Last Call For Caviar (5 page)

The seawalls at the entrance to the harbor, and the hulls of the other vessels berthed here were stained a greasy black from the fuel that leaked from its tanks; the water in the harbor was oil-slick; grayed scum collected at the shoreline. Slowly, the elements and the sea were reclaiming the ghost ship for their own.

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CHAPTER 6

J
OESEXY

I took out my iPhone and sent a text. “Ciao Amore… I decided to come in 2 MC. It’s been forever since I last saw you. Café de Paris in 30?”

Less than a minute later, Giovanni answered. “Si arrivo.”

In every town, there’s someone who is plugged in to the latest gossip that’s making the rounds about those with power and influence. In every town, there’s a go-to-guy who knows where and how to source anything imaginable, or who has just the connections you need. I’d been out of circulation lately, and meeting up with Giovanni—or Joe, as his nearest called him—would be like one-stop shopping.

I arrived early and snagged a table that was perfectly situated to watch the comings and goings around the Place du Casino. It was too early for the Casino to be open for business, and thus, the valets hadn’t started their shift; the Bentleys, Ferraris or Aston Martins weren’t idling at the bottom of the marble stairs, and crowds weren’t mounting the steps that led to its ornate doors.

Directly across the square sits the Hotel de Paris, a grande dame in all her Belle Epoque finery: carved cornices, sweeping staircases of marble and French doors letting onto wrought-iron balconies that reflected the late-morning sunlight. Though the grass in the central island had been mown, weeds showed their ragged heads and flourished along the base of the Botero statue: a massive bronze bull pawing and dominating the center. The bright slashes of color from the fallow flower beds were missing, and though it was the end of May, the ground looked scarred and barren of any bloom.

I’d just told the waiter for the second time that I would wait to order, when Joe arrived twenty minutes late. I watched him work the terrace: a kiss on the hand like a courtier of old for a woman in her mid-sixties, very Bon Chic Bon Genre, her Hermes foulard knotted about her throat, and her helmet of blunt-cut blonde hair not daring to move a centimeter in the breeze; a backslap and abrazo for two sleek and well-fed ministry officials; lingering kisses on each cheek and a discreet fondling of a well-rounded derriere for a thousand-Euro-an-evening working girl, all legs and skyscraper heels, a swing of honey-blonde hair that swirled about her as she turned to join a table of her sisters-of-the-night for le petit dejuner.

Joe made his way to my corner table. A shade under six foot, late-thirties and elegant without effort, he moved with an easy, loose-hipped stride. Faded jeans clung low on his hips, his light brown hair brushed the sky blue sweater tossed casually around his shoulders, and white teeth flashed bright against tanned skin as he threw his head back in laughter at a comment from a waiter who crossed his path.

It wasn’t hard to see how he’d gotten his nickname, “Joesexy.” He radiated a sort of magnetism; both men and woman seemed to be attracted to him in equal measure. This was a man who enjoyed life, almost as a gourmand savors a fine meal, and could make the most risqué conduct seem like good old-fashioned fun. I once heard someone say that Giovanni was so persuasive, he could corrupt the Pope.

The youngest son of a wealthy, well-connected Italian family, he’d studied law at Padua University. I trusted him completely and knew if I finally decided to cut and run, Giovanni could help me with connections to get out of town. Or if I decided to stay here in the south of France, he’d be an invaluable resource.

“Hello, Handsome, I see you haven’t lost your touch.” My spirits were already lifting, now that I was up close and personal to all that warmth and male charm.

“Anche te, you look like you’re doing better. I was worried about you, cara.” His gaze searched my face to confirm his first impression, before looking deeply into my eyes. Although Giovanni cultivated an air of a bon vivant, and naughtiness always simmered close to the surface, he was a man of great depths and sensitivity; very little got by him.

“What would you like to drink, Maya? I need a stiff Bloody Mary.”

“Uh-oh…Someone have a late night? Must have been a good party. Perche no? I’ll have one, too. I always feel like I’m on holiday with you,” I laughed. But looking closer, I noticed a slight puffiness under his hazel eyes, and he seemed a shade paler under his golden tan.

As he turned to signal the waiter to take our order, I noticed a line of worry furrowing his brow, and I realized under the cheerful repartee he was coiled tight. Like the police at the checkpoint, he too seemed to be scanning the faces of the pre-lunch crowd on the terrace, as though searching for someone in particular.

Something definitely seemed to be off this morning, and glancing around I saw there were an unusual number of hard young men, some in pairs, well-dressed as though for a business meeting, seated at tables scattered throughout the café, or more casually attired, discreetly loitering in various parts of the square. There was a certain alertness in the way they held themselves; an awareness in their cold stare that took in everything going on about them betrayed their professional training. Most likely, undercover operatives of the Surete Publique.

“Joe, do you know the Russians who jumped from the Mirableu last night?” I could see my query startled him, and he took his time before answering. He drained his glass in one long swallow before signaling the waiter for two more. He took a moment to collect himself, and I could see emotion moving in his hazel eyes—a bone-aching weariness, or maybe just regret.

“Si cara. I knew Sacha and his family very well.” He whispered so softly, it seemed like his voice was coming from somewhere deep inside his pain. “He was a client of sorts, besides being my friend. And no, I wasn’t with him at the Casino last night, before you ask.”

“I’m sorry, Joe. I don’t know what to say… nasty business with the kids. I don’t understand that.”

“I know you don’t understand. How could you? It doesn’t make sense. Sacha loved his family. He would never do anything to harm them. There’s something more going on. He was doing everything to get them to safety. Sacha didn’t play for high stakes, and whoever is spreading the rumor that he jumped because of massive losses at the Casino, is creating a smokescreen to hide behind. I think he had something pretty explosive on someone big. They didn’t go off that balcony willingly. I’d take odds on it.”

Then, he whispered one word, almost like a curse, “Slava.” And I realized my friend Giovanni was swimming with some very big sharks.

All kinds of frightening rumors swirled about a man like Slava. The one that seemed to have stuck, probably because it was based on truth, is that during the years when Slava was consolidating his power and wealth, he was Vladimir Putin’s unofficial right-hand man. Slava never held any public office or ran a ministry, preferring to operate in the shadows. Yet no one would dispute that his influence reached into the upper echelons of the Kremlin, and he was known to be ruthless in his business dealings.

I sat there for a minute, running through all the ramifications of Giovanni’s surprising disclosure. I knew Giovanni was old-school; hurt his close friends, and it was an eye for an eye. But Slava was as close as you could get to untouchable in Monaco. For that kind of big game hunting, you’d need a rocket-propelled missile. You would only get one chance. If only wounded, he would stomp Joe as easily as an enraged bull-elephant crushing an ant.

A couple of summers ago, I’d been invited by an acquaintance, a Bosnian party girl named Tasha, to a fete thrown by one of the Russian oligarchs. It started off on a 150-meter-ice-breaker disguised as a floating palace, anchored in front of the owner’s villa, the Chateau de St. Hospice, in St. Jean Cap Ferrat. Of course, there were the ubiquitous mounds of the finest caviar from Ossetia, an unending stream of ice-cold vodka, fountains of champagne, piles of Peruvian Flake, and quite possibly some of the most stunning women on the planet.

Most scraped in just under six-foot, their long limbs and curves clad in transparent wisps of haute couture fashion, their wrists and earlobes weighed down by some very serious bling. Slavic cheekbones and smoky eyes slanting upwards spoke of Tartars and Genghis Khan in their distant family trees. They strutted around on diamante-encrusted heels or draped decoratively on the arms of the owner and his guests.

It was my first time Partying with the Oligarchs, and I couldn’t help being astonished by the ostentatious display of wealth in the décor, artwork and toys that embellished their lifestyle. By midnight, when the night sky lit up with fireworks commanded by our host, a Ukrainian industrialist named Dmitri Rosnvov, the majority of his guests were well on their way to being stinking drunk.

The former Soviet Union bred exquisite young women. I wondered if the radioactivity released by the meltdown of Chernobyl had mutated their DNA and created in the women a generation of Slavic Amazonians.

As for their male counterparts—whether it was the shape of their heads, their height and breadth, their sloping shoulders and shambling gait, the suspicious and bloodshot eyes, the undefined doughy features and heavily stubbled chins—somehow or other, the radioactivity had transformed them into lumbering bears.

By 2 a.m., my first impression of an ursine confabulation was confirmed as under the sultry summer heat, quite a few of the guests had stripped down to their briefs, or for the bold, to their nasty bits, for a Midsummer’s Eve dip in the pool and Jacuzzi on the play deck. The tufts of hair sprouting from shoulders and feathering down backsides and chests in matted pelts was evidently a badge of masculine pride. Apparently “manscaping,” or Brazilian back-waxing, had yet to catch on in their neck of the woods. And the hairiest grizzly of them all was Slava.

I’m not sure how it happened, but at some point, Tasha and I were photographed, each perched on one of Slava’s massive thighs, crushed in a bear hug against the pelt of man-hair interspersed with tattoos of the Russian mafia, the Vorovsky Zakov, that decorated his chest, while he waved a bottle of Belvedere in each paw, drunkenly singing along to the music blaring in the background.

A few minutes afterwards, Tasha sent a copy of the photos to my iPhone and surprised me when she whispered conspiratorially, “You could get a million dollars for those photos from the tabloids in Moscow.”

“You’ve gotta be joking. Who the hell is this guy?” And from Tasha, I heard for the first time the rumors about the hard and hairy man, Slava.

Not long after, the party disintegrated into drunken mayhem. The jovial Slava of a short time before became surly and belligerent as he slammed back shots of vodka. You could see in his eyes he was just waiting for the slightest provocation to set him off.

The last I saw of him, he was in a half-circle of men on the aft deck, jabbing his finger into the chest of one of them, his face red with rage. I’d just stepped into the tender to return to shore when I heard what sounded like a bottle smashing into someone’s head and the meaty thud of fists and feet meeting flesh. No one spoke as we cast off, but a voice pleading for mercy floated after us over the water, all the way back to the dock.

The next day, I called Tasha and asked her if it was really true that the pictures could be sold for the kind of money she mentioned.

“Yes, Maya, but I won’t let you do it. This morning when I got up, I deleted the photos, and you should, too.” she confirmed.

“Come on, Tasha, you couldn’t use a half a million? Hell, I could. If he’s that big of a deal, he shouldn’t be so indiscreet—taking pictures with complete strangers—should he?” I was half-joking, not really believing in that kind of payday.

“Yes, you really could get that kind of money. But I like you. You’re my friend, and I won’t let you do it. Don’t you understand? If you sold those pictures, they would kill you. I’m dead serious.” She wasn’t messing around. I could hear the fear threading through her voice.

After that night, a friendship started to blossom between us. We might be from different worlds; she was wild and could drink me and most men under the table. Growing up in war-torn Sarajevo would have made anyone half-crazy, but Tasha, besides being a knockout, was street-smart and as I found out, extremely loyal. Like Joe, once you became a part of her extended family, she would have your back in any dark alley.

I never deleted them; I still have those pictures from that night with Slava hidden away in a safe place at home. Tasha, dark tresses falling to her waist while she pressed a kiss to Slava’s cheek; me, a deer caught in the headlights, with a “what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here?” expression frozen on my face. But snapshots like these wouldn’t give Joe any leverage against Slava.

I knew how Giovanni’s mind tracked, but I couldn’t stand the thought of losing anyone else. I covered his hand with my own. “You’re not thinking about doing anything stupid are you, Joe? That’s just crazy shit, if you think you can take revenge. You can’t touch Slava.”

“Cosa pensi, cara? I don’t have a death wish. I owe it to Sacha to investigate his death. He was my friend. But I need to know what Sacha had and on who. Then, we’ll see if there’s anything I can do.”

He kept his voice low, all the while scanning the terrace. I followed his gaze and in a flash of insight, I realized that those hard, young men I assumed worked for the Surete Publique of Monaco didn’t really look French. Maybe they were specially trained to blend in; maybe the younger generation had taken to manscaping, as they didn’t stand out by being particularly ursine in manner or appearance. But it appeared the Russian bear had found a new habitat. A power shift was taking place, and the rumor about Slava’s plans to take over the Principality appeared to have some basis in reality.

Currently, the French were guaranteeing the security of Monaco’s borders, but the Prince was said to be so distracted by the death threats against his family and the imminent birth of the heir. It had been a difficult pregnancy for the Princess. She hadn’t been seen in public for months now.

The Prince was well-loved by his people, but these times called for a hard man. His father had been just such a man. When people had spoken of him, it was simply as The Boss.