MONACO
With most of the city’s thirty-five thousand residents at the Grand Prix racecourse, the Boulevard de Belgique, only a few blocks away, was nearly deserted. On a normal Sunday, this Monte Carlo district, where Credit Condamine’s bank headquarters was located, would be teeming with tourists, but most of them were at the race. Sergey Golov was satisfied to see that they wouldn’t have to contend with many witnesses, just as they’d planned.
Henri Munier’s Tesla SUV stopped at the gate to the underground parking garage, and Golov slid Munier’s identity card into the reader. The hardened steel gate cranked up, and Golov steered the vehicle to the bank president’s private parking spot.
He switched off the SUV and nodded to Ivana Semova in the passenger seat. She connected her laptop to the car’s data port and began typing on the keyboard. Although she had introduced herself to Munier as Antonovich’s assistant, in reality she was the billionaire’s computer expert. The Kiev native had ditched her hacker lifestyle—breaking into American retail databases and designing viruses that could worm into secure financial systems—to help Antonovich protect his own companies from people just like her. Her work had been so stellar that he’d asked her to lead the team that designed the state-of-the-art digital control architecture on his yacht. He’d paid handsomely for her services, and she was worth every penny.
After a minute, she said, “Reprogramming complete.”
“That’s my girl,” Golov said. He turned in his seat to face Munier, who was sandwiched between O’Connor and Sirkal, Antonovich’s most trusted security operatives.
Rahul Sirkal had gained combat experience in the Indian military during the Kashmir conflict before joining the intelligence service, then retired five years ago to build a private security business. Though Antonovich was Russian, he had traveled the world extensively, so he didn’t limit himself to hiring from Russia alone. He’d come across Sirkal during a particularly troublesome negotiation with his Bangalore subsidiary and was so impressed that he hired the Indian to head up his own security team.
Seamus O’Connor, a florid Irishman and a veteran of the Irish Republican Army, was Sirkal’s weapons expert who didn’t mind getting his hands dirty when the need arose. He was the brawler to complement Sirkal’s technical approach.
Sitting between them, Munier looked decidedly apprehensive.
“I want to remind you that we will be watching and listening at all times,” Golov said to Munier.
Ivana turned the laptop’s screen toward him to show her and Golov, as seen from the wide-angle lapel camera on Munier’s jacket.
Munier nodded. “I understand.”
“If we lose the signal for more than three seconds, or we don’t see your hands in the frame for a similar amount of time, we will assume that you are attempting to reveal our involvement. Not only will we detonate the tiny explosive in the camera but your family will suffer before they die.”
“I said I understand.” Munier glanced around the parking lot. “And the guards inside? What are you going to do to them, once you’re in?”
“What do you think?”
“I . . . I can’t . . .”
“You can if you want your wife and children to live.”
Munier composed himself and nodded again.
“You have five minutes,” Golov said.
Munier got out and went to the elevator.
Ivana had the ultra-light laptop propped on her knees. The image coming from the lapel camera was clear, and they could distinctly hear Munier’s ragged breathing.
“Don’t hyperventilate,” Golov said into his microphone. “You’re supposed to look natural. Don’t leave the elevator until you compose yourself.”
“All right,” Munier replied, and his breathing slowed enough so that he no longer sounded like he was about to pass out from nervousness.
The elevator dinged, and Munier walked into the bank’s lobby. He was met by a uniformed guard, coming out of the security office.
The guard spoke to him in French. Ivana, who was fluent in four languages, translated for Golov.
“Munier called him André. He’s surprised to see Munier there.”
“He doesn’t look too happy about it, either,” Golov said.
“He was probably about to watch the race and is embarrassed he missed the arrival of Munier’s car in the garage. He doesn’t seem suspicious.”
Munier spoke again. The guard nodded and ducked into the security office next to the lobby.
“He went to get another guard named François. Munier told him that his driver was having a problem with the car and needed their help.”