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  Slade tapped the steering wheel and reflected for a moment.

  “Maybe it was a marriage of convenience for Richard Palmer,” he said. “He sets her up in Japan with a model agency. Then she holds a series of compromising dinner parties with beautiful women and key military industry players, and maybe Japanese Ministry of Defense officials, to shorten the odds of selection.”

  “But what’s in it for Chloe?” Isa asked.

  “You mean Carol, formerly Chloe.” Roche laughed. “The question is, which one—Carol in the Tokyo morgue or Carol who’s sailing the Mediterranean on her husband’s luxury yacht?”

  “Forgetting the issue of names and identities for a moment, I think whoever married Palmer would be in it for money, lifestyle, and a legal promise of a lucrative divorce settlement,” Slade said. “But who knows, she may even love the guy and hopes the arrangement lasts.”

  “Especially the part of the arrangement involving life on his yacht, au moins,” Roche said.

  Slade sipped his drink. “When I look at the other yachts here, the Chevalier must be spectacular to lead this pack.”

  “One of the contract cleaners hanging out in the café told me its pool converts to a helipad, and a fifteen-person Jacuzzi turns into a circular bed on a platform rotating with the sun. If the sun is too intense, the bed sprays guests with a fine mist. And if that doesn’t make you feel comfortable, you and your guests can head to a winter room where you can cool down in a flurry of artificial snow.”

  Isa laughed and tossed her hair back. “How did you get all this information?”

  “I told them I’m writing a feature article on the superyacht industry for Le Monde. In just twenty minutes, I’ve become quite an expert. Did you know some superyachts can be up to six hundred feet long? They usually anchor out in the bay and use super tenders to reach the wharf. Their shuttle speedboats alone can cost more than three million dollars.”

  “In the middle of a global recession, who owns all of these vessels?” Isa asked.

  “People like Palmer, I guess.” Slade took his eyes off his laptop screen for a moment.

  “Russian and Middle Eastern interests own the largest, the real megayachts, but CEOs of large public companies own most of the large boats like the Chevalier,” Roche said. “At least, that’s according to Wikipedia.” He pointed to his computer screen. “Only people with top global CEO salaries or their companies can afford to pay even the peripheral costs. Just to rent this berth all year and keep it for personal use costs three to four million euros a year.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “I know, huge bucks.”

  “No,” Slade said. “I was referring to the vessel coming in now. It’s enormous and heading this way. It could be the Chevalier well ahead of schedule.”

  Roche pulled out binoculars from his bag. “I picked this up at the airport. It’s digital with video recording and autofocus. I’ve wanted a reason to buy this model, and thought it might come in useful here.” He studied the approaching vessel for a few minutes and said, “Oh, mon Dieu! That is a huge yacht. It is the Chevalier, and you’re right, it’s arriving much earlier than expected. I wonder why. Maybe there’s something or someone she doesn’t want us to see.”

  “Or maybe the strange news of her death in Tokyo rattled her,” Slade said. “I wouldn’t feel like cruising if a detective told me I was stretched out in a Tokyo morgue. Let’s stay out of sight and see what happens.”

  CHAPTER 15

  (Saturday Afternoon— Monte Carlo)

  The yacht moored. A bevy of men and women dressed in uniforms of white shirts and shorts appeared on the lowest deck and lined up to farewell their passengers. Four Oriental men in poorly tailored white suits, trailed by four young, curvaceous Western women, ambled down the gangway and headed toward a stretch limousine pulling up beside the yacht. The assembled crew followed with luggage and waved them off. Snatches of farewell conversation diffusing across the driveway told Slade the men were Chinese.

  “That may be what Palmer didn’t want us to see,” he said.

  After the limousine drove away, the crew returned to the yacht, and within thirty minutes, most left the vessel again dressed in T-shirts and jeans.

  A striking woman in a white pantsuit appeared on the top deck and watched the crew disperse. The wind blew her hair back from her face. Even from their distance, Slade saw her unmistakable resemblance to the dead woman in Tokyo.

  “Let me have the binoculars for a moment,” Isa said, pulling them from Roche’s hands. She leaned out the car window. “She’s identical to the woman I worked for in Tokyo, but we know she’s dead. When I look at her, I feel there’s something significant I’m missing.”

  Slade took the binoculars from Isa and focused on the woman’s face.

  “It’s amazing what plastic surgery can do,” he said.

  Isa grabbed the binoculars back from Slade and studied the woman on the deck again. “There’s definitely an aspect of her appearance puzzling me.”

  Slade tapped the steering wheel. “So, Isa, based on what you remember, could this woman be Chloe’s younger sister impersonating her?”

  “I guess anything is possible. I went to college with Chloe. I worked in Tokyo for Chloe. The dead body I found in Tokyo was Chloe. This woman here in Monaco looks exactly like her, so if she’s Chloe’s sister, she must have had a tremendous amount of work done. Her sister was attractive but not as beautiful as Chloe. And remember, they had different fathers.”

  “So the million-dollar question is, why did the younger sister go to such lengths to impersonate her older sister Chloe, aka Carol Palmer?” Slade said. “She subjected herself to customized plastic surgery so accurate it even fooled her sister’s husband, who said he holidayed with her on their yacht until a few days ago. If we can find the solution to this conundrum, I’m sure we’ll solve the murder in Tokyo.”

  “She’s left the deck and gone inside,” Roche said. “Looks like she might be retiring for the rest of the day. What do we do now?” He shut his computer and slid it into his backpack along with the binoculars.

  Slade pointed to the vessel. “There’s your answer. She’s going ashore for the long term, and we will follow her.”

  The woman walked along the lowest deck toward the gangway, followed by six crew members, each burdened with immaculate white suitcases. A Rolls-Royce pulled up beside the Chevalier. The crew loaded most of her bags into the trunk and the rest on the seat beside the driver.

  Slade started the engine. “My bet is she’ll spend a couple of days in the Hotel de Paris to get her land legs again before she travels to London.”

  “Why the Hotel de Paris?” Roche asked.

  “It’s where she told me to meet her at eleven tomorrow morning.” Slade moved the car into traffic and followed the limousine from a discreet distance. “And it’s a few steps away from the Casino de Monte Carlo. As you said earlier, Mr. and Mrs. Palmer are no strangers to the casino’s tables, and she’ll want ease of access. Let’s see if I’m right.”

  The Rolls-Royce coursed around the east side of the marina, turned into Boulevard Albert I and traveled west for a short distance before turning right into Avenue d’Ostende. Close to the top of the steep incline, it veered right into the Avenue de Monte Carlo and pulled up in front of the Hotel de Paris in the Place du Casino. Slade parked their rental car in a vacant slot near the entrance, giving them a clear view of the hotel’s lobby.

  “Alex, follow her to reception and see if you can find out her room number, how long she plans to stay, if she’s alone, and so on. We’ll wait for you here.”

  # # #

  Roche leaped up the short flight of stairs leading from the Place du Casino to the hotel’s lobby. He gave the sculptures, marble columns, and iconic equestrian statue of Louis XIV no more than a fleeting glance.

  There was no sign of Palmer, so he figured the hotel staff had given her their VIP treatment and escorted her directly to the room. He went back to the entran
ce. One of the porters was stacking Palmer’s luggage on a bellman cart, but with too many bags to fit, he left several unattended while he stepped outside to get another cart.

  Roche picked up the smallest bag and whisked it away to the reception area. He concealed it behind a chair in sight of the elevator and sat down. Then he watched two porters wheel the carts into the elevator and saw it stop on the second floor. Finally, he picked up the bag he’d stashed out of sight and raced up the stairs to the second floor.

  He followed the sound of the bellman carts and saw the porters knock on the main door of the Charles Garnier Diamond Suite.

  “I think this bag must have fallen off the trolley. I found it on the floor in the elevator.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Roche started to move away when the door opened.

  Richard Palmer’s assistant, Tony Hewitt, stood there looking relaxed in jeans and an open-necked shirt. Hewitt stepped back to accommodate the porters hauling the luggage into the room. He stood a couple of inches shorter than Roche, making him approximately five foot nine. Roche put him in his mid-forties from the telltale fading and thinning of his reddish-brown hair. His nose was too big and lips too thin to describe him as handsome, but Roche thought his distinguished looks would attract many women.

  Roche watched the porters unload the luggage. Before leaving, he glanced through the open door at the massive living area overlooking the Casino de Monte Carlo with glimpses of the Mediterranean beyond. Carol Palmer stood in full view on the balcony with her back to the door. The sun’s rays bounced off her blonde hair, creating an image of an ethereal sunburst. She held a half-empty glass of the hotel’s complimentary champagne. Hewitt refilled his own from an open bottle on the balcony table, moved to her side and draped his arm around her shoulders.

  Roche went back to the reception desk. “I stayed here a few years ago in the Charles Garnier Suite. Is there any chance it’s available now?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but that suite is occupied. We have several other suites available.”

  “No, I want the Charles Garnier Suite. When is it available?”

  The concierge checked the computer. “The current guest will stay two nights. It will be available after that. Shall I book it for you?”

  “Let me discuss it with my wife to see if we can change our travel plans. I’ll get back to you if we decide to stay.”

  Roche left and returned to the car.

  CHAPTER 16

  (Saturday Afternoon— Monte Carlo)

  Slade and Isa watched Roche run down the steps and slip into the back seat.

  “Second floor. Charles Garnier Suite. Staying two nights. And she has a companion—Tony Hewitt.”

  “We didn’t see him disembark from the yacht, so he must have traveled separately to meet her here.” Slade glanced at Isa checking emails on her cell phone. “We’ll have to keep you out of sight.”

  “Ono sent me a message. She wants me in London earlier than planned. There’s been a change in the models booked to wear my designs in her runway show, and we have to adapt the garments to their figures. She’ll arrive in London tomorrow night and hopes I’ll join her team right away.” She looked up from her cell phone. “I can leave by train for Paris tomorrow morning, spend a few hours there, and take the Eurostar to reach London in the evening, around the same time as Ono arrives.”

  “Okay. You’ll get a chance for a closer look at this woman tonight at the casino. We’ll catch up with you in London after we meet her tomorrow and finish up—” Slade was interrupted by a knock on the car window.

  “Hey, Mark. It’s been a while. Thanks for coming down,” Slade said, rolling down the windows. He turned to Roche and Isa. “Meet Mark Miles. We started at the Bureau in Washington together, and now he’s based in Marseille. I called him for backup here.”

  “No problem. Good to get away from paperwork for a while. Pleased to meet you folks. What’s the status here?” A heavyset man in his mid-thirties with a cleft chin and a defiant look at odds with his light brown curls and full, rather sensuous lips bent down to look through the open windows at Isa and Roche.

  Slade brought him up to speed and said, “Can you keep tabs on Palmer and Hewitt for a few hours? I’m pretty sure they’ll end up in the casino, so call me when they head in that direction, and we’ll join you.”

  “Okay. Will do. We’ve booked rooms for you at the Port Palace Hotel down the road. I assumed your budget doesn’t stretch to the Hotel de Paris, but your rooms at the Port Palace are first class and look out over the marina. You might even be able to spot the Chevalier if you’re on one of the higher floors. You’ll find my colleague, Ben Fontaine, waiting for you in the sixth-floor bar.”

  “Right. We’ll see you later.” Slade put the car in reverse and pulled away from the hotel.

  Less than five minutes later, they left the car with the valet at the Port Palace Hotel, checked in and went to the bar.

  A lanky man in his late twenties with a shock of blonde hair flopping over his forehead sat slouched in a chair in a shrewdly selected vantage point facing the door. Despite the spectacular view of Port Hercule and the marina, he looked bored. A nearly empty glass of wine stood on the side table beside him. His expression brightened and his back straightened, however, when they entered the room.

  “Hi, Dan, Alex, and Isa.” He nodded at each of them in turn. “I’m Ben Fontaine from the Marseille office.” He noted their raised eyebrows when he’d recognized them, and held up his cell phone. “Mark called to say he’d touched base and that you’d be here in five minutes. You’re right on time. He also sent these photos with your names, which helped.”

  “I didn’t see him take any photos,” Roche said.

  “That’s what spooks do, Alex,” Slade said. “They can’t all hack the internet like you, but they can secretly manage the world in plain view.”

  “Glad to see you.” Fontaine held up his glass. “I wasn’t sure how much longer I could make this drink last. When you’re down the pecking order like me, the expense account doesn’t run to more than one drink. I’ve read that a surveillance expert can make a cup of Greek coffee last five hours, which means I’m still at the lower end of the learning curve. If I’m ever put on a restaurant stakeout, I’d have to order flank steak and eat it with a butter knife.” He grinned and flipped his hair back from his face. “Mark and I will support you while we’re here, despite our meager budget.”

  “Thanks. We’ll need you both to help us monitor Palmer’s movements while she’s here.”

  “No problem. I’ll take off now and let you settle in.”

  Ten minutes later, they were in adjacent rooms on the second floor with a plan to meet after two hours and rejoin Mark Miles at the Hotel de Paris. Slade had just unzipped his computer bag when he heard a soft knock on the door.

  “May I come in?” asked Fontaine. “There’s some information I want to share with you in private.”

  He stepped into the room.

  “I didn’t want to mention this in front of the others, but I ran the Palmers through the Bureau’s system and came up with nothing more than public knowledge. No doubt you’ve seen the Bureau’s report.”

  Slade nodded, and Fontaine paused for a moment, letting an awkward silence drop before continuing.

  “On a hunch, I also ran Isa Kato, and something did turn up. Her sister, Naomi Kato, seems to have form. She was charged in Bethesda, Maryland eighteen months ago for fraud. Interestingly, she never went to trial, to the chagrin of the FBI’s Baltimore field office and headquarters in Washington D.C. There’s nothing else on her in files we could access. I requested information about the case from various police authorities, but they’d sealed most of her file at the request of the Defense Intelligence Agency.”

  Slade opened his mouth to speak, but Fontaine held up his hand. “Wait, there’s more. A friend in the DIA owed me a favor. I asked him to dig up anything he could find, and he sent me a memo thi
s morning.” Fontaine handed Slade a printout of an email.

  Slade read through it while Fontaine opened the mini fridge and helped himself to a bottle of water.

  Since the DIA provided intelligence on foreign military and weapon systems to help the US arms and defense equipment industry, whatever Naomi Kato did, which remained sealed even in the DIA’s own records, must have concerned the military sector. Fontaine’s contact believed they’d leveraged the family relationship to inveigle Isa into working as a DIA asset for some strategic purpose as a condition of Naomi’s freedom. Naomi Kato’s infringement might even have been a set-up to get a hook into Isa. The DIA quashed the case and transferred Isa to the Aculeus Corporation, the DIA’s favorite private intelligence and security contractor in the industrial aeronautics field.

  The memo also provided a short run-down on Aculeus, a successful private intelligence firm directed by a secret board of advisors comprising former top guns from the DIA, CIA, and FBI. According to the official line, the company offered top-level commercial intelligence and security services with a focus on global competitors and countering fraud in the defense industries. They claimed to help businesses deal with the risks of operating in challenging, high-risk markets, but in reality, the DIA had Aculeus do its dirty work, giving the Agency robust, plausible deniability. Aculeus also ran a training center to provide its employees with tactical and weapons expertise.

  Slade reflected on the government’s move several years ago to outsource several activities of its clandestine agencies to the private sector. In his view, it was folly posing as wisdom. Lucrative remuneration for the work compared to government pay led significant numbers of former experienced agents from the CIA, FBI, and the military into the private sector. There, many soon lost their ethics and integrity. The ensuing government agent drain and the paucity of talented people seeking agency recruitment forced federal agencies to outsource their intelligence work further, spawning even more unregulated companies. He thought the guys sent out by these firms into the field for security duties and back-channel military assistance would take the eyes out of your head without a second thought. And they’d say you were better off without them.