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The shiny black machines cut a startling contrast to a spotless white floor.
"What do you think?" Sandy asked as we climbed out of our rented Peugeot,
which we had parked across the street from the dealership.
"I think I need a new car," I said to her. "And Iknow the Wolf likes fancy
sports cars."
We went inside and stopped at the reception desk in front. Behind it was an
elegant reception person, well tanned with a bleached and ironed ponytail. She
was checking Sandy and me out:Both over six feet; ebony and ivory. Who are
these people?
"We're here to see Monsieur Garnier," Sandy said to the woman in French.
"You have an appointment with Monsieur, madame?"
"We do indeed. Interpol and the FBI, respectively and respectfully, I might
add. Monsieur Garnier is expecting us, I believe. We're here on important
business."
While we waited, I continued to take in the place. The expensive cars were
precisely parked in a herringbone pattern, interspersed with voluminous potted
plants. In an adjacent service atelier, mechanics in matching Jaguar-green
jumpsuits worked with pristine tools.
The manager of the car dealership appeared after a couple of minutes' wait.
He was dressed in a fashionable gray suit, but not too flashy, just clearly
expensive and right.
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"You've come about a couple of Aston Martins, a Jaguar, a Lotus?" he asked.
"Something like that, monsieur," Sandy told him. "Let's go up to your office.
We wouldn't want to hurt business by talking down here in the showroom."
The manager smiled. "Oh, believe me, madame, our business is bulletproof."
"We'll see about that," I told him in French. "Or maybe a better way of
putting it: let's try and keep it that way. This is a murder investigation."
Chapter 106
The manager suddenly becameextremely polite and cooperative. The four luxury
cars in question had been purchased by an M. Aglionby, who apparently had a
home nearby on the beautiful peninsula, Cap-Ferrat, just east of Nice.
Monsieur Garnier told us it was "off the Basse Corniche, the main coastal road
to Monaco. You can't miss it. And you won't miss the Aglionby estate."
"To Catch a Thief," Sandy said as we sped along toward Cap-Ferrat about two
hours later. We had lost a little time calling in backup.
"Actually, the most memorable shots in the Hitchcock movie were filmed up
there," Sandy went on. She pointed toward a parallel road winding along the
cliffs; it was at least a hundred yards higher than the one we were driving
on. In other words, very high up, and dangerous-looking.
"Also, we're here to catch a mass murderer without any conscience," I said,
"not a witty and charming cat burglar like Cary Grant was in the flick."
"This is true, too. Keep me focused, Alex. I could easily get distracted
here," Sandy said. But I knew she was focused always. That's why we got along
so well.
The Aglionby estate was located on the west side of Cap-Ferrat, in
Villefranche-sur-Mer. There were glimpses of villas and gardens hidden behind
high stucco and rock walls as we rode along D125, also known as boulevard
Circulaire. Half a dozen cars and vans followed us, also catching the sights,
no doubt: a shiny blue Rolls-Royce convertible easing out of one of the
estates, with a blonde in sunglasses and a kerchief behind the wheel;
dark-glassed tourists catching rays on the terrace of the Grand Hôtel du
Cap-Ferrat; a bathing pool dug into solid rock at Piscine de Sun beach.
"You think this is a fool's errand, Alex?" Sandy asked.
"It's what we do. Hit and miss, hunt and peck. I feel good about this one. It
has to be something. Monsieur Aglionby has to be connected somehow."
I was hopeful. We had found an awful lot of money in the account of Corky
Hancock, and most of it had come in recently. But how much did he really know
about the Wolf? How much did anyone know?
Then we saw the estate we were looking for and Sandy drove past. "Got you,
you bastard," she said. "Aglionby? The Wolf? Why not?"
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"Whoever lives back there is certainly loaded. Jesus, how much is enough?"
"When you have a billion dollars or so, this is rather modest, Alex. It's not
a question ofa house it'shouses. The Riviera, London, Paris, Aspen."
"If you say so. I've never had a billion myself. Or a villa on the Riviera."
The place in question was a sun-drenched, Mediterranean-style mansion, creamy
yellow with white detailing; it had gleaming balustrades and porticos,
shutters that the staff apparently closed to the midday sun.Or maybe the
people inside just didn't want to be seen? Four stories, thirty-plus rooms as
cozy as Versailles.
But for now all we were interested in was a peek. As we had planned earlier,
we reconnoitered at a small hotel just up the coast. The decision was made by
local police officials to use the estate bordering the Aglionby place on the
south side. It was vacant now, except for a large staff. We would dress and
pose as gardeners and household help, starting tomorrow morning.
Sandy and I listened to the plan as it was laid out, step by step. We looked
at each other, shook our heads.Not this time.
I spoke. "We're going in tonight," I announced. "With or without your help."
Chapter 107
The decision to goright away was backed enthusiastically by Interpol, and
even by the French in Paris, who were in close contact with Washington and
wanted the murderous Wolf as badly as the rest of the world did, maybe more.
For a change, everything happened very quickly that afternoon and through the
early evening. I was going to be part of the assault, and so was Sandy.
The attack was planned as if the Wolf was definitely inside the villa. Seven
two-person teams of snipers were deployed on all sides of the estate, which
were designated as white (north), red (east), black (south), and green (west).
Every door and window was covered, and each of the snipers had a specific
number of targets. They were closest to the estate. Our eyes and ears.
So far, they weren't seeing any sign that we'd been spotted.
While the snipers moved into position, the rest of us Interpol, the FBI, the
French army and police strapped on war gear: black Nomex flight suits, body
armor, handguns, MP-5 submachine guns. Three helicopters were waiting less
than a mile away and would be used during the assault. We were ready for the
green light, but some of the more jaded among us expected a last-minute delay
for politics, cold feet at the command level, something unforeseen to get in
the way.
I lay flat on the ground on my stomach beside Sandy Greenberg. We were less
than a hundred yards from the main house. Starting to feel the jitters. At [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]