mother should really make her wear knickers.”
“You’ve just arrived?” chuckles Bliss knowingly.
“Yes — overnight train from Paris. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.” He laughs and goes in search of Morgan Johnson.
Johnson’s yacht, stern first against the harbour’s inner wall, snuggles tightly between two similar behemoths. The Sea-Quester, while not the largest privateer in the world, dwarfs many of the others owned by winners in life’s lottery, and distinguishes its moniker by the two-man mini-sub lashed to its aft deck.
Strolling along the quay with the nonchalant inquisitiveness of a well-travelled sightseer, Bliss takes a mental snapshot of his quarry’s yacht and senses a laissez-faire attitude amongst the deck crew, who are playfully dousing each other while scrubbing the deck. Adding to the casual air, a CD player indiscreetly pumps disco music over the surrounding vessels, where demure stewardesses in fresh white shirts are trying not to walk with a dance as they serve deck breakfasts to their guests with the solemnity of royal household staff.
Wait a minute, he thinks, looking along the lines of multi-million dollar yachts. Many of them probably are royal households.
With Johnson’s yacht identified, Bliss settles himself into an observation point in the shade of the Palais des Festivals, clicks on his walkman, and listens to Brubeck playing “All By Myself” as he watches the sun rising high over the islands of Sainte-Marguerite and Saint-Honorat in the bay. Then, realizing his shelter on the wide quay is quickly disappearing, and figuring that the lackadaisical attitude of the Sea-Quester’s crew suggests the owner is not aboard, he seeks a better surveillance spot.
The Suquet, like a castle, with its château and fortified ramparts, sits in ancient grandeur overseeing the port from its perch on a rocky outcrop at the west end of the bay. Binoculars in hand, Bliss struggles up its steeply winding stone staircases until he has a grandstand view of the entire bay, with the old harbour lying at his feet. “Typical,” he moans to himself, checking out the binoculars. “They send me out to search for a major drug dealer who’s done a bunk with a hundred million quid, and all they give me is a crappy pair of binoculars.”
So? What else do you need? he asks, playing devil’s advocate.
That’s not the point …
You’ve got the credit card — buy what you want.
OK. Valid argument.
The force-issue binoculars pick out the Sea-Quester with ease, and, reassured that nothing aboard has changed, he settles down in the partial shade of a spindly tree to direct his glasses on the town’s cramped thoroughfares. The maze of streets, designed for peasants’ donkey carts, coil tightly around the Suquet before relaxing as they stretch around the bay and follow the railway line that once brought trainloads of Edwardian Brits escaping their northern summers and intolerable food.
“God — that’s Edwards,” he murmurs, spotting a suspect as he peers intently at the crowds, but gives up when he realizes he sees him everywhere. He’ll wait to hear from Samantha, he decides, and spends his time enjoying the view.
A masked mime, dressed like a seventeenth-century mousquetaire in a flambouyant purple robe, complete with French falls boots and feathered hat, creates an instant stage on the Suquet’s quadrangle with an old beer crate and pulls a fluffy tabby cat from each of his coat’s capacious pockets. Motionless, with his arms set like tree branches, he stands as the cats mime a duet in perfect tandem, and Bliss is so rapt in the performance he misses the arrival of a chauffeured limousine at Johnson’s yacht. Joining the applause for the musketeer, Bliss rises to donate a few coins, when his eye is caught by movement on the quay below and he grabs his binoculars in time to catch two ant-like figures scurrying across the passerelle to the aft deck of the Sea-Quester.
“Shit,” he shouts, takes off, and races headlong down the awkwardly spaced steps, praying no one will suddenly step out of a doorway or side street. Stopping for breath after the third flight, he swigs a mouthful of spring water from one of the gargoyle-faced fountains, then rushes on — but he has taken the wrong path and has to fight his way through the narrow lanes, thronged with holidaymakers rooting through the bric-a-brac of tourist trash in the expensively named emporiums.
Cutting across the pétanque courts of the Pantiero he kicks up a dust cloud.
“Merde,” shouts an irate player, slapping his crooked arm in anger as he rants, “Va te faire foutre!” Bliss misses the foul-mouthed insult as he plays car drivers at their own game and forces three lanes of traffic to a halt by dashing erratically across the busy seafront road.
The long run along the harbour wall, constantly leaping mooring ropes, bollards, and abandoned chandlery, leaves him breathless as he nears the Sea-Quester’s berth — but he’s too late. The gangway has been slid aboard, the moorings cast, and the vessel has edged off her berth, turned hard to port, and is heading for the open sea.
“Putain,” swears Bliss, as he focuses his binoculars on the departing vessel, but he’s foiled by the tinted bridge windows. He shrugs. Oh well, at least it gives me time to do something about the boy in the cage, and maybe I’ll make some more enquiries about Marcia’s daughter.
The boy in the cage plays on his mind as he edges his way through the tight laneways crammed with a potpourri of tourists. Every English voice turns him, until he decides to act and, finding a pay phone, fishes out his Amex card to call Samantha.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
