We’re almost there, Bowman told himself. Just keep your shit together for a few more minutes. Then you can get into Lang’s apartment, find his drugs stash. Sort yourself out.
And if he doesn’t have anything? What then?
I don’t know.
They cleared a wide roundabout, passed an underground parking garage and shuttled north along Avenue Princesse Grace. One of the world’s most expensive streets, twenty years ago. But it didn’t look like it. Not anymore. Bowman saw dated 1970s apartment blocks the colour of orange peel, roof awnings hanging over the tiny balconies, a handful of drab cafés and garish nightclubs. They tooled on for another hundred metres, past a glass and steel conference centre and a monument to Grace Kelly.
Getting close now.
They rolled on for another hundred metres, and then Mallet pointed to a parking area at the side of the road next to the promenade.
‘Pull over here,’ he said.
Loader nudged the E-Class into a free space, parallel with an ice-cream parlour and opposite a luxury car dealership. The engine died. Then they waited. Casey tapped open an encrypted messaging app on her phone and quickly read the text.
‘Got another ping on Lang’s phone,’ she said. ‘He’s still in his apartment.’
‘This is it,’ Loader said. ‘We’re in business.’
Mallet and Loader checked their side mirrors, watching for pedestrians. They had talked through this part of the plan in detail on the jet. Bowman and Webb wouldn’t step out of the vehicle until they had confirmed that the coast was clear. If someone happened to see two guys in courier gear getting out of a civilian car, they might get suspicious. Safer to wait until they had a clear run to the apartment.
Seconds ticked by. Bowman waited impatiently for the signal. He started seeing things. Vivid waking hallucinations. Memories of the night his family had been butchered, seeping into the real world. He saw blood puddled on the pavement. A girl was lying dead on the street, her throat slashed open. Bowman was about to alert his colleagues when he realised she was wearing the same princess outfit as his dead daughter. His Sophie. His wife was there too, a neat bullet hole in the middle of her forehead. Both of them stared at him with accusing eyes.
He blinked. The images vanished.
Christ, I need a pill.
A handful of people passed the E-Class: an elderly man out for a stroll, a young female jogger in leggings, a grey-haired woman in a fur-trimmed coat, walking her toy poodle. None of them gave the estate a second glance. They weren’t driving a supercar, they didn’t have a VIP escort. Therefore, they were unimportant.
As soon as the dog-walker had moved on, Mallet half turned in his seat and nodded at the guys in the back seats.
‘We’re clear. Go.’
A mild breeze thrust in from the sea, mussing Bowman’s blond wig as he got out and set off north with Webb. Ahead of them, a hundred metres away, the Du Veil apartment building towered over its neighbours. A glassy structure shaped like a tower fan, twenty-three storeys high. To the left of the building was a chic restaurant with a rooftop garden. To the right, an older pastel-coloured block. Monegasque flags fluttered above the entrance.
They hit the zebra crossing and approached the entrance in short, brisk strides. Just another pair of couriers in a powerful hurry. They swept through the sliding glass doors and entered a wide lobby decorated with abstract sculptures, chandeliers and designer furniture. The floor looked as polished as a green army recruit’s boots on parade day. A slim, tanned concierge stood behind a dark wooden desk, dressed in a suit so sharp you could hack through bamboo with it. There was a framed picture behind him. Prince Albert II and his wife, beaming for the camera.
The concierge stared at the two men as they drew near, as if deciding how to deal with them. His eyes dropped to their logo-branded jackets and caps, and when he looked up again, he flashed a polite but firm smile at them. As if signifying that he was prepared to tolerate their presence, as basic human courtesy, but no more than that. The tag above his breast pocket gave his name as Raymond.
‘Oui, messieurs?’ he asked sharply. ‘Yes, may I help you?’
‘We’re from HLO Global,’ Bowman said. ‘Got some legal documents for Mr David Lang to sign.’
‘HLO?’ The concierge’s eyebrows came together. ‘But your caps, monsieur, they say you are from HLX, non?’
Bowman opened his mouth, but no words came out. He couldn’t focus. Started to panic. ‘Yeah. No, I mean—’
Webb hastily stepped forward and said a few quick words in French to the concierge. He made an exaggerated gesture, waving a hand at Bowman and shrugging as if to say, What can you do? I’ve got to work with this idiot for a living. The concierge smiled. His expression visibly relaxed. Webb gestured to the document and tapped his watch. A clear signal. Emphasising that the job was urgent. His body language said: We’ve got to get these papers signed. Can you help us out? Bowman watched his colleague with surprise. The quiet, shy soldier had completely transformed himself into a chatty, cheerful French delivery driver.
The concierge picked up the phone and dialled a number.
Lang answered on the fourth ring. The concierge addressed him in a grovelling tone of voice, telling him about the couriers, the important papers. There was a pause before Lang barked something inaudible. Then the line clicked dead. Raymond replaced the receiver. Looked up.
‘You may go up,’ he said in English, for the benefit of Webb’s colleague. ‘Monsieur Lang, he will see you.’
‘We will have to wait upstairs,’ Webb pointed out. ‘For the other parties to arrive. We must have all the signatures before returning the papers to the office.’
‘Bien. Not
