‘Can I get you anything?’ she asked. ‘Breakfast? Coffee? Champagne?’
‘No thanks,’ Mallet replied in an amiable but firm tone. ‘We’ll be fine, lass. Me and the guys here are having a business meeting. We don’t want to be disturbed.’
‘Well, if you need anything, just let me know.’
‘We will, sweetheart,’ Loader said with a wide grin. ‘We will.’
His eyes followed the attendant as she wandered back down the aisle to the galley, hips swaying gently. Mallet said, ‘Forget it.’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘You didn’t have to. It’s all over your face. You wouldn’t stand a chance. She’s not interested in your Welsh arse.’
Loader looked hurt. ‘You don’t know that.’
‘Aye, I do. Do you want to know why?’
Loader shook his head.
‘Because she’s got taste.’
‘Sometimes you can be a real bastard, John.’
‘Life is harsh. Get used to it.’ He nodded at Casey. ‘Get the map out. We’ve got a lot to run through.’
Casey reached into the folder and unfolded a detailed street map of Monte Carlo. Mallet tapped a gnarled finger at an apartment block circled with black marker pen. Bowman leaned in for a closer look. The building was situated on Avenue Princesse Grace. One of the most expensive streets in Monaco. The most expensive address in the world, twenty years ago. Before the moneyed elites took up residence in Kensington and Fifth Avenue and St Moritz. Now it was probably lucky to make the top twenty. There was a promenade to the east of the apartment, straddling a narrow crescent of artificial beach. To the north, a short distance away, stood a rocky promontory with a sprawling casino and hotel resort extending across it. Casino Square was maybe half a mile to the south.
‘This is Lang’s residence,’ Mallet began. ‘The Du Veil apartment block. Lang owns a three-bedroom apartment on the eighteenth floor. There’s a twenty-four-hour concierge, security cameras covering all the entry and exit points, remote alarms, the works.’
He pointed to a spot on the map a hundred metres due south of the building on Avenue Princesse Grace.
‘This is the drop-off point,’ he said. ‘You’ll make your way on foot from here to the building. Patrick will handle the concierge.’
‘You speak French?’ asked Bowman.
Webb laughed and said, ‘My mother’s side of the family is from Martinique. It’s all I spoke around my grandparents.’
‘What’s our story?’
Mallet said, ‘You’ll claim to have urgent legal documents that need to be countersigned by David Lang,’ Mallet said. ‘Six have drawn up a couple of ID cards, in case you get arrested. That should get you past the front desk.’
‘Won’t Lang get suspicious?’
‘Six doesn’t think so.’
‘I don’t care what they think,’ Bowman said. ‘It’s my neck on the line, not theirs.’
‘And mine,’ Webb added.
Mallet sighed irritably. ‘It won’t be a problem. Lang likes to think of himself as a reputable businessman. That’s why he’s pumped his money into hotels, casinos, mining companies. All that legit money comes with paperwork. This won’t strike him as unusual.’
‘What’s the plan once we’re inside?’
‘You’ll subdue Lang and Seguma and clear the apartment. Patrick will watch over them. Meanwhile, you’ll change into Lang’s clothes and head down to the underground car park. There’s a private lift, so no one will see you entering or leaving. Lang keeps a Range Rover down there. We’ll give you the licence plate, so you’ll know which one to look for. You’ll take his wagon out for a spin,’ he added, tracing a finger south along the main road, ‘drive down as far as this roundabout, swing round and head north again to pick me and Alex up. That way, no one will see us entering the building.’
‘Why me?’ asked Bowman.
‘You’re roughly the same build as Lang. You could almost pass as his third twin. There are cameras in the underground parking facility. When the security staff see you getting behind the wheel, they’ll naturally assume it’s Lang popping out for a pack of ciggies.
‘Once we’re inside,’ Mallet added, ‘we’ll take the lift back up to Lang’s apartment and question him. I’ll be leading the interrogation.’
‘What about Tiny?’ Bowman asked.
‘He’ll wait in the car. Keep an eye on the entrance to the block. That’s the plan. But knowing Tiny, he’ll probably pass the time eyeing up the local talent and wishing he was taller than an elf.’
‘Size ain’t everything, John.’
‘Fuck me, is that the line you use on women? No wonder you can’t get laid.’
Casey gave them both an eye-roll and said, ‘If someone shows up – one of Lang’s associates, or the police – Keith will let you know. That’ll give you a few minutes’ warning to get out.’
Bowman said, ‘What’s the exfiltration plan?’
‘We’ll escort President Seguma down to the car park and drive out in Lang’s wagon. A UKN will RV with us on the way to the airport. We’ll dump the kit, get on a private jet and fly home. By the time anyone has figured out what’s happened, we’ll be long gone.’
‘And Lang?’
‘He’ll come with us too,’ Mallet said, icily. ‘But we’re not asking him nicely.’
Bowman stared at the map as he mentally reviewed the plan. ‘It’s risky,’ he said.
‘So is getting in a car. Or going on a date with Tiny.’
‘This thing could easily go south.’
‘The plan isn’t up for debate.’
‘What if there are BGs in the building, though? Seguma might have some of his bodyguards with him.’
‘We think that’s unlikely.’
‘He’s the president. He’ll want some sort of protection.’
‘Not at this meeting, he won’t.’
‘The president doesn’t trust his BG team,’ Casey explained. ‘He’s getting paranoid in his old age. Believes
