“No idea,” said Johnny. “I only met him a week ago, at a small game in the country. He begged me to bring him tonight. I hope that’s OK?”
Luc Charles grinned wolfishly. “It is if he loses.”
“Oh, he will.” Johnny’s smile grew so wide it looked as if it were going to eat the rest of his face. “I’ve never seen a more reckless player.”
“Reckless?”
“Like he’s possessed. It’s bizarre. With an average hand, he plays brilliant, thoughtful poker. But as soon as he thinks he’s holding a winner? Boom!” Johnny made an explosion gesture with his fingers. “He loses it. I took fifteen thousand euros off him last week and that was at a tiny game. I heard he lost big at Deauville.”
“How big?” Luc Charles’s mouth started to water.
“Seven figures.”
“In one night?”
“Fuck one night. On one hand,” said Johnny.
Luc Charles walked back to where Harry Graham was admiring one of his portraits.
“Are you an art lover, Mr. Graham?”
The American shrugged. “I know what I like.”
“A wonderful starting point,” Luc smiled. Looking more closely at Harry, he asked, “We haven’t met before, have we? I feel as if I know you from somewhere.”
Unfortunately for Luc Charles, he’d been meeting a lot of Americans lately. Group 99, the tiresomely publicity-hungry rich-haters-cum-terrorists had been making a concerted effort to target the fine-art world, introducing a number of extremely high-quality fakes to the market in recent months. Even the top auction houses had been duped, including the mighty Christie’s, who had sold what they believed to be an Isaac Israels painting for $7.2 million only to have Group 99 release a YouTube video revealing its true provenance. Heads had rolled, but the net result was that market confidence had been hit hard and insurers were particularly jumpy. Luc’s insurers were owned by the American giant UIG (United Insurance Group). In the last month alone, Luc had received three “courtesy” visits from UIG execs. It wouldn’t surprise him to have another show up at one of his poker games, hoping for some sort of inside track. And Harry Graham did look familiar.
“I don’t think so.” Graham turned away, glancing at his watch impatiently. “Shall we get started?”
“Certainly.”
Luc Charles led the way to the card table. He was probably imagining things. The good news was that Johnny Cray’s “reckless” friend was getting jumpy already.
That boded well for the night ahead.
FROM HIS HOTEL BEDROOM directly across the canal, Jeff Stevens had an almost perfect view through the sash windows of Luc Charles’s drawing room.
With the aid of his trusty Meade ACF LX90 telescope, Jeff could see not only the players at Charles’s table, but the hands of the ones with their backs to him. Poor old Dom Crecy was unlikely to leave the Charles residence tonight richer than he arrived, clinging on to his pair of kings like a drowning man clutching a branch in a tsunami. Jeff couldn’t see Hunter Drexel’s cards, but he had an excellent view of his face. Harry Graham, rather to Jeff’s surprise, had chosen a seat directly opposite the window, which had been opened to let in the night air. It was the first time Jeff had seen Hunter’s features in person, in the flesh as it were, and he found himself fascinated, trying to glean any information from his expressions, the look in his eyes.
Who are you? he found himself asking.
What are you thinking, right at this moment?
What do you want?
But like all good poker players, Hunter’s face gave away nothing. Was he a terrorist or a victim? A good guy or a traitor? Was he really just playing cards to live, so he had enough cash to eat and hide and fini
sh his story on fracking—or whatever it really was? Jeff had his doubts. If Hunter’s plan was survival, he wouldn’t be chasing down big stakes games like Luc Charles’s seven card stud, or Pascal Cauchin’s legendary Montmartre poker evenings.
No. There’s some other reason he’s doing this. Playing with billionaires. Risking exposure. No one needs to win millions of dollars just to survive.
Whatever Hunter’s plan, he looked as if he were struggling tonight. And not just at cards. His face was almost unrecognizable from the pictures Jeff had seen from before his Group 99 abduction. Hunter looked thin and ill and exhausted and old.
Jeff kept watching.
BACK AT THE MODEST bungalow they had rented on the outskirts of the city, Sally Faiers glanced anxiously at the clock.
She wanted Hunter home.