Samantha ran toward them, now leading the way. Michael could not believe his eyes. A minute earlier, he had believed that a safe escape from the Chateau was almost impossible.
The lead officer, Captain LeClerque, needed information from them.
“Parlez-vous français, monsieur?”
This was no time, Michael thought, to try to communicate in his pathetic French. Even Samantha, who usually insisted on speaking French in France, quickly answered, “No, we’re Americans.”
“No problem, I spent a year in New York City.” The captain needed to assess the situation inside the hotel. “What did you see inside?”
Michael described the evening’s horror, beginning with the note under Samantha’s pillow and ending with the harrowing ride down the elevator with their security guard dead on the floor. The police were obviously already aware of the earlier murder in the pool bathroom.
“Our officers have surrounded the hotel’s grounds. No one can get in or out. We will now go into the Chateau, floor by floor, room by room. Please, stay here behind the barricade. We will need you later. This officer will stay with you.” Captain LeClerque motioned to a junior officer, who moved closer to Michael and Samantha, stretching his long arms out to them in a protective manner.
But just before leaving them, Captain LeClerque placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “I must compliment you, monsieur.”
“Yes, thank you, but why?”
“For an American, your text messages have been in perfect French. I never would have guessed—”
“Text messages? From me?”
“Why yes, of course. The messages were from a phone listed under the name ‘Nicholas.’ This is how we were notified of the problem in the Chateau. You are also quite modest, again, for an American. I compliment you, sir.”
Michael turned and exchanged glances with Samantha, who then whispered into Michael’s ear, “But you didn’t send—” before she stopped in midsentence.
LeClerque continued, “If we had not been notified so quickly, the killer surely would not have fled before completing his work. You both are very fortunate.”
Michael finally spoke, “Yes, I’m sure.” He looked cautiously again at Samantha who wore what appeared to be a puzzled—or was it a troubled—expression. But, Michael realized, he wasn’t sure at all
what
Samantha was thinking. For now, it was best to leave it alone and let her draw her own conclusions.
“By the way, Monsieur Nicholas, if you don’t mind, I was curious how you were able to locate my private mobile number. And to do this under such intense pressure,
voilà
, I am amazed.”
Michael didn’t know what to say. “Ah, Captain, the wonders of technology.”
“What was that all about? Did you send him a text?” Samantha said, once they were out of earshot.
“Of course not. I never even heard of him until five minutes ago.”
Michael stared into Samantha’s eyes; he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. He wasn’t even sure himself what to make of the captain’s revelations, but he knew better than to bring up Alex’s name.
Not yet. Not until she’s ready to believe
. Samantha, he knew, needed time to reach her own conclusions.
Twenty minutes passed. The scene outside the Chateau was surreal: klieg lights, news cameras, police, and locals gathered in a controlled mob scene. Officers were now filing out of the hotel and returning to their places back behind the barricades. Michael watched as Captain LeClerque appeared busy receiving reports directly from the returning officers and an ongoing stream of police radio messages. He was nodding his head up and down with a restrained smile as he approached Michael and Samantha.
“We have him,” the captain said to Michael and Samantha. “He was heading off the grounds toward the water. We suspect an accomplice was waiting on a boat to pick him up.”
“Oh, what a relief,” Samantha said.
“We have not been able to locate any such ship, however,” LeClerque added.
“So someone else is still out there?” Michael said, his optimism quickly evaporating.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” LeClerque said. But the captain seemed preoccupied; he was looking down at his phone. “This is most unusual, monsieur.”
“What is it?” Michael said as Samantha drew near.
“We believe there was a speedboat that was waiting for our killer. Witnesses saw a—what do you say?—a cigarette boat at the beach. We suspect it took off when they realized that we apprehended our suspect. But for the past several minutes, I have been receiving GPS coordinates from a fast-moving ship in the bay. They have been in the form of more text messages. We have tracked the source, and they appear to be coming directly from the boat. This is all very strange.” He looked up at Michael as though he was waiting for an explanation.
“Our navy patrol ships are rapidly approaching these coordinates. They have the speedboat—a cigarette boat—in sight now and will be overtaking it shortly. I suspect that we will then have our remaining criminals.”
“But why would the boat be both fleeing and sending you its location coordinates?” Michael said, innocently.
“Monsieur Nicholas, criminals are frequently stupid.”
Chapter 66
I
t was nearly three in the morning before Michael and Samantha were allowed back to their room to catch a few hours’ sleep before their helicopter took them back to Nice for their late-morning flight home to JFK.
Michael had spent an hour with the French police, who, in a dignified but persistent manner, questioned him and sat—absorbed if not fascinated themselves—as Michael recounted the events, beginning with Alex’s shooting. The French officials, however, wanted to keep it simple. They needed to ensure that they caught the perpetrators of the crimes just committed that day on French soil, and it appeared that they were satisfied they had done just that.
Just as Michael and Samantha were finally tucked in bed, the phone rang. Reaching for it, Michael wondered what else could befall them in their final hours in Saint-Tropez.
“Monsieur Nicholas, this is Captain LeClerque. I am so sorry to disturb you.”
“Yes, Captain. It’s not a bother. What can I do for you?”
“I have news for you. I thought it might put your mind at ease. After all, we want to be sure you come back to Saint-Tropez again next summer.”
“Of course, don’t worry, Captain. I just hope next summer is a little more peaceful. What news do you have for me?”
“As you know, we captured the man we believe committed the murder at the pool and who murdered your security guard in the elevator. We also captured another person who was piloting the boat for the killer’s getaway. They are both Russians. We are familiar with them, although until now, we had no grounds to detain them. They are professionals. There always seems to be a market here in Saint-Tropez and this part of France for Russian hit men.
“Nevertheless, monsieur, they are in our custody, and I do not expect them to be released any time soon. Between the surveillance tapes from the hotel and the eyewitness accounts from the guests and staff, I believe we will have these two behind bars for a long time. I am also pleased to tell you that we are sure they acted alone. No one else here was involved in carrying out these crimes.”
“Did you find out why the speedboat was sending you its coordinates?” Michael asked.
“It’s funny that you ask. I also was very curious too, of course. The driver on the boat claims he knows nothing about it. He claims that he set the GPS locator for his intended escape route to Marseilles, but that he had no idea that any location signals were being transmitted—let alone, of course, to me. I must confess to you, that I am without a clue as to how this could have occurred.
“But as I said, criminals are not always smart. This could have been a series of errors and coincidences. He may have unwittingly set the device to transmit his location and somehow perhaps in a manner only the gods can explain, those signals came to me. Perhaps, as they say, a ‘twist of fate’
or
maybe just a mystery of this Internet that everyone is watching.”
“Perhaps, Captain. Our world, it seems, has become very complex.”
“But, monsieur, there is something else. The message I received from you earlier, warning me of the situation at the Chateau and requesting help—”
“Yes, I must admit I don’t know how—”
“Monsieur, they have all vanished. I attempted to show the messages to our magistrate, and there is no trace of them. Poof, they are gone.”
“I wish I could explain any of this, but I can’t. I never sent those messages,” Michael said. As he thought about this new and strange sequence of events, Captain LeClerque spoke again.
“Perhaps, monsieur, for some occurrences there are no answers. But there is one more thing I need to tell you. As you say in America, there is good news and bad news. The good news is these criminals have been caught. As I indicated, they acted alone and are now and for a long time secure in our prison.”
“Yes—and the bad news, Captain?” Michael asked.
“The bad news, sir, is that, as I said, they are hired, professional hit men. Someone we don’t know paid them to do their work today. We do not believe this person is in France. So, unless there is more than one team of assassins, which is highly doubtful, you should be safe here. And we will be watching you and your wife carefully until you board your plane in Nice. But, monsieur, it seems that someone with resources wants to bring harm to you or Madame Nicholas, or both of you.”
Michael listened thoughtfully. The captain’s conclusions weren’t a surprise. “
Merci
, Captain. I appreciate your help today, and I look forward to being back here in Saint-Tropez next year.
Au revoir
.”
“Good night, Mr. Nicholas.”
As soon as he hung up, Samantha lifted her head from the pillow and asked Michael, “What did he say?”
“He said the two involved will be locked up for a long time. They’ve got surveillance tapes and eyewitness accounts. They were Russian hit men who acted alone here.”
“Did he say anything else?” Samantha asked.
“Just that he felt we were safe now and to have a good trip in the morning.” Michael turned over, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.
Chapter 67
4:30 a.m.
I
t shouldn’t have been a surprise, but Michael was wired, wide awake. He had left Samantha asleep, gently closing the bedroom door behind him and settling into the comfortable white cotton, thick-cushioned couch in the suite’s sitting room. Here he logged onto his computer.
In seconds, Alex appeared on the screen. “
Buenos dias.
”
“I’m in France, Alex; Saint-Tropez is in France, not Spain.”
“I know. I still don’t see what the fuck you like about that country. They’re all so serious and stuck-up, although they do have some good-looking women.”
“Someday I’ll explain it. I need to speak with you. Some horrible things have happened here that I suspect you already know about.” Michael then filled Alex in on the details of the afternoon and evening, ending with the call from Captain LeClerque. Alex appeared to listen carefully but said nothing.
“So, how the hell did you figure out what was going on, and how did you send all these texts?” Michael asked. “Not to mention—in perfect French.”
“The French part was easy—it’s called iTranslate; it’s an Apple app,” Alex said, a look of satisfaction spread across his face.
“I’ll have to check it out, but that’s the least of it,” Michael said, aware of the irony of getting technology lessons from Alex.
“The rest of it is not so simple. Some changes have been happening. I don’t know whether you’re aware of them or not. For example, I’m hardly sleeping anymore. It’s funny, I hardly ever slept when I was alive—not that I’m dead, obviously—and now it’s the same. I don’t sleep.”
“What do you mean?”
“The best way to explain this is that if I were just a computer, my systems, my software, whatever the fuck it is, it’s all still working even though I may be resting. It’s like I never shut down completely anymore. So, I’m always working, following things. It also means I’m tired a lot. Just like I always used to be. I feel like I’m still running around all night but without the booze.”
“But how about the messages to the captain, and how are you finding out almost everything that’s going on all the time?”
“A lot of things are at work here, Michael—hotel surveillance cameras that are transmitting images, captured text messages between the two hit men, GPS signals—they’re all out there, in cyberspace or whatever the fuck you call it.”
“But, Alex,
how do you get them
, and how do you sort through everything that’s flying around in order to find what’s happening in a specific situation, like mine yesterday?”
“There are filters, things like I can type into my mind (except I don’t actually type), if that’s what it is, that allow me to search for what I need. It’s like when you do a Google search or you program a search mechanism to inform you about certain things.”
Michael felt a rush of adrenaline—or was it stress, or fear?—he wasn’t sure. “I just don’t know how all this—and I mean everything,
including you
—how it’s all possible. I mean,
am I dead myself
and I just don’t know it?”
“No, Michael, you’re not dead.
And neither am I
.”
Those words seemed to sear through Michael’s brain. He was even more confused. “Alex, I just don’t understand—”
“Listen, I don’t fuckin’ understand it yet myself. It’s like there’s some ether world out there, things we couldn’t imagine before and that I can’t intelligently explain even today. But I know that all these systems and software are allowing me to see and do things and make connections.”
“Connections? What do you mean?”
“The more I learn, the more powerful I get. I can see the things from the old world, the one we grew up learning about in school or church, the stuff I never believed in. What we called your soul or spirit. Then, there’s this new virtual life, cyberspace or whatever, with Internet messages and videos and all that, flying all over the place.”