He slept through the entire fight, waking only when the nice attendant shook him gently to warn him they would be landing in fifteen minutes. He went to the tiny bathroom, washed the sleep from his eyes, ran his hands through his hair, which looked even worse under the harsh light, straightened the collar of his polo shirt, and went back to his seat, where he confirmed on his cell phone that the car awaited him.
He knew Nice C?te d’Azur Airport like the back of his hand; he’d been using it for years, from back when it was still merely a small holiday link to the Mediterranean. Now it was a main destination from many countries. He always liked arriving there, with the quick glimpse of the blue sea, the avenues of palms, all long skinny trunks with a fluff of leaves at the top, the grainy pebbly strip of beach scattered with sunburned bodies in summer and a few strollers at the edge of the tiny waves off-season, when the beach shanties selling Fanta and ice cream and dried-up sandwiches in plastic bags were closed. He liked all of it. Anytime. It was home.
Chad came from a family of privilege with enough funds to maintain the Paris apartment, as well as his small villa. Even so, he remained a loner, though he did show up for the local cocktail parties in aid of what he considered “good causes,” to which he contributed what he could. His sole luxury was buying artworks for his small “home”—though when he was asked if he was an art expert he always said he was merely a medical man.
At the airport, he picked up his Mercedes. It made him think of the odd way the car came to be named. Austrian diplomat and businessman, Emil Jellinek, had raced custom-built Gottlieb Daimler cars that he named after his daughter, Mercédès.
The car had been left at the airport by Chad’s caretaker and guy-of-all-work, who had been with him for the past ten years and knew how to keep out of the way and how to be there when needed.
First though, Chad decided to stop for a coffee—a good, rich cup of French coffee—at a seafront place where he could sit at a terrace table and watch the Mediterranean change color, the people flaunting their bodies on the pebbly beach, and the world going by. The contrast to his work life never failed to amuse him.
And the fact was it made him happy. He was coming home.
Later, fortified by the coffee and a butter-rich croissant, he turned the Mercedes onto the corniche road, the very same road where the famous fifties movie star, Grace Kelly, had met her untimely death and that wound between the steep hill and the canyon. There was a smile on his face, dark glasses filtered the sunlight, the windows were open to the breeze.
He spotted the dark blue Maserati and the two cars in front of it, and the black Ducati with the black-helmeted biker that roared past him. And, as if in slow motion, he saw the Maserati with a woman at the wheel and a blond passenger next to her spin off the road and into the depths of that canyon.
Chad braked hard, got on his mobile, and called for medical help and the gendarmes. Then he got out of the car and stood looking down at the wreck. It was impossible to access on foot; they would need a helicopter. He remained at the side of the road, awaiting the ambulances and the cops.
5
Mirabella
When I came to, I found we were perched precariously, right-side-up, halfway down the canyon. How we had not tumbled to the bottom was a miracle, and we would need another miracle to get us out of there.
The car wobbled under me, then settled itself on the rugged chunks of rock that had stopped our fall. I put up a hand to sweep the hair from my brow, tugged at the seat belt that was cutting into my chest and which had probably saved my life, opened my eyes, and took stock. I could move my head, my arms, my legs.
I glanced sideways at my blond passenger. Poor girl, how unfortunate that she had accepted a lift. Running from a husband she called a bastard was one thing; facing her demise in a car crash with a total stranger was another. The first event you might survive; the second was unlikely, though thank God she did not appear to be bleeding all over the white leather.
Thoughts spun through my head. I had been forced off the road by a mad biker, who presumably wanted me dead. But why? Perhaps it wasn’t me the Ducati rider was after, it might have been the small green car in front, driving slowly and a bit erratically along the dangerously winding road, veering over the center line practically under the sixteen-wheeler coming at us. A shiver ran through me as I recalled the Ducati shooting past, swinging sideways at the small car, until with a shriek of rubber on cement it had spun off the road and over the edge, and then the Ducati hit me and took off, faster, as they said of Superman, than a speeding bullet.