“A businessman named Ali Lassferly’s expected. He’s a possible—he doesn’t exist on Google—although the guy I spoke to said he was French-Arabic.”
“Drexel could pull that off,” said Tracy.
“Maybe,” Jeff conceded. “We’ll know tonight I guess. I’m more interested in the last player.”
“Who’s he?”
“She. It’s a woman. Apparently she’s a widow living in St. Tropez. But she’s American. And rich. You want to guess her name?”
The hairs on Tracy’s arms stood on end. “Kate?”
Jeff leaned forward. “Close enough. Mrs. Catherine Clarke.”
“Do you really think it could be her?”
“I don’t know. But something’s going down tonight. I’m sure of it.”
“I should come with you,” Tracy blurted.
“Absolutely not.”
“It could be dangerous, Jeff.”
“Exactly.”
Tracy opened her mouth to protest but Jeff cut her off. “We have a plan. A good one. There’s no reason to change it.” Reaching into his jacket pocket he handed Tracy a new disposable phone. Just to be safe they were both changing handsets every few days.
“Keep it on. I’ll call if I need you.”
GUSTAV ARENDT WAS IN a foul mood. For three very good reasons.
Women.
Money.
And hemorrhoids.
Gustav’s wife, Alisse, had found out last night about his mistress, Camille. Alisse was being tiresomely bourgeois about it, ranting and yelling, making unseemly comments about Camille’s fake breasts and threatening divorce. Gustav couldn’t understand it.
What do women expect when they marry a wealthy man? Monogamy?
Alisse’s meltdown could not have come at a worse time. Gustav had already had a bad week, losing millions on a failed investment in the Ukraine. Land that he’d believed to be bursting at the seams with shale gas had actually produced pathetically meager returns. Gustav had fired his chief engineer, but that did little to stem his foul temper.
The hemorrhoids spoke for themselves.
The one bright spot in Gustav Arendt’s otherwise black sky was the prospect of fleecing his guests at the poker game tonight. Looking out of the window at Chalet Mirabelle, he watched as the first of the players drove up.
There was Luca Androni, his fat, spaghetti-filled belly emerging first from his chauffeur-driven Range Rover.
Pig. Gustav Arendt disliked all his competitors in business, but he reserved a special loathing for Androni. It didn’t help that, despite his obvious stupidity, the Italian had made out like a bandit in Ukraine. Luca Androni’s shale gas fields directly abutted Gustav’s, yet Androni had managed to extract millions of dollars from his land while Arendt’s frenzied fracking had produced nothing more than a weak fart.
Gustav was going to enjoy relieving Luca of some of those millions tonight. Unlike Europe’s increasingly indolent, lazy and grasping poor, he didn’t need Group 99 to do his dirty work for him. Although, come to think of it, it surprised Gustav Arendt that a man like Luca Androni had not yet been targeted by Group 99. On paper, at least, he seemed like a perfect candidate for their loathsome brand of self-righteous communism. That was the problem with violent extremists. They were never there when you needed them.
The next player to arrive was Lars Berensen, swiftly followed by the ridiculous American fool Brian Crick. With his stooped shoulders, shuffling gait and bald crown, Berensen looked like an escapee from the local nursing home. But the art dealer was a lot sharper than his little-old-man shtick suggested. He had a painting under his arm tonight, to present to his client, Mrs. Clarke. No doubt the bitch had paid well over the odds for it. But that was Berensen’s business. Gustav was not averse to his guests doing a little business up at Chalet Mirabelle, especially if they brought other rich stooges along to his poker table. Lars Berensen was responsible for inviting both the rich Widow Clarke and the Arab. Tonight, Lassferly. He’d earned his keep.
Brian Crick strode up to the chalet, talking loudly and clapping a hand across Luca Androni’s meaty shoulders on the doorstep in a faux display of bonhomie.
“Good to meet you.” Gustav could hear the American’s booming voice from the window. “I heard a lot about you. Name’s Brian. Brian Crick.”