Heirs Book Two: American Lady (13 page)

Nikki huffed, not wanting to give in too
easily. “Well, you don’t look like a designer,” she protested
feebly. “You look like a cowboy.”

Giffin gave his face-splitting grin.

“And you have an unpronounceable
surname.”

“Okay, so you think I belong in Spaghetti
westerns,” he was still grinning.

“Besides,” Nikki temporized. “Giancarlo has
already done the preliminary designs for the next collection.”

“If you take me on I’ll give you a week free
of charge. Compare my designs with Giancarlo’s. If you like the
designs I produce then you hire me to run the whole operation
dealing with your winter collection. It’s not going to be easy,” he
warned. “We’ll have to train like we’re going into the Olympics. We
have one chance. We are going to have to be inspired. We’ll have to
look at Paris…”

“Just a minute,” Nikki angrily cut him off.
“You haven’t even given me your free week yet, Mister. Why don’t we
wait and see whether you’ll be staying at American Lady long enough
to become a gunslinger.”

Griffin couldn’t stop grinning, flicking a
hand in lazy acknowledgment of her protest.

“You’ll have to work on the sketches at
home. I’m not going to have you at American Lady disrupting the
whole office with speculation about your future. Come in and see me
at the end of next week and I’ll make a decision.”

Inarticulate with relief, Lyric got to his
feet, pumping Nikki’s hand as if she was a one-arm bandit. Griffin
sauntered after his friend.

“You remind me of Matt Dillon in Gunsmoke,”
Nikki surprised herself by saying.

Griffin looked back over his shoulder.

“Well, at least you’re associating me with
the good guys,” he smirked, following Lyric’s spider-thin form out
to the green volkswagon.

Maixent tried to concentrate on the current
environmental report, but Commissioner Beaucopas had requested an
interview with him today and that was so out of the ordinary that
Maixent could only suspect, excitedly yet with some trepidation,
there had been developments on the money laundering operation.

Restlessly he wandered over to the window.
Maixent’s office was a long, narrow room dominated by a picture
window at one end. Two years ago Leigh had redecorated the room
when he was given his ministries. The walls and high ceiling were
painted cream to give the room airiness. The carpet and curtains
were the pale green of shallow water. On the two long, facing walls
were a collection of modern art that Maixent preferred to the
Monets and Renoirs Leigh favored. The works were by French nouveau
réalisme artists Yves Klein and Pierre Restany and Altobesque
painters Gérard Bettane and Isabelle Fleur and added to the
lightness and brightness of the room.

He was disturbed by Anouk knocking on his
door to announce the arrival of Police Commissioner Beaucopas.

“Come in, Gilles, I’m just admiring the
view,” Maixent smiled, shaking hands.

On either side of the window were two
leather easy chairs and a small coffee table. Maixent invited
Beaucopas to sit and he took the other chair. “Anouk, could you
bring us two cups of coffee, please.”

The two men made small talk while they
waited for Anouk. Beaucopas and Maix surreptitiously admired the
length of firm tanned thigh she exposed as she put the two
demi-tasses on the low coffee table and then swayed alluringly out
the door.

Maix took a sip. It burnt his tongue with
its black bitter taste. Just the way he liked it.

“Am I right in presuming you’ve come to talk
about developments on Operation Aut vincere aut moeurs?” Maixent
asked guardedly.

“Indeed, your Highness.” Beaucopas’ forehead
wrinkled in pleasure at the directness of the question, but quickly
settled back into a frown. “I have traced a series of small
deposits beginning to filter through from Panama over the last ten
days. It will need monitoring to see if it continues.” He opened a
manila folder on his knees. “I have the banks and the deposits
itemized here for you to go over at your leisure. But in a
nutshell, activity seems to be taking place in the four largest
banks in St Benezet. Presumably the Mafia expect the transactions
to get lost amongst the activity because these banks deal with
hundreds if not thousands of transactions every day. Panama is a
haven for laundering money because of its bank secrecy laws,
meaning it allows anonymous banking. So, while we can trace the
source of the deposits into the Altobesque banks it is not going to
yield any identifying information.”

“What’s the nature of the deposits?” Maixent
asked curiously.

“All deposits have been under five thousand
US dollars which is normally below the banks’ reporting level and
the only reason they’re red flagged for my attention is because of
the information from Falcone. Nothing stands out except that all
the deposits I’m monitoring come from one particular Panama bank.
So far I’m tracking eight accounts, two at each of the banks, but
there may be others that I’ve missed. The total amount deposited so
far is in excess of three hundred thousand US dollars, and that’s
in a matter of days.”

Maixent pursed his lips in a silent whistle.
“So it looks very promising, Gilles, that it is in fact a
laundering service.”

“I think so as well, your Highness. There’s
one other development. We’re been monitoring the border patrol,
keeping a close watch on just who is coming and going into
Altobello. Falcone gave me a few Mafia names but I didn’t really
expect any of them to come into Altobello. That would have been too
easy.” The ridges on Beaucopas’ forehead were deeply grooved in
appreciation of his own humor.

Despite his deadpan demeanor, Maixent sensed
that Beaucopas was excited. His body sat forward too intensely, his
gestures were a little too buoyant.

“Given the date when this financial activity
started I followed up on our passport records around that time in
case the Mafia had sent someone to open the accounts personally.
One stands out – a Cesare Cabrini. He is listed as an American
financial consultant arriving in Altobello for a holiday. An
Italian name linked to finance – it’s a long shot but I’d like your
permission to keep track of him whilst he’s in town. But we’re
going to have to be very careful with this person of interest. If
he is our Mafia link then we don’t want to alert him that we’re
onto him.”

“And if he’s a genuine tourist we don’t want
him complaining to the American Embassy,” Maixent added
caustically.

“I’d like to make a very discreet background
check in America to see if this Cesare Cabrini is who he says he
is.” Beaucopas paused, sipping his coffee reflectively before
asking, “What do you think about the possibility of alerting other
European police to see if more accounts have been opened with
deposits from Panama?”

Maixent settled his own coffee cup on its
saucer, having drained the dregs while Beaucopas was talking. Now
he prowled around his desk, the thrilling news stirring him to
action.

Was sharing this news with other agencies in
Altobello’s best interests to keep the country safe? But the
minimal evidence they had was absolutely circumstantial. The last
thing he wanted to do was develop a leak that would not only tip
off the Mafia but would make Altobello look ridiculous if the
charges couldn’t be proved. The more people involved the riskier it
was to keep under wraps.

“No, Gilles. I’d rather wait and see where
the evidence leads. Are you sure you will be able to do a
surveillance operation on this Cesare Cabrini without alerting
him?”

“We’ll be circumspect, your Highness. I have
two very good undercover operatives that I have attached to this
detail. He has checked into the Hotel de Beausoleil under the name
Cesare Cabrini.” Again he consulted the manila folder and pulled
out a somewhat blurry head shot which he handed to Maixent. “My men
managed to take this shot.”

He passed over a photo of a mature man in
semi-profile. Thick silver hair swept back off a high forehead.
Crowsfeet fanned out from stern eyes. Quilting around the jawline.
Grim, but assured, expression. He could pass for a strait-laced
high school principal. Was this man putting Altobello in peril?

“Depending on the results of the background
check, my plan is to insert an operative into the hotel’s serving
staff so we can do a search of his room and plant a bug in his room
phone. I don’t want to place a physical tail on him at this stage
in case he’s looking out for that. If the background check
indicates he’s a person of interest, then I would like to attach a
tailing device to the chassis of his hired car so we can track his
movements. I just need your signature on this warrant as some of
these surveillance methods fall outside our usual jurisdiction.”
Beaucopas shunted through his manila folder and placed several
pages on the coffee table.

“Will you show Cabrini’s photo to bank staff
to see if anyone recognizes him as the one who opened those
accounts?” Decisively he crossed back to the table to pen his
signature.

“Not at this stage, your Highness. Again,
it’s a matter of not tipping off more people than we need to. If we
start questioning bank staff someone will get suspicious and before
we know it the Mafia will be tipped off.”

“Alright, Gilles. We’ll keep this between
ourselves until something more develops.”

* * *

On her last evening in Altobello Charley
accompanied the family to a performance of Puccini’s
La
Bohème
at the tiny Royal Opera House. Charley was not a fan of
opera and found it hard to pay attention to the singers during what
seemed an interminable four acts.

“Did you know that this opera is nearly a
hundred years old?” King Henri asked her during interval. Charley
refrained from telling him that she felt she had aged a hundred
years during the recital. “A young Arturo Toscanini conducted the
première in 1896,” Henri continued. “Fifty years later Toscanini
conducted the same music for a performance on American radio and
this performance was recorded. I have the recording in my personal
collection. It is the only recording of a Puccini opera led by its
original conductor. Are you a fan of either Puccini or Toscanini,
Miss Cassidy?”

“To be honest, your Highness, I prefer Bruce
Springsteen or Prince,” she admitted sheepishly.

“Charley is a very modern woman,” Maixent
interrupted, and she realized she had made a faux pas with her
potential father-in-law. Henri didn’t hide his disappointment.
Dayam, as Griffin would say, had she just dug herself into deep
shit? She remembered he had spoken admiringly of Infanta Elena,
oldest daughter of King Juan Carlos of Spain. Royal and Roman
Catholic – it was a combination that Charley couldn’t beat. Did
that mean she wasn’t living up to his dreams as a potential fiancée
for his son?

“I do enjoy the New York Symphony, though,”
Charley made an effort to redeem herself with Maixent’s father.
“They often play for the American Ballet Theater and mom and I go
there regularly.”

“I regret I have never seen one of their
ballet performances live, but they are renowned for their exquisite
productions. Of course how could they not be under the artistic
direction of Mikhail Baryshinikov, an incredible dancer in his own
right,” Henri responded more warmly. “I remember some years ago
seeing Baryshinikov on television dancing the Nutcracker with the
ABT.”

“His performance was electrifying,” Charley
agreed. “It was the first theater outing mom took us to when we
returned to New York from Paris.”

“Did you stay in France long, Miss Cassidy?”
Henri enquired politely.

“For several years, your Highness. I
completed my schooling in Paris before going to college in
America.”

“Don’t you think Charley speaks French well
for not being a native?” Maixent butted in again, and she smiled at
his determination to win kudos for his sweetheart.

Henri was nodding with approval and Charley
felt she had risen several notches in his estimation. Perhaps not
royal, but regal and Roman Catholic?

“I apologize that I haven’t been able to
spend as much time with you as I would have liked. Unfortunately
affairs of state have kept me busy.”

Maix had confided in her about Henri’s
declining health and she suspected this was the real reason he had
been absent from so many gatherings. She couldn’t imagine that he
would otherwise have missed the opportunity to grill her as the
only girlfriend Maix had ever invited to the palace.

As the bell was tolling to indicate the end
of the interval, the group returned to the royal box. In keeping
with their low profile, the ladies sat together with Charley
ensconced between Leigh and Aurelie and the four men, Henri,
Maixent, Thiérry and Father Emile sitting on the other side.

After the performance King Henri’s Rolls
Royce Phantom IV waited to take them back to the palace. Henri
looked tired and this outing had been one of his rare public
appearances.

“Shall we return to the palace? It has been
a long evening.” Henri was supported down the stairs by Father
Emile and his son.

“I’m so wide awake, I couldn’t possibly
sleep,” Charley sighed, gazing up at the star-studded sky as they
emerged from the theater. Tonight was her last evening in Altobello
and she certainly didn’t want to waste it sleeping, at least not
alone. Maixent had already planned a romantic rendezvous and his
Audi was parked nearby. “Why don’t we go for pizza?” she suggested.
It was the sort of impromptu outing she would propose while out
with her friends in New York.

Maixent looked surprised, Aurelie clapped
her hands and Leigh laughed.

“I can’t remember the last time I had a
slice of pizza,” Leigh admitted. “Unfortunately you’re not going to
find a local pizzeria in St Benezet.”