Operation Sea Ghost (14 page)

“Or, maybe this is how every flying boat is greeted here,” the copilot mused. “After all, Monte Carlo is a very special place.”

The
Shin-2
glided through the inner harbor. Its destination was a specially appointed dock that housed a bevy of smaller, but no less impressive amphibian aircraft.

Gazing out on all this, Batman whispered to Twitch: “This is an unlikely place for a bunch of pirates.”

“There’s more than one kind of pirate in the world,” Twitch replied.

*   *   *

WHILE MONTE CARLO was famous as a place to see and be seen, Batman and Twitch were here mostly to listen.

Twitch was Whiskey’s computer whiz. His laptop contained an assortment of intelligence-gathering software that he’d been carrying around since the team was reassembled. One program was a patch he’d hacked from an NSA site. It allowed him to track and isolate dozens, even hundreds, of phone conversations by intercepting key words or phrases. In this case, words such as “pirates” “Z-box” and so on would be keyed in. Once identified, the software could not only narrow down who was making the call and to whom, it could also pinpoint their location.

Beta’s plan was to use this technology to set up a listening post somewhere in Monte Carlo. The pirates had made at least five phone calls to someone in the city shortly after they’d seized the
Pacific Star.
To Whiskey’s thinking, they, or their confederates, would probably be making more calls to someone here, just on a different phone. Twitch’s special software would allow them to identify these people and move in on them, up close and personal. And if some sort of interrogation was needed? That would not be a problem. In their Delta Force days, both Batman and Twitch had learned how to be very persuasive.

But no sooner had the
Shin-2
reached the inner harbor than Batman and Twitch realized they had a big problem on their hands.

They’d passed a sign hanging above a dock that announced the upcoming Monte Carlo Grand Prix, the famous Formula One car race. In fact, the town was wallpapered with these signs, as the beginning of the four-day event was just forty-eight hours away. An elaborate photo shoot was taking place on the dock beneath this particular banner featuring a dozen of the powerful and sexy Formula One cars, each one draped in a couple of bikini-clad models.

As they continued into the inner harbor, the
Shin-2
passed another banner display. This one was trumpeting the first annual Trans-Atlantic Grand Prix. The banner indicated this was a competition pitting heavily modified high-speed yachts in a race from Monte Carlo to New York City. Below this banner were the two participating vessels. Both looked like overgrown speedboats on steroids.

A yacht race across an entire ocean?

“How fast can those things possibly go?” Batman asked, studying the souped-up racing yachts.

“A year ago, the fastest yacht in the world could go seventy miles an hour,” one of the pilots said. “These days, they can go almost eighty miles an hour, day in and out. They are powered by gas turbines and they have plenty of fuel. They’re like jet fighters, except they fly on water.”

Batman tried some quick calculations. By sea, New York City was about 4,400 miles away from Monte Carlo, give or take. At eighty miles an hour, and favorable weather, a racing yacht could make it in …

But Twitch already had the answer for him. “About fifty-five hours,” he said.

“That’s the record they’re going for this year,” the pilot told them. “The Big Apple in a little more than two days.”

Batman was amazed.

But that’s when it hit him. They’d spent the entire flight here formulating their eavesdropping plan and going over a list of actions they would take if indeed they found out who the pirates were talking to. But, with not just one, but
two
Grand Prix races in town this week, he realized Monte Carlo would be absolutely mobbed and all its lodging absolutely booked.

So, where were they going to stay? And where were they going to set up this listening station?

He told this to Twitch, who was immediately on his laptop, banging the keyboard. It took less than a minute for him to confirm their worst fear: There were no rooms available within fifty miles of Monte Carlo. They’d all been sold out months ago.

And unlike
Shin-1, Shin-2
was just a taxi. The pilots were dropping off Beta Squad and then going home. Staying aboard the plane was not an option.

“Son of a bitch,” Twitch said as all this was sinking in. “There really
is
no room at the inn.”

*   *   *

BEFORE LEAVING
THE
Immaculate Perception
, Batman and Twitch had borrowed civilian clothes from the crew. They might have been the best threads either had ever worn: Omani silk shirts, Versace slacks, Italian suede loafers. And these were items that belonged to the yacht’s kitchen crew.

But aside from these clothes, a single debit card, Twitch’s laptop, their side arms and a small backpack each, they had nothing else with them. For this last-minute mission, they were traveling very light.

The Shin finally reached the pier and a gangplank was put in place. Batman and Twitch momentarily considered just going back with the flying boat to somehow devise a Plan B. But go back where? To
The Immaculate Perception?
What would be the point of that? Besides Batman never wanted to see that particular mega-yacht again. They could return to their headquarters in Aden, but then what? There was nothing they could do there to help the situation here.

So they finally just thanked the pilots and disembarked. They watched the Shin turn around and make its way out to the harbor. Within two minutes, it was airborne again, winging its way back east, leaving them alone on the pier with no place to go.

“Do you think they have any homeless shelters here?” Twitch asked.

Batman took a look around and replied, “Maybe for people with bank accounts under a million bucks.”

But at that moment, a black Mercedes SUV suddenly roared up the pier and stopped in front of them. The doors flew open and two men in trench coats jumped out. It was a balmy eighty degrees and sunny. Hardly trench coat weather.

Twitch whispered to Batman:
“Gestapo?”

One man stayed with the vehicle. The other walked over to the Whiskey members.

“You are Major Robert Graves?” he asked Batman, noting his missing left hand. Oddly, the man’s accent was mid-American.

“I used to be,” Batman replied.

“And this is Mister Kapula?” he asked, turning toward Twitch.

Twitch lifted his pant leg to show he had a prosthetic leg.

“Proof enough,” the stranger responded snidely.

“Who are you?” Batman asked him.

“Let’s just say I’m a friend of a friend,” he replied.

“But we don’t have any friends here,” Twitch said.

The man’s facial expression did not change.

“A friend in high places, shall we say?” he replied.

Batman and Twitch looked at each other and mouthed the same thing:
Emma Simms?

Is that who he meant?

The man indicated the SUV; its rear doors were open.

He said, “Gentlemen? If you please…”

*   *   *

SECONDS LATER, THE SUV was speeding through the streets of Monte Carlo, its driver apparently auditioning for a spot in the upcoming Formula One race. Batman and Twitch were in the back; the two trench coat men were up front. The Whiskey members were pressed against the seats, the g-forces keeping them glued there.

“Reminds me of a ride I took in Shanghai recently,” Twitch said under his breath.

Though they were going by in a blur, the streets of Monte Carlo looked surreal nevertheless. Preparations for the big road race were going on everywhere. Signs, banners, flags, advertisements, race cars, support vehicles and hundreds of media-types were all over the place. So too were flocks of the Beautiful People. Every woman they could see flashing by looked like a model. And every man looked like a billionaire.

But many of these people were walking around wearing earmuffs, even though the weather was warm and the sky was cloudless. Why? Because it was so noisy in the city, people needed ear protection.

Very strange …

Five minutes into the journey, Batman became convinced they were actually being brought to a police station for questioning; the guys up front just seemed like cops.

But questioning for what?

Were the Monte Carlo authorities on to them? Did they know who they were, or why they were here? Would they even care?

Batman’s visions of being hit with rubber hoses faded, though, when they passed first one, then two police stations without even a pretense of slowing down. The SUV continued driving very fast through the narrow streets, passing the all-encompassing preparations for the big road race.

Throughout it all, the men in the front seat said nothing.

*   *   *

THEY FINALLY CAME within sight of the Prince’s Palace. Sitting up on a hill, looking out on it all, this was the seat of the 700-year-old Grimaldi royal family, the nominal rulers of Monaco and, by extension, the principality Monte Carlo itself.

The palace was well named. It was huge, ornate, and lit up even though it was the daytime. It was a typical-looking Old World European castle with some modern additions.

Who the hell do the pirates know in there?
Batman wondered.

The SUV sped right past, though, and another magnificent building soon came into view. This place made the Prince’s Palace look like a simple apartment building.

The first indication Batman and Twitch had that this place was like nowhere else, was when they roared past the front entrance and saw a line of Rolls Royces waiting outside. They were taxis. Their drivers were wearing tuxedoes. It was the Grand Maison Casino.

The place was well named, if an architectural contradiction: very modern in materials—gold-lined revolving doors, gold-tinted windows and subtly hidden solar panels—but very much classic in design, with great columns, balconies, turrets and towers. A huge fountain shooting multicolored streams of water high into the air was the centerpiece of its ornate entrance. Many smaller fountains dotted the surrounding gardens. It was as if the building and its grounds had been built in the eighteenth century and whisked into the present day, where everything underwent a modern makeover.

Once past the main entryway, the SUV stopped at a smaller, private entrance in the rear of the fantastic building. This was obviously their destination, though Batman and Twitch had no idea what they were doing here. A tuxedo-suited doorman opened the SUV’s rear door, and at his urging Batman and Twitch got out. The SUV immediately took off.

They were met by a gorgeous young Asian woman in a business suit. An earphone was partially hidden by her hair. She smiled warmly and indicated they should follow her. She guided them through this side door and to a hallway on the edge of the casino’s grand lobby. They could see the lobby walls were adorned by precious art. The ceiling was an enormous fresco. There were marble columns and floors that looked like glass. Everyone seemed to be gliding rather than walking.

It looked more like a cathedral than a casino.

“This place makes the Sistine Chapel look like a dump,” Twitch observed.

Separating them from this lobby, though, was a hallway still under construction. Scaffolding and lots of brushes and cans indicated a painting job was underway. Their guide led them to an elevator close to the entrance. On its door was a sign written in French: P
RIVÉ—EN COURS DE RÉPARATION

Private—under repair.

The woman indicated they should ignore the sign. “Keeps the tourists away,” she explained. She, too, had an American accent.

She gave them a four-number pass code that opened the elevator door. Climbing in, they rode the elevator up a handful of floors. It opened directly into a huge, lavishly appointed penthouse. Again, it was like walking back into the past—medieval artwork, oriental rugs, even some stained glass windows—but with a couple big-screen TVs, a Bose music system and other modern conveniences mixed in.

In one corner was a table with enough food for a small army. In another corner was a well-stocked bar. A gigantic picture window right in front of them looked out onto the casino’s grand concourse, which boasted yet another giant fountain and pond, plus an Olympic-sized swimming pool.

And sitting out on the balcony, sunning themselves, was a quartet of bikini-clad young women drinking champagne and eating grapes. They smiled and waved at Batman and Twitch when they walked in.

Batman turned to the stunning Asian woman.

“What is all this?” he asked her.

She smiled. “It’s your living quarters, of course. You needed a place to stay—correct?”

“Yes, we did,” Batman replied.

She opened her arms wide to indicate the huge penthouse.

“Well then, here you are,” she said. “Room for twenty—plenty of room for two.”

She indicated the women on the balcony. “Those are your tour guides,” she went on. “They’ll show you around, and explain where things are. Now, we have lunch at the Queens Kitchen at 1:00
PM
, dinner at the Château Freeye at seven and then a night of wagering begins at nine. We’ll get you some clothes by that time.”

She took out a silver box and opened it. Inside were two credit cards made of platinum.

“These are your most favored player cards,” she said, handing one to each. “Anything you want, just show these to the manager and it will be taken care of.”

Then she took two keys from her breast pocket: one silver, one gold. “You’ll also need some transport, I assume?” she asked. “Do you prefer a Lamborghini or a Maserati?”

Batman and Twitch just stared back at her, dumbfounded.

She laughed a little and handed the gold key to them. “Take it from me,” she said. “The Maserati is a lot more fun.”

With that, she began a graceful exit by stepping back into the elevator—but Twitch stopped her.