The Case of the Black Pearl (16 page)

The Kimberley Process had resulted in helping to stem the flow of blood diamonds from conflict zones, but there were plenty of places where it didn’t apply, the most recent being the Marange fields of Mugabe’s Zimbabwe.

Patrick cast his mind back to his visit to Chapayev’s dinner party. There had been a tall distinguished black gentleman there. He’d been speaking French, but with an African accent.

It was all beginning to add up.

He wondered if Lieutenant Moreaux knew anything about the Russian’s diamond deals and whether he was choosing to turn a blind eye, which might explain his being entertained on board the
Heavenly Princess.

At that point there was a noise like someone landing on the deck. Seized by fear, Camille dropped the glass. It met the table and shattered like ice on the hard surface.

Patrick motioned her to silence and, checking for his gun, went to take a look.

Leon was upright, but only just. His face looked as though it had been put through a meat grinder. Pummeled and bloody, he staggered towards Patrick as a big black limo took off with screeching tyres along the
quai.
There was no one visible behind the smoked-glass windows.

Patrick caught Leon as he fell. Through his bloodied mouth, he made out the strangled words: ‘They know where the pearl is.’

Patrick half-carried Leon down the steps and into the main cabin, where he laid him on the leather couch. Patrick did a quick body check. Experience told him Leon had a couple of broken ribs and a broken nose. Plus he’d lost a few teeth. His life wasn’t in danger, but Patrick still asked him if he wanted an ambulance.

There was no doubt by the painful shake of his head that he definitely didn’t. As for the police, Patrick didn’t mention them. He set about patching Leon up, giving Camille instructions when he needed help. He swiftly realigned the nose and applied ice to the facial bruising, then stripped Leon’s shirt off and took a closer look at his body. Patrick had been beaten enough himself to know what they would have done to extract the information they wanted.

Pulling down the bloodied trousers exposed the worst of the damage. It seemed Leon valued his manhood more than his good looks. The cigarette burns on his scrotum were various but superficial. Patrick had a more than adequate medical kit. He did what he had to, then covered Leon up and administered a strong sedative and painkiller.

Within a short period of time, Leon was out.

During all of this, Camille had remained calm, although her underlying terror was plain to see. Patrick knew what she was thinking. If whoever had beaten Leon and tossed him on the
quai
had known she was aboard
Les Trois Soeurs
, she might well face the same fate.

Patrick didn’t mention what Leon had said about the pearl. There was still a chance Chapayev had sent Camille here with a sob story to try and extract the information they’d tortured Leon for.

‘Go home,’ he told her.

‘What about Chapayev?’

‘He offered you two choices. Maybe it’s time to take the other one.’ It was a cruel remark and he meant it. Camille had been the one to forge a financial alliance with Chapayev. Greed was at the heart of her troubles. Patrick had one goal and one only: to make Chapayev pay for what he had done to Marie Elise.

She left without argument. As soon as she disappeared from sight, Patrick made the phone call. Chapayev answered almost immediately. The supercilious way he said ‘Courvoisier’ only incensed Patrick further.

‘Leon doesn’t know the location of the diamonds, whatever he told you.’

There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Diamonds?’ Chapayev strove to sound puzzled. ‘I am looking for my pearl.’

There followed a rapid background exchange in Russian, from which Patrick translated ‘the bastard knows’. It had been a shot in the dark, arising from his conversation with Camille, but it had been right on target. And it went a long way to explaining what the hell had being going on here.

‘Any information Leon gave you when you burned his balls, it won’t lead you to the stones.’

Patrick heard the background sounds of someone entering the room, then a rapid burst of angry conversation in Swedish. It was easy enough to work out what had happened. Sometime between torturing Leon and dumping him at
Les Trois Soeurs
, a dive had taken place. One that had not produced the result Chapayev had expected. Whatever Angele had given Leon to hide underwater, it hadn’t been a bag of diamonds – or, Patrick suspected, the black pearl.

‘Leon doesn’t know where they are, but I do, because Angele told me.’

A short icy silence followed Patrick’s declaration.

‘What are your terms?’ Chapayev barked in Russian.

‘Tell the Swede to be prepared for a night dive. I’ll be in touch.’

Patrick ended the call and switched off the phone, then fetched one of the other two mobiles and called Brigitte.

Cutting short the discreet opening she used on prospective clients, he said, ‘It’s Courvoisier. I need you to contact Camille Ager.’ He gave her the number. ‘Tell her I said she has to stay with you tonight. Tell her it’s for her own safety.’

He was impressed when Brigitte didn’t attempt to interrogate him as to who this woman was and why she should choose to give her protection. Brigitte simply repeated the number Patrick had given her, then hung up.

His next call was to Jean Paul, who confirmed that the English lady was currently in their kitchen chatting to his wife. Patrick, speaking in Cannois, used the code words they’d decided on, and Jean Paul replied that the hotel was shut until June, before ringing off to the background sound of female laughter.

Satisfied that Angele had the best bodyguard available and was not party to his plans, Patrick undressed and, steeling himself, went into the bathroom. He turned on the water and cleansed the bath of fingerprint powder before stepping in and showering as quickly as possible.

Before dressing, he called Stephen.

‘I need you to do me a favour,’ he said.

T
here was a party in full swing on Le Pantiero. A huge striped awning resembling an open-sided circus tent had been raised in case of May showers, although the sky was clear and bright with stars. Beneath it, beautiful people mingled in a flurry of scent, haute couture, champagne, live music and loud chatter. Beyond, in the bay, a thousand lights twinkled from anchored yachts, no doubt their revellers similarly occupied.

Cannes was doing what it did best. Having a party.

Patrick slipped through the side gate to the fisherman’s section. The contrast here with the glitzy goings on nearby couldn’t be starker. François sat under his faded awning, a glass of rosé and a battered tin plate piled high with
fruits de mer
on an upturned crate close by. He glanced up as Patrick appeared and only an amused glint in his dark eye acknowledged Patrick’s immaculate tuxedo.

Their conversation lasted twenty minutes. François listened carefully to the details of Patrick’s proposal, thought about it, then nodded. They arranged a time and Patrick left. Walking along the Allées de la Liberté Charles de Gaulle, he took stock of the plan. If he managed to pull it off, it would accomplish exactly what he wanted. Retribution for all concerned in Marie’s death.

If not …

Across the road, under the shade of the early leaves of the plane trees, he caught sight of the carousel. It was in motion, twirling children smiling out excitedly at their parents. He had a sudden memory of Marie’s tall figure passing that spot after they’d eaten crêpes together; of her laughing and wiping the chocolate from her mouth.

As he’d watched her disappear from view that night, he knew he would ask to see her again.

Something lost to him now.

Patrick slipped his hand in his pocket and checked for his wallet. Combining his own resources with the advances from Camille and Brigitte, plus Leon’s money, had given him a high enough stake to set the wheels in motion. All that remained was Chevalier’s support.

The casino was busy and a queue of casual visitors who required their identities checked had formed at the desk. Patrick nodded at the doorman and headed straight through. This time he avoided the lower hall, busy with the digital sounds associated with mind-numbing slot machines. An eruption of raucous cheers suggested gold had been struck in there somewhere, but he paid it no heed, instead making his way immediately to the lift.

The upper floor was hushed and decidedly more luxurious. As Patrick entered the bar he heard the beat of blades as a helicopter landed on the helipad. Double glass doors led to a roof garden, and through them he saw the manicured palm trees wave in the resulting breeze.

He ordered a bottle of chilled champagne and took himself out of sight of anyone entering from the helipad. Ten minutes from now, the game would begin. He raised a silent toast to Marie Elise then headed for the
salle privée
, his eyes bright with anticipation.

The chef de partie greeted him on arrival and removed the silken cord to let him through. The kidney-shaped table had ten places set, some of which were already occupied.

Patrick took a quick glance round his fellow participants.

Seat two was occupied by a young American male chatting intimately to a beautiful woman twice his age in the neighbouring place. Patrick thought the woman was the gambler and the man merely arm candy.

Seat five contained a distinguished grey-haired man wearing a crested pinkie ring on his left hand. An aristocrat, probably British, Patrick decided. At that point a short, plump, dark-haired man arrived, Italian by the brief exchange of words with the chef de partie. He took up his place at seat seven.

Patrick handed the croupier a blank card with the numbers 3, 5, 7, 8, 9 and 10 on it. The croupier nodded and set about filling the list before handing the card back to Patrick.

As his glass was refilled Patrick studied the names of his fellow players, only one of whom he recognized:

3 Anita Chevron-Barclay

5 Lord Rubert Osbourne

7 Severino Cassiopeia

8 Alexa Queen

9 and 10 Mr and Mrs Anthony Rogers.

As he scanned the card, Vasily Chapayev arrived and took his reserved place at seat six, directly opposite the seat which would be occupied by the banker. Patrick kept his glance averted while Chapayev squashed his ample girth into the chair. As Patrick raised his head intending to reveal his presence, his thunder was stolen by the arrival of the New York actress Alexa Queen, in a flurry of scent and silk.

She ran her beautiful eyes round the table, then settled her gaze on Patrick as she made her introduction, obviously expecting to be recognized. This wasn’t surprising since her face had been looking down from every billboard on the Croisette, and her film was short-listed for the Palme d’Or. As she settled herself, Mr and Mrs Rogers arrived in a much less pretentious manner and nervously took their seats, suggesting this was a new experience for them.

Chapayev had spotted Patrick’s presence by now and was eyeing him malevolently across the table. Patrick raised his champagne glass in salutation. At that point the banker walked in.

Le Chevalier welcomed the assembled company in French, English, Russian and Italian, even adopting a New York accent for Miss Queen, causing amused smiles from everyone, apart from Chapayev, who looked uneasy. Clearly, he had been surprised by Patrick’s presence, but even more so by Chevalier settling himself in the banker’s chair.

It had been a stroke of genius for Chevalier to come up with this part of the plan.

Apparently, he had bought the bank for the game from a Libyan syndicate, who were busy gambling oil money they’d spirited away in advance of the fall of the Gaddafi regime. Ironically, he had done so aided by the profit made on the sale of Villa Astrid. A substantial sum, he had informed Patrick, which he had every intention of increasing at Chapayev’s expense.

Chevalier was a serious gambler and a very good one. But no one was foolproof, and at Baccarat the odds against the banker and player were more or less even.

Chevalier cut the shuffled cards, the croupier fitted the six packs into the metal and wooden shoe and announced the game was about to begin. The bank was declared at 10,000 euros, which caused a little consternation from some of the prospective players.

Chevalier patted the fat pile of plaques in front of him and pronounced the bank ready. In position one, Patrick was required to start play. He received his first card, then Chevalier his. This was then repeated.

Patrick took time examining his two cards, his face suitably impassive. In Baccarat, court cards and tens counted for nothing, an ace as one. When added together only the last figure counted. He had drawn an eight and a nine, which meant together he had seventeen, but only the seven counted. Since the aim was to get closest to nine, the preferred option would be for Patrick to stand. He could of course take one more card and hope it was a ten, two or three, but that would be chancing his luck.

The pulse in his temple beating rapidly, Patrick indicated he didn’t want another card.

From this, Chevalier would now know the range of his cards. He would expect Patrick to hold a five, six or a seven. To be certain of winning, Chevalier would have to reveal an eight or a nine.

Chevalier examined his cards. A consummate gambler, there was no way of knowing what he held by his expression. He turned the cards with a snap. Two fours. Chevalier had won.

‘
Huit à la banque
,’ the croupier declared. ‘
Et le sept.
’ He unceremoniously raked in Patrick’s losing cards and slipped them through the metal slot leading to the canister.

A quick glance at Chapayev revealed his delight at Patrick’s loss. Chevalier had already pushed forward the bank’s plaques, which had been raised to 50,000 euros. Patrick declared
suivi
, exercising his right to follow up his lost bet, and added his to the pile.

‘
Un banco de cent mille
,’ declared the croupier with no hint of emotion.