damaged sail, the skipper’s orders,
the instructions of the tactician, the crew members crossing the deck like dancers on a moving stage.

Hudson McCormack had no personal explanation for all of that. He only knew that he adored it. He didn’t know
why
he felt so good when he was at sea, and he didn’t care. You
don’t analyse happiness, you live it. He knew he was happy on a boat, and that was enough.

He was suddenly excited for the coming regatta. The Grand Mistral was a sort of dress rehearsal for the Louis Vuitton Cup at the end of the year, which was itself a competition to find a
challenger to take on the holder of the Americas Cup. This was when you showed your cards before reshuffling them if you needed to. The crews sized one another up, tried out their boats and tested
the innovations designed to make them more competitive. Afterwards, there would be plenty of time to make the necessary changes before the most important and prestigious race of them all.

Everybody came to the Grand Mistral. Experienced crews and newcomers, even absolute beginners like
Mascalzone Latino,
a new Italian boat. The only one missing was
Luna Rossa,
the
boat sponsored by Prada, still training at Punta Ala.

Hudson’s team’s boat,
Try for the Sun,
was parked with all its gear in a rented shed equipped for haulage and launching near Cap Fleuri, a few miles from Fontvieille. The
workers were staying there too, in spartan but functional accommodation. The boat had to be under close watch twenty-four hours a day, so that prying eyes would not discover the top-secret details.
In ocean racing, as in car racing, a revolutionary idea can mean the difference between triumph and defeat. Ideas were unfortunately easy to copy, and everyone tried as hard as possible to keep the
details of their boats, the Formula 1 vehicles of sailing, hidden.

Of course it was to their advantage that most of the aerodynamics, so to speak, were located underwater. You never knew what could happen, though. There were oxygen tanks and underwater cameras
and unscrupulous people. Someone who was shallower than him – Hudson McCormack smiled to himself at that word – might think such precautions excessive.

But substantial economic interests were at stake as well as the honour of victory. It was not for nothing that all support crews had artificial respirators on board, the ones that use oxygen,
not air, invented during the Second World War for underwater attacks. They recirculated carbon dioxide so that divers could approach an enemy ship without revealing their presence through air
bubbles rising to the surface.

Wooden legs, eye patches and cutlasses were not in style and the skull and crossbones no longer flew over the ships, but buccaneers were still around. Their progeny were alive and well and
spread over the seven seas. Kings and queens no longer dispensed fleets of caravels, but sponsors gave out millions of dollars instead. The men and the boats were different, but the reasons were
the same. They had merely substituted a sophisticated weather-forecasting system for what was once ‘the pointing of a moistened finger’ to find out which direction the wind was
blowing.

The crew of
Try for the Sun,
to which Hudson belonged, were staying aboard the yacht flying their sponsor’s corporate colours in the Fontvieille marina. It was all a question of PR.
The venture’s backer, an international tobacco company, intended to get as much publicity as possible. And quite frankly, with the amount of money it had put down, Hudson figured it had every
right.

The official presentation of the boat and the crew was held at the Sporting Club d’Été. All the members of the team had attended in their sailing uniforms,
which Hudson found much more elegant than the tuxedos and evening gowns of the other guests. At one point, the master of ceremonies had requested everyone’s attention: a skilful play of
lights, a drum roll from the orchestra, and they had run out from either side of the room to stand in a row in front of the guests, while images of
Try for the Sun
were projected on the wall
behind them. ‘We Are the Champions’ by Queen, arranged especially for the occasion, was played with a large string section to evoke gusts of wind in the sails.

They were introduced one by one and each received a round of applause as he stepped forward at the announcement of his name. They were strong, agile, intelligent men of expertise: the best the
sport had to offer. That, at least, was the way they were presented and it was nice to believe it for a little while.

After dinner they had moved on to a nightclub, Jimmy’z. They were athletes and usually behaved themselves. Their mindset and attitude could be described by the adage, ‘Early to bed,
early to rise.’ But they were not going to sea the next day and the team management thought that a little moderate partying could only help the crew’s morale.

Hudson locked a chain around his scooter. It was a big chain, covered in clear red plastic to match the scooter itself. They had all told him that there was no need to worry about thieves in
Monte Carlo, but this habit was ingrained. He lived in New York City, where people could steal your shirt without even touching your back. Taking precautions was part of his DNA.

He stood on the wharf in front of the large cruiser, lit only by the service lights. There was no movement on the boat. He lit a cigarette and smiled. He wondered what the bosses of the tobacco
company would say if they saw him smoking a rival brand of cigarettes. He strolled along the quay to finish his cigarette, leaving the yacht behind him. The person he was waiting for, if he knew
anything about women, would not arrive for another half-hour, twenty minutes if he was lucky.

He’d spent the entire evening talking to Serena, a New Zealander he had met by chance at the party. He didn’t really understand what she was doing in Monte Carlo, except that she was
there for the regatta. She wasn’t on the staff of any of the teams, each of which required extensive personnel in addition to the crews and reserves: technicians, designers, press agents,
trainers and masseurs. One team had even brought a psychologist, though their boat was not considered particularly competitive and gossip around the dockyard had it that he was there more to
comfort the crew after losing than to gear them up before the race.

Serena was probably just one of those rich girls who travelled the world on her family’s money, pretending to be interested in one thing or another. Sailing, in this case.

You know, the wind in your hair and the sound of the prow cutting the waves and that liberating feeling . . .

Or something like that.

Hudson was not usually so susceptible to female charms. Not that he didn’t like women. He was straight as they come and a pretty girl was always a great way to pass the time, especially if
she had class. He had his affairs in New York, and they were fulfilling but without commitment, by mutual agreement. He could take off at any time for a regatta without explanations, without tears
and handkerchiefs waving on the pier in the hand of a sad girl mouthing the words, ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ He liked women of course, but he didn’t need any trophies.

Tonight, however, was special. The lights, the people, the applause – a little narcissism was understandable. He was there doing what he loved most in the world, in one of the
world’s most beautiful places. It was captivating. He could not deny that Monte Carlo was magical to him. After all, he was an American through and through. The beauty and uniqueness of the
place and all those stories of princes and princesses . . .

Serena’s eyes had flashed at him. What’s more, under her evening dress she had a gorgeous pair of breasts. They had chatted about this and that. Sailing, of course. Mostly they had
discussed sailing gossip, who was who and who did what. Then their conversation had moved to a topic that Hudson was vaguely aware of: the story of the killer who snuck around Monaco disfiguring
people. The girl was all worked up. The story had even pushed the regatta into the background. The criminal had killed nine or ten people and he was still at large, which was why there was such a
massive number of police in the city. Hudson had thought of his scooter chain: so much for the place where crime was rare.

As they became acquainted, a comforting, promising expression had appeared in Serena’s eyes that said, ‘Knock and ye shall enter.’ And between one glass of champagne and
another, Hudson had knocked. A few minutes later, they were both wondering why they were still there, in the middle of all those people.

And that’s why he was pacing up and down the wharf at Fontvieille at that time of night. They had left the disco almost immediately. They had decided that he would go down to the wharf to
park his scooter and she would come and pick him up in her car. Serena had told him she had a convertible and had suggested a night drive along the coast.