Morning, Noon and Night

‘Some business competitors have been following me,’ he said earnestly. ‘I’m about to close a very large deal, and they’re trying to find out about it. If they do, it could cost me a lot of money.’

‘I understand,’ Sophia said. She had no idea what he was talking about.

Five minutes later, they were driving past the gates of the village on the road to Nice. A man seated on a bench watched the brown Renault as it sped through the gates. At the wheel was Dmitri Kaminsky and beside him was Prince. The man hastily took out a cellular telephone and began dialing.

‘We may have a problem,’ he told the woman.

‘What kind of problem?’

‘A brown Renault just drove out of the gates. Dmitri Kaminsky was driving, and the dog was in the car, too.’

‘And Stanford wasn’t in the car?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t believe it. His bodyguard never leaves him at night, and that dog never leaves him, ever.’

‘Is his Corniche still parked in front of the villa?’ asked the other man sent to follow Harry Stanford.

‘Yes, but maybe he switched cars.’

‘Or it could be a trick! Call the airport.’

Within minutes, they were talking to the tower.

‘Monsieur Stanford’s plane? Oui. It arrived an hour ago and has already refueled.’

Five minutes later, two members of the surveillance team were on their way to the airport, while the third kept watch on the sleeping villa.

As the brown Renault passed through La Coalle-sur-Loup, Stanford moved onto the seat. ‘It’s all right to sit up, now,’ he told Sophia. He turned to Dmitri, ‘Nice airport. Hurry.’

Chapter Two (#ulink_93bb04c0-8b2a-5d9d-9cfb-cacf2a757e6c)

Half an hour later, at Nice airport, a converted Boeing 727 was slowly taxiing down the runway to the takeoff point. Up in the tower, the flight controller said, ‘They certainly are in a hurry to get that plane off the ground. The pilot has asked for a clearance three times.’

‘Whose plane is it?’

‘Harry Stanford. King Midas himself.’

‘He’s probably on his way to make another billion or two.’

The controller turned to monitor a Learjet taking off, then picked up the microphone. ‘Boeing eight nine five Papa, this is Nice departure control. You are cleared for takeoff. Five left. After departure, turn right to a heading of one four zero.’

Harry Stanford’s pilot and copilot exchanged a relieved look. The pilot pressed the microphone button. ‘Roger. Boeing eight nine five Papa is cleared for takeoff. Will turn right to one four zero.’

A moment later, the huge plane thundered down the runway and knifed into the gray dawn sky.

The copilot spoke into the microphone again. ‘Departure, Boeing eight nine five Papa is climbing out of three thousand for flight level seven zero.’

The copilot turned to the pilot. ‘Whew! Old Man Stanford was sure anxious for us to get off the ground, wasn’t he?’

The pilot shrugged. Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die. How’s he doing back there?’

The copilot rose and stepped to the door of the cockpit, and looked into the cabin. ‘He’s resting.’

They telephoned the airport tower from the car.

‘Mr Stanford’s plane … Is it still on the ground?’

‘Non, monsieur. It has departed.’

‘Did the pilot file a flight plan?’

‘Of course, monsieur.’

‘To where?’

‘The plane is headed for JKF.’

‘Thank you.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Kennedy. We’ll have people there to meet him.’

When the Renault passed the outskirts of Monte Carlo, speeding toward the Italian border, Harry Stanford said, ‘There’s no chance that we were followed, Dmitri?’

‘No, sir. We’ve lost them.’

‘Good.’ Harry Stanford leaned back in his seat and relaxed. There was nothing to worry about. They would be tracking the plane. He reviewed the situation in his mind. It was really a question of what they knew and when they knew it. They were jackals following the trail of a lion, hoping to bring him down. Harry Stanford smiled to himself. They had underestimated the man they were dealing with. Others who had made that mistake had paid dearly for it. Someone would also pay this time. He was Harry Stanford, the confidant of presidents and kings, powerful and rich enough to make or break the economies of a dozen countries.

The 727 was in the skies over Marseilles. The pilot spoke into the microphone. ‘Marseilles, Boeing eight nine five Papa is with you, climbing out of flight level one nine zero for flight level two three zero.’

‘Roger.’

The Renault reached San Remo shortly after dawn. Harry Stanford had fond memories of the city, but it had changed drastically. He remembered a time when it had been an elegant town with first-class hotels and restaurants, and a casino where black tie was required and where fortunes could be lost or won in an evening. Now it had succumbed to tourism, with loud-mouthed patrons gambling in their shirtsleeves.

The Renault was approaching the harbor, twelve miles from the French-Italian border. There were two marinas at the harbor, Marina Porto Sole to the east, and Porto Communale to the west. In Porto Sole, a marine attendant directed the berthing. In Porto Communale, there was no attendant.

‘Which one?’ Dmitri asked.

‘Porto Communale,’ Stanford directed. The fewer people around, the better.

‘Yes, sir.’

A few minutes later, the Renault pulled up next to the Blue Skies, a sleek hundred-and-eighty-foot motor yacht. Captain Vacarro and the crew of twelve were lined up on deck. The captain hurried down the gangplank to greet the new arrivals.

‘Good morning, Signor Stanford,’ Captain Vacarro said. ‘We’ll take your luggage, and …’

‘No luggage. Let’s shove off.’

‘Yes, sir.’