Operation Sea Ghost

21

Monte Carlo

On the waterfront

TWITCH CHECKED THE clip in his handgun for the third time in the past ten minutes.

It was still full, as it was the last two times he looked.

He knew he was obsessing, but he couldn’t help it. They were sitting at an outdoor café on the Monte Carlo waterfront. The large travel bag was on the table between them—with slightly more than fifty million dollars inside. Anyone with a bigger handgun and younger legs could make off with it in a snap. That fact alone was driving Twitch nuts.

But Batman did not share his concern. He was still glowing from his fantastic streak of luck at the gaming tables. He’d made the $50 million-plus in less than two hours, all by taking hits at blackjack when it seemed suicidal to do so.

Twitch wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it himself. It was almost scary the way Batman had gone about it. Staring into space before a big hand, eyes glazed over, not moving, as if in a trance. Twitch knew there was a secret behind how Batman was doing it, yet his colleague had chosen not to reveal it to him.

But even that didn’t make any difference at this point.

What was important now was what to do with the money.

“We know the gagnant is being played at midnight tonight,” Twitch said, once some nearby patrons had moved off. “The question is, where will it be played? That’s just about the only thing Bobby Murphy never told us.”

Batman had been thinking about the same thing ever since they’d left the last casino.

“Remember back on the yacht,” he said now. “When Audette first heard about the pirates making all those phone calls? He said some were to the Stazi guys in Bad Sweeten and some were to the top casinos here. But he said one call was to the Prince’s Palace. The place the Monaco Royal Family lives.”

“You think the gagnant is being held there?” Twitch asked. “That’s pretty far up the food chain.”

“But why else would mooks like the Tangs call there if it wasn’t?” Batman replied. “I doubt they dialed a wrong number.”

“OK, so let’s assume it’s at this palace,” Twitch said. “And we know it’s being played at midnight. And we’ve got the money—though it might be giving up fifty million in hand to get a hundred million in the bush, which is insane. But I guess that’s where our patriotism comes in. Still, how are we going to get into the game?”

Batman replied, “Murphy did say, while most people send in the entry fee and back it up with a surety, if someone walked in and had the cash with them, they wouldn’t turn them away. They must figure if he’s connected enough to actually know about the secret game and has the money to play, why not let him in?”

“Are you saying we go … uninvited?” Twitch gasped. “Walk up to this palace and just knock on the door?”

“That’s our only option,” Batman replied. “We try to fake our way in and see what happens.”

Twitch checked the time. It was almost 11:30 P.M. In his own little world, nothing was too crazy. But this was coming close.

“We’ll need better clothes,” he finally told Batman. “We can’t go dressed like this. But I don’t think we’ll find a tuxedo store open right now.”

Batman thought a moment, then he said, “What size suit do you wear?”

Twitch shrugged. “I didn’t know when I was asked that in Shanghai. I still don’t know today. Why?”

“Let’s go talk to some cabbies,” Batman replied.

* * *

TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER Batman and Twitch were riding in the back of a Rolls taxi, climbing the road that led from Monte Carlo up to the Prince’s Palace.

They were now wearing tuxedos, courtesy of two other cab drivers who, in exchange for $1,000 each, took the rest of the night off and turned over their penguin suits to them.

The palace was not as lit up as usual. There was no state dinner going on or some glamorous party to celebrate the beginning of the Grand Prix the next day. This alone struck Batman as odd, and fed into his theory that the gagnant was being played here tonight.

“It seems that if you lived here, this would be the night to party,” Batman said to Twitch.

“Depends on what you call a party,” Twitch replied.

The front gate was wide open. Two uniformed guards were on hand, as were a small group of men in plainclothes.

At that point, Batman and Twitch were ready for anything. They’d exchanged the bag of money for a bank cheque, a two-minute procedure at the Sun Casino. This made transporting their funds a lot easier. And they thought they looked the part of high rollers. But how much ID and security would they have to deal with here, at the palace gate?

As it turned out, absolutely none.

The taxi approached the gate—and was waved right through.

So far so good.

The taxi pulled up to the only lighted entrance on the palace grounds, a stairway on the east corner. Batman and Twitch bucked themselves up for a moment and then climbed out of the cab. They had to look like they belonged here—that would be the key to their success or failure.

Its driver paid, the Rolls departed and the two pirate hunters stood alone before the palace entrance.

That’s when Batman looked over at Twitch and suddenly realized they were wearing the wrong tuxedoes. When they’d made the deal for the monkey suits, they’d selected two cabbies milling around outside the Grand Maison’s driveway, two guys who looked to be about the same size as them. But they’d hastily changed in the back of the cab that brought them here and in doing so, each had put on the wrong suit. Batman’s was way too small and tight in all the wrong places, while Twitch was swimming in his.

But it was too late to switch now.

They went up the steps to the huge door. It opened before they could ring the bell. A man in an eighteenth-century butler’s getup peered out at them.

This was the moment of truth.…

Batman looked the guy straight in the eye and said, “Un Grande Gagnant?”

Twitch quickly added, “Si’l vous plaît…”

The doorman didn’t hesitate a moment, but bowed and swept them right in.

The inside of the palace was just as they’d imagined. Huge long rooms with massive chandeliers hanging from the ceiling; ornate furniture, expensive rugs, medieval art on the walls, lots of marble, crystal and gold. And that smell: of royalty, of landed wealth, of pure money.

“Now we know who’s making half the profit tonight,” Twitch grumbled, taking in his surroundings. “I’m guessing a quarter billion pays the light bills here.”

They were escorted down a series of hallways, each more grandiose than the last. They passed small groups of well-dressed men with tiny earphones in place, obviously private security agents. Batman guessed these people were hired heat for the high rollers attending the game tonight.

Finally he and Twitch reached an enormous oak door. Their escort knocked three times and the door opened to reveal a small room lit mostly by candlelight.

The first thing Batman saw inside, though, was a round antique card table.

This was the place.

An elderly man in a more modern livery bid them to enter.

Batman repeated: “Un Grande Gagnant?”

The elderly man bowed by way of saying yes. But then he asked in a thick French accent: “Do you have credentials, good sirs? Our game table is already full.”

Batman reached inside his jacket and took out the bank cheque. He held it up to the man’s eyes and saw them widen with surprise. Showing up with “cash” was somewhat ostentatious; most players simply brought surety bonds for the remainder of the $50 million buy-in. But it also meant no one was going to kick them out just because they didn’t have a proper invite. It was exactly as Batman had hoped.

The butler led them deeper into the room. It was smaller than Batman had imagined, but extremely well done and elegant in dark mahogany and crystal. There were about three dozen people already here; a dozen of them were armed guards standing in the shadows, their Uzi machine pistols on full display.

Ten people were sitting around the table, but the lighting was so low, it was hard for Batman to see any faces clearly.

Three Arabs, complete with headdresses, stood out though. Persian oil money types, no doubt. A couple Asian men were sitting beside them. All bling and sunglasses and scowls, they looked like criminals from a James Bond movie.

Two elderly women were seated beside them. Both looked like they might be queens of some European country. In fact, if Batman didn’t know better, he would have sworn one of them was the Queen of England herself.

Sitting next to the ladies was a middle-aged man who was obviously a Russian gangster. With hands like beef, a red nose and lots of gold teeth, he reminded Batman of the team’s odd acquaintance, Bebe, the Red Mafia strongman.

The two remaining people were sitting with their backs to him. As Batman was ushered around to the last place at the table, he saw one of these people was none other than the Asian woman who had first shown him and Twitch the penthouse at the Grand Maison Casino. She was simply gorgeous: perfect face, long black hair, stylishly dressed. She was probably the most beautiful Asian woman Batman had ever seen.

And obviously she was here working for Bobby Murphy. She took one look at Batman and froze. It was clear she had not expected to see him here.

Her presence proved Bobby Murphy had been out to get the Z-box all along, as opposed to going in and busting up the gagnant before it even started. While Batman was fairly certain Murphy and his people would give the Z-box back to the USA should she win it, he was also sure the rogue private security operations group would ask for more money than they knew Whiskey was going to make. Audette was right, Bobby Murphy was an extremely crafty individual.

The last person at the table was a large dark-skinned man in an ill-fitting white suit. He looked like he was either from northeast Africa or the southern quadrant of the Middle East.

But something about him caught Batman’s attention right away. Every finger on both his hands had a shiny silver ring on it.

Batman’s temple began to throb. So did his back.

Where had he seen this guy before?

* * *

EACH PLAYER WAS allowed to have a second person accompany him to the game room, so Twitch took a seat behind Batman.

There were no introductions. The round table was clear of everything but a single deck of cards. A cashier simply said: “Time to play.”

The dealer explained the game. It would be one hand of blackjack. The kitty would be each player’s fifty-million buy-in. Whoever won the hand would get the “grand gagnant.” If the house won, they would reset and start all over again.

The dealer asked if there were any questions. There weren’t.

So the hand was dealt: two cards down to each player. Because he was the late arrival, Batman was at the end of the deal.

He peeked at his pair when they came to him—and his heart immediately dropped. He’d been dealt a king and a nine. Two very bad cards for blackjack.

The dealer started around the table once again. One by one, every player took a hit—and the dealer beat each one of them.

Now it was Batman’s turn. He spied his cards again, not sure what to do. If he took a hit and lost, there would be a reset, and another hand would be dealt. But this was exactly how he’d won all the money earlier that night—taking hits when he shouldn’t have.

That’s when he looked up and once again realized his old friend had joined them. He was nodding and smiling, just as before.

Batman leaned back to Twitch and whispered: “Do you see him?”

But Twitch had no idea what Batman was talking about. Why would he ask such a weird question at a stressful time like this?

“Just play the God damn hand,” Twitch whispered back to him. “The suspense is killing me.”

Batman looked at his hand again, then back up at his old friend.

Then he took a hit.

It was a deuce.

He won.

There was a collective gasp. Those around the table were astonished—and very upset. They’d all been expecting a reset. Now they were convinced Batman had used trickery to win the big prize.

The tension grew in the room. All the armed guards took a giant step forward. Twitch visibly fingered the massive handgun he had in his belt. He didn’t have to remind himself that the last time he’d been involved in a high-stakes card game, he’d shot four people to death. He was perfectly willing to do it again if it meant he and Batman walked out of here alive.

The palace help hastily ushered all the other players out of the room. Bobby Murphy’s gorgeous proxy was the first to leave and did so quickly.

Once they were gone, the cashier handed Batman an envelope resting on a silver plate.

Still beaming from his win, Batman asked, “What’s this? A receipt?”

The man shook his head. “No, monsieur,” he said. “This is your prize.”

Batman was confused. He opened the envelope and found a simple gold key inside.

He growled at the cashier: “A f*cking key? Where’s the box?”

The cashier replied in a hushed tone: “This is the key to open the box, sir. It is the gagnant. Who told you it was a box itself?”

Batman looked at Twitch and rolled his eyes. Who told them?

Maurice. Bobby Murphy. Take your pick.

His aura gone, Batman was about to explode. Sensing this, the cashier added, “But you are lucky, you see, as the box is of little worth unless you have this key.”

Batman got very close to the cashier, grabbing his collar with his mechanical hand. “So where’s the box then?” he asked him.

The man shrugged. “I have no idea, sir…”

Batman tightened the grip on his mechanical hand.

“Well, how the f*ck do I find it?” he spat at the man.

The guy kept his cool.

“I don’t know that either,” he said. “No one here does. We have been dealing only with this key from the beginning.”

“A lousy key for fifty million bucks?” Twitch spoke up angrily. “Sounds like bullshit to me.”

“Bullshit?” the cashier replied dryly. “On the contrary, gentlemen, this is the straightforward unadulterated truth. Had you not been such late arrivals, you would have been told all this beforehand.”

* * *

WITH THEIR GRAND prize in hand—be it dubious or not—Batman and Twitch knew they had to leave the palace quickly.

They weren’t sure what the key was for—but it had been worth a combined half a billion dollars to the people who’d come to play the gagnant. So, at the moment, it had to be protected at all costs.

They walked out of the game room to see the rest of the players still being escorted down the long hallway by butlers in eighteenth-century garb.

Batman knew this was not a happy crowd—and why should it be? They’d all lost at least ten million in cash, with another forty million to go, in less than a minute.

So he and Twitch walked slowly down the hallway, letting the others drain out and avoiding any confrontation with them.

When they reached the main door, the same butler who’d let them in was waiting, seeing everyone out.

“Do we tip this guy?” Twitch whispered to Batman.

“Yeah, tell him not to play the horses,” Batman whispered back.

They went out the door bowing and smiling to find the driveway filled with various limos and SUVs waiting for the losing players. It looked like a hired goon convention on the cobblestone entryway. While there was no sign of Murphy or his lovely proxy, each of the remaining players had a small army of guards waiting for them—all except Batman and Twitch.

They watched the other players climb into their vehicles and roar away, one at a time, tires squealing, almost as if the mass departure had been choreographed ahead of time. It took less than thirty seconds for the driveway to empty out, leaving Batman and Twitch all by themselves, with no protection at all.

Even the light above the palace door went out, throwing them into a cold darkness. They’d failed to plan for this part. Here they were, holding what might be an essential element in getting their $100 million fee, but also what might be one of the most important items in the world at the moment, if indeed the Z-box was a WMD. And yet they had no quick way to get it back to civilization.

They had no choice. They would have to hoof it.

They walked out beyond the palace gate and contemplated the winding road ahead. It was surprisingly dark and deserted. They could look beyond it, down into Monte Carlo and see the place was obviously hopping. But it would take quite a hike to get back to their crummy little hostel room, especially for Twitch and his artificial leg.

They set off, though—and immediately began imagining that people were following them.

Then a bit of luck: Looking over their shoulders about a minute into their journey, they saw headlights approaching. It was a Rolls taxi coming down the road. They flagged it down.

Batman explained to the driver they were heading for the east side of Monte Carlo. The driver indicated they should jump in. They did so and finally felt safe.

They began making plans: They would go to the hostel, pay the owner the money they owed him and then get information about flying out to Aden. Monte Carlo didn’t have an airport, so they would have to get to Nice, France, to catch a flight. But that was not a problem as there were both train and bus services that would get them there quickly. Before all this, though, they would use some of the money left over from their casino winnings to call someone at Kilos Shipping who could get a message to Alpha Squad telling them that Beta had made some progress.

They’d ridden only about a few hundred feet when the taxi driver suddenly pulled to the side of the road. Batman thought he was stopping to pick up someone else—something Batman was definitely not in favor of.

But instead the man put the car in park and turned around to face them. He was holding a massive .45 automatic.

“OK, guys,” he said in an American accent. “Let’s make it easy and just turn over the key.”

Batman and Twitch were stunned—but it only took a few seconds for them to figure it out.

“DynCorp?” Batman asked the guy. “Or EOD?”

The guy smiled. “Just for the record, it’s DynCorp. But really, what difference does it make?”

“It doesn’t make any difference,” Twitch responded. “Whether its DynCorp, or EOD or Blackwater—we got the same message for all of you.”

“Oh really?” the guy with the gun said. “And what message is that?”

“Two simple words,” Twitch replied. “‘F*ck you.’”

The guy was shocked. “You do see this gun I’m holding on you, right?” he said.

“Sure do,” Twitch replied. “But what are you going to do with it?”

“Shoot your ass,” was the guy’s response.

“Do it then,” Twitch challenged him. “Go ahead—shoot us. I dare you.”

Batman was trying to nudge his colleague to get him to calm down, but it was a waste of time. And Twitch did have a point. This guy wasn’t an enemy—not exactly. He was just part of one of the other private special ops groups that Audette and the Agency had hired to recover the Z-box—and now the guy was trying to get $100 million for his group by taking it away from Whiskey.

But would he kill them for it?

Batman didn’t think so.

The driver realized this, too—and an awkward moment was upon them.

“Look, just drive,” Batman said, breaking the impasse. “We’ll figure something out.”

The driver thought about this. And though he didn’t exactly put the gun away, he did slip the Rolls back in drive and resumed driving down the winding road.

As they approached the next corner, though, Batman was planning to open his door and jump out, dragging Twitch with him.

But as they went around the bend they were surprised to see two Fiats with spinning lights on top and three men in police uniforms wearing reflective vests and using flashlights to flag them to a stop.

The man driving did as told; everyone in the luxurious cab thought it was a simple security check set up in preparation for the big race the next day.

But then one of the men walked over to the window and told the driver and Batman and Twitch that they all had to step out of the car.

Batman did not like the sound of this; he and Twitch didn’t move. Neither did the driver.

But when the guy in the cop uniform pulled out his gun, they all complied.

It was clear at that point that these guys weren’t cops at all: they were Americans from yet another PSO firm. It was easy to tell.

All three had their guns out, though, and as soon as the driver climbed out of the Rolls he had his gun out, too.

Seeing this, Twitch pretended to stumble coming out of the backseat, and doing it only as Twitch could do, knocked into one of the fake policemen—and somehow came up with his pistol.

Suddenly they were all standing in the middle of the road, three sets of special ops groups, holding guns on one another.

But despite all the gun waving and posturing, no one was going to shoot; they all knew that. The only danger was if one of them fired by mistake.

“Which one of you guys has the key?” one of the fake cops asked out of desperation. “We’re from EOD; we can make a deal with you.”

Twitch kicked one fake cop in the ass and yelled “We got the key … but we know none of you girls will shoot us for it.”

But no sooner were those words out of his mouth than bullets started flying.

Twitch was the first to get hit. He was knocked off the side of the road and into the ditch below. The driver of the Rolls went down next, then the three fake policemen.

In a surreal moment, Batman found himself standing alone, with writhing bleeding bodies all around him. Yet he had no gun—and it wasn’t like the fake cops or the fake cab driver had shot anyone.

He turned to see a large dark-skinned man standing behind him. He was the player at the gagnant, the guy with all the rings on his fingers. He was holding a smoking Lugar-style pistol. Now he pointed it at Batman and pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit Batman square in the chest. He was thrown backward and slammed against the side of the Rolls taxi.

Crumpling to the pavement, the last thing he saw was the man’s hand, with silver rings on every finger, taking the Z-box key from his bloody shirt pocket.