The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

Henri Munier would never admit to a soul that he couldn’t stand motor sports, not when he was the president of a bank in a country with the world’s most famous auto race. Many of

his biggest clients were Formula series drivers who lived in Monaco to take advantage of its reputation as a tax-free haven. They would be appalled to learn that he thought their sport was obnoxious and boring.

He couldn’t help cringing as he drove his new customized Tesla electric SUV past the Monaco Grand Prix turn known as La Rascasse. The morning race of Formula 3.5 cars was nearing its end, the sleek race cars’ high-pitched engines whining as they rounded the corner and revved to full speed. The SUV’s windows did little to block out the incessant shriek.

And it would only get worse. The main Formula 1 event, featuring the most advanced race cars on earth, would take place later in the afternoon. The race was one of the few Grand Prix events run on city streets, and Munier hated the disruption to Monte Carlo traffic, for the six weeks before and the three weeks after, as the course was constructed and then taken down.

He had no intention of attending the race and getting stuck feigning interest in it for two hours. As he did every year, he took the opportunity to accept an invitation to one of the lavish parties thrown on the multitude of mega-yachts squeezed into the harbor, many of them with a perfect view of the racecourse. He’d sent his wife and two daughters to sunbathe on the beach in Antibes so he could enjoy the weekend by himself.

This year, he’d scored the most sought-after invitation in town. One of the largest yachts in the world, the Achilles, had tied up along the harbor’s longest berth, and the decadent bashes visible on her decks had been the talk of the city all week. The host, Maxim Antonovich, had sent a gilded invitation for Munier to be his guest, and the banker suspected the reclusive billionaire wanted to talk about stashing a substantial portion of his holdings in Credit Condamine. Perhaps he was even considering becoming a citizen.

Munier wouldn’t mind combining a little business with his pleasure.

He stopped at the end of the pier closest to the Achilles and stared at the massive vessel. Even though Munier was accustomed to the trappings of wealth, it was like no other yacht on the water.

At 400 feet, she wasn’t as long as the largest mega-yachts, but her width was unsurpassed. The main body of the superstructure sat astride gigantic twin hulls, which would give the ship impressive stability even in heavy seas. The interior space had to be double that of other similar-length yachts, and two huge pools and a hot tub on the top deck were the settings for many of the parties. The rear deck had room enough not only for a helicopter landing pad but for a hangar as well.

The bone-white yacht had been built in secrecy, so many of the features were only rumors, but it was thought to have a submarine and a defense system to ward off rocket-wielding pirates. Munier wouldn’t be surprised if it did. Ever since the luxury yacht Tiara had been boarded off the coast of Corsica in 2008 and robbed of a quarter million in cash, yacht owners had been going to greater and greater lengths to protect their vessels.

When he got out of the car, a light breeze ruffled Munier’s pima cotton shirt and silk slacks as he walked toward the Achilles’s gangplank, where he was greeted by a lovely young blond woman flanked by two huge men in suits guarding the entry from passersby. Dressed demurely in tailored trousers and vest that nonetheless showed off her slim figure, she glanced at the tablet computer she held before addressing him in perfect English.

“Mr. Munier,” she said with a glowing smile, “my name is Ivana Semova, Mr. Antonovich’s personal secretary. Welcome to the Achilles.”

He shook her hand and said, “I’m thrilled to receive the invitation. His reputation as a generous host is well known. Will I have a chance to meet him while I’m aboard so I can thank him in person?”

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Antonovich has requested your presence in the forward drawing room. If you’ll follow me . . .”

She led him up the gangplank and then a series of stairs to the main outdoor deck. Dozens of bathing beauties in skimpy bikinis cavorted with men of all ages and physiques, some in the pool, some on plush chaise longues. Thumping electronic dance music, only slightly more tolerable than the race car engines’ whines, blasted from speakers hidden throughout the deck.

When they went inside and the thick doors closed behind them, the music was instantly muted to a barely audible hum. The clip of Ivana’s Louboutins was occasionally deadened when they whispered across Persian rugs.

“Here we are,” Ivana said as they entered another elegantly appointed room, this one with a huge mahogany desk at the far end. The high-backed chair behind it was facing away from Munier so that he couldn’t see its occupant.

He thought that this must be Antonovich’s way of making a dramatic introduction. He’d only seen grainy photos of the reclusive billionaire, who was in his sixties, with a paunch, thick salt-and-pepper curls, and a port-wine birthmark on his left cheek that was the shape of a scimitar. Antonovich had made his money the old-fashioned way: he’d bought up many of the most valuable mineral deposits in the Caucasus Mountains when they were privatized. Since making his fortune, he’d supposedly channeled funds into political operations that opposed the Kremlin, leading to a paranoid lifestyle.

Munier waited for the billionaire to reveal his presence.

Nothing happened.

Ivana tapped on her phone, paying no attention to the awkward silence.

Munier cleared his throat. “Will Mr. Antonovich be joining us soon?”

“Just a moment,” she replied, but Munier didn’t know if that meant he’d be there in a moment or that she needed a moment. At the bank, Munier would be the one to keep people waiting, but here he remained quiet despite his growing annoyance at the delay. If nothing else, he wanted to go out and join in the revelry.

A door at the far end whisked open and a short, muscular man stalked in, accompanied by two others, an Indian and a pale man with ginger hair, both of them athletically built. The diminutive leader had a stippling of close-shaved black hair that was balding in spots. His nose looked as if it had been broken in a couple of fights, his thin lips turned down in a tight frown, and he had a burn scar that started below his left ear and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. Despite his brutish appearance, charisma seemed to flow from him in waves.

He came to a stop in front of Munier and appraised him without saying a word.

Munier decided he’d be the one to break the ice. “Mr. Antonovich, what a pleasure it is—”

The man barked a laugh that ended abruptly.

“I’m not Antonovich. My name is Sergey Golov, the captain of this vessel.” His accent wasn’t thick, but it was definitely Slavic. “Have a seat, Munier. We have some things to discuss.”

Though he was confused, Munier did as asked. He expected to be offered a cocktail, but none seemed to be forthcoming.

He glanced at the still-turned chair and then at Ivana, whose smile had vanished. “I was under the impression that Mr. Antonovich would be here.”