I stepped out into a landscape that looked white enough to me. The piste groomers must have been working their miracles.
I looked along just 525 metres of steeply rising runway. There was a vertical drop at the end. It was easy to see why Courchevel airport was rated one of the most dangerous in the world. There was no go-around procedure, the pilot had said. The hill was supposed to help to slow a landing aircraft.
‘Does it work?’
‘Not always.’
Add to that a hazardous approach through deep valleys that could only be performed by specially certified pilots, and often freezing conditions with black ice and heavy snow, and you had one of the most challenging landings on earth. Jets couldn’t use it. Larger propeller aircraft like the Twin Otter and Dash 7 could, but they had been phased out. Smaller Cessnas and helicopters had taken over.
A driver in his early twenties greeted me and led me to a car. He was smartly dressed in a black suit, shirt and tie. His gold-rimmed Ray-Ban Aviators glinted in the sun.
I couldn’t help smiling to myself as I climbed into the back. I’d listened to Talk Radio on my way to Bristol airport. The coalition’s austerity measures weren’t going down well. Prices at the petrol pumps were higher by the day. So was the number of unemployed. All in all, it had been another grey and gloomy day in Broken Britain. Yet in a parallel universe Frank’s plane had turned out to be a G6 Gulfstream, more airliner than private jet, and I was in a black Merc limo with darkened windows on the way from the ‘altiport’ at one of the world’s most upscale ski resorts to meet with one of the world’s richest men.
According to a brochure I found in the Gulfstream, Courchevel 1850 was the highest and most famous of the resort’s four centres, distinguished from each other by their height in metres. It was also the bit where the billionaires hung out. 1850 was in fact only 1747 metres above sea level, but the good burghers were keen to shaft arch-rivals Val d’Isere. Everyone wanted a slice of Russian action, and the Russians always flocked to the biggest, highest, priciest — anywhere, in fact, with
I’d landed in Geneva and got straight on the Bell. The helicopter transfer company’s choice of aircraft gave me a big kick. It had starred in
There had been property brochures in the Gulfstream, too. As I drove in the back seat of the air-conditioned, leather-upholstered luxury bubble, I knew I was passing ‘chalets’ that cost upwards of $5 million. We were a world away from the shabby, peeling shit-pits I’d left behind me in Easton. No clapped-out Ford Focuses, either. All the other vehicles on the road were Range Rovers or Cayenne 4?4s. It seemed you could have any colour you liked as long as it was black.
We passed people out and about. They were walking little rat dogs wrapped up in Prada Puffas the same colour as their owner’s. This was Bling Central, on ice.
Even my young driver looked too cool to need to breathe. His Aviators didn’t have fingermarks; he never needed to adjust his short, wet-gelled hair. My own hair was greasy and my eyes felt so knackered they probably looked like they belonged to Vlad the Impaler. Fuck knows what he made of me in the back, contaminating his leather.
‘Are you here for the party, sir?’
His English was clear and crisp.
‘No, mate, just a quick visit. Whose party?’
‘I’m not sure, but they say it’s costing five million euros. Cirque de Soleil are being flown in all the way from Canada.’
‘That’s some party. Keeping you busy?’
I found myself doing the cabbie chat I normally saved for London.
‘Three hundred people are coming, or so they say.’
‘Not for the skiing, that’s for sure.’
There was snow around the chocolate-box village, but it was dribbling down the mountain with every passing minute. Now we were lower, I could see large expanses of rock fighting their way into view.
He checked his sat-nav for the hundredth time. ‘Not far now, sir.’
2
We stopped outside a massive, classic Swiss chalet that looked as if it had been carved out of the granite high ground behind it. Snow covered the gently sloping roof and wide eaves. The pathway had been freshly cleared.
‘Are you the new owner, sir?’
I checked out the three-storey slice of paradise like I was trying to remember if I’d bought this one or the next, and dreamt a little before coming back to the real world. ‘No, mate, not me. How much did it go for?’
‘Twenty-two million dollars. Just last week. They say it has a pool.’
For that amount of money, I’d have demanded a bigger driveway as well. It only just fitted the gleaming black Range Rover with French plates and darkened windows.
‘I’ll tell you if it has when you take me back. You’re waiting, yeah?’
‘Yes, sir. I am booked until you want to leave. Same as the helicopter.’
I opened the door. The cold, crisp air attacked my face. I liked it. It woke me up a little. ‘What’s your name, mate?’
He swivelled in his seat, smiling under his sun-gigs. ‘Jacques.’
I leant down. ‘You new at this, Jacques?’
He nodded like a puppy. ‘My third day.’
‘Try not to speak to the guests, Jacques. These people don’t like that.’
He flapped. ‘Sir, I’m so sorry, I—’
I put up a hand. ‘It’s no drama with me, Jacques. You seem a good guy and it would be a nightmare to lose a job like this. Best to have fun using your eyes and ears. You might find out exactly what’s going on around here, yeah?’
He let it sink in.
‘The guy in that house, Jacques? He can buy that shit because he knows that knowledge is power. He told me so himself. So, if you listen, look and learn while you drive you won’t have to depend on “them” to tell you what’s what. They’ll depend on you. Get it?’
He nodded.
‘See you in a bit, then, Jacques.’
The huge wooden door was a few centimetres ajar. I pushed it wider. The hallway was empty. No one lived here. But it was far from a rustic ski lodge. The interior looked as if it had been ripped out of a Manhattan penthouse. Sleek, modern lines. A symphony of glass, steel and dark grey marble. The front of the house was all that was left of the original.
I could see now that the hall wasn’t entirely empty. Mr Lover Man and his mate Genghis were hovering. They didn’t look fazed to see me. There was no reaction at all. Frank must have been giving them tutorials.
I nodded a greeting. ‘Afternoon, lads.’
I didn’t get as much as a blink in return. Genghis just pointed upstairs. I walked across the marble floor to the grand glass and steel staircase.
As I climbed, I began to hear the echo of excited, high-pitched voices. They spoke English with heavy French accents. They were enthusing about how beautiful the new colours would look. I reached the first floor and walked towards the oohs and aahs. I went through large double doors into a high-ceilinged room that could have doubled
