Clair phoned me after a severe tongue-lashing from the countess and said, "I haven't been chewed out like that since Yurchenko re-defected to Russia."
"What now?"
"She said it's been a month-and-a-half since we've seen her and we've done fuck-all."
"In those words?"
"Near enough."
"Okay," I said. "I'll have everything we need by tomorrow."
Next morning, I connected to the Swiss Banker's cell phone and found him in Liechtenstein. "Ciao," he said. "I have the countess with me. I give you her…"
"No, wait…!"
Like a fool, I'd walked into an ambush. "We're ready to proceed with Number Two,” I said. “Your banker must approve the cost. We can meet," I offered. "Or I can fax him the information at much less cost."
We must meet in one week, the countess insisted.
"We're there," I said.
Then I phoned Clair. "I just saved your sorry ass."
"What happened?"
"Start packing," I said. "We're going back to the Cote d'Azur."
On the day of Monaco's Grand Prix, Clair and I rolled into the French Riviera and checked into Le Meridien in Nice. It gave us the best part of a day and night to stave off jet lag with wine, Armagnac and (for me) Cuban cigars. Most of this medication was taken under one roof, the famed Hotel Negresco on the Promenade des Anglais.
Bar le Relais, a large, galleried room provided the proper British setting for aperitifs (Brits once owned the Riviera). A jet-black prostitute in purple chiffon sat along one side. She welcomed us with a mischievous look before answering her cell phone.
We were expecting a pianist. What we got was a Bill Gates look-alike who produced irritating techno-muzak with a synthesized drumbeat and other canned noise.
Into his second scotch and soda, Clair gazed across the room, leaned toward me and asked, "What instrument is that lady playing?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Over there." Clair pointed. "Don't you see it?"
"No."
Clair, who had recently been diagnosed with macular degeneration, got up, sauntered toward whatever he saw, then moseyed around the large room. Finally returning to our table, he reseated himself. "Maybe I need another scotch," he said.
"Maybe you need more serious medication," I said. "It sounds like CBS to me."
"Dan Rather?"
"Charles Bonnet Syndrome. It strikes people with macular degeneration. Pretty soon you'll be seeing leprechauns."
"I can hardly wait."
Next day we moved our feast from Nice to Monaco, a principality shattered from 200,000 visitors the day before to watch cars race.
This trip we opted for the modest Hotel Abela, in Monaco's quiet Fontvieille quarter. The Swiss Banker drove us to our client’s estate, where hundreds of pink flowers—planted to look wild, growing out of rock crevices—lined the serpentine road. The countess greeted us with warmth, sat us for lunch on her patio.
"Tell me," said the countess.
I explained the illusion our operative was in the midst of executing.
The countess and her banker exchanged glances. She smiled. He whistled. Both seemed to understand the waves this would create.
Three weeks later, I returned to the French Riviera with results.
The banker nodded. "It explains what happens," he said to the countess.
"What happened?" I asked.
One week earlier, the Gray Fiduciary called the banker for an appointment. "We know each other for thirty years, and this is first time he comes to my office," said the banker. "He is pale and nervous. He asks for my advice on how to deal with IRS."
The countess then received a big bouquet of flowers from Lara. At lunch thereafter at Hotel des Bergues in Geneva, mother and daughter whooped it up like there'd never been a bad word between them, let alone a multi-year estrangement.
"Our countess says her prayers have been answered and the problem's solved," Clair told me after speaking with her on the phone.
A full year passed. The countess had not called. We neither solicited any further tasks nor enquired about the promised pay-off. Our long-running soap opera, it seemed, had finally been cancelled, mid-season, leaving assorted subplots dangling in the wind.
On a trip through London, I phoned Baron von Biggleswurm and explained that I'd been looking for the devil in Iceland, part of a new odyssey in search of creativity and madness.
"You're a strange person," he replied.
Three months later, I had a reason to visit the French Riviera for the first time in ages. I phoned the countess and she invited me to lunch.
Although a mistral had blown through and uprooted several tall trees, the grounds looked lovelier than ever. Her manservant stood near the front door in full livery and a beaming smile as my taxi wound into the piazza.
My countess stood in the doorway. She was older and more frail. Her eyes had dulled, the old feistiness gone.
"How is your grandson?" I asked.
The boy everybody had worried about and fought over for a decade had just turned 19. He was enrolled at London University, just returned from spring break in Spain.
"And how is the baron?"
The countess shook her head. "His health is not well. He has an enflamed digestive tract."
"Of course." I nodded. "And Lara?"
The countess shrugged, a wan smile. "One day she calls and tells me she will never forgive me. A week later she sends me flowers, calls me and says she'd like to give me a big kiss. She sold the house in Santa Fe and moved her furniture back to Europe."
This was the precise moment I might have reminded the countess about the million-dollar bonus she’d offered.
"Take a world cruise and think of me," she had said.
I could not do this.
The manservant called lunch and we took our places: Linguine with tomato sauce and mozzarella, veal cutlets, small potatoes—and a salad of greens and avocado.