Foreign Influence_ A Thriller - Brad Thor [45]
Finally, a big-time Russian billionaire, with plenty of notorious connections to the Russian mob, made the owners an offer they couldn’t refuse, and the hotel was sold. A subtle sign that the economy was catching up even with the Russians came when the hotel quietly reinstituted credit cards.
Despite the global economic hardships affecting the hotel’s clientele, it was still comfortably booked throughout the summer months. Harvath was less than ten minutes away when Nicholas called to inform him that he had finally managed a reservation.
When he pulled the black Porsche Panamera Turbo he had rented in Cannes up to the hotel’s front doors, his $135,000 sports car was the least expensive vehicle by far. He counted three Maybach Landaulets, two Bugatti Veyrons, an SSC Ultimate Aero, a Leblanc Mirabeau, a Pagani Zonda Cinque Roadster, a Lamborghini Reventon, and a Koenigsegg CCXR. It was easily twenty million dollars of exotic cars right there. Knowing the Russians, they all probably belonged to one man.
Harvath tipped the valet and followed the bellman inside. The lobby was full of fresh-cut flowers and potted palms. It was bright and elegantly furnished. Its high ceilings and soaring white columns bounced back the sunlight that streamed in through the porticos and open French doors. It wasn’t at all garish and Harvath put a check in the billionaire owner’s column for having the good sense not to mess with a good thing.
After the front-desk clerk had checked him in, Harvath sent the bellman on to his room with his bag. He had a stop to make before going upstairs.
Behind the concierge desk was an average-looking man of medium height and thin build in his late fifties. He had a long Gaelic nose upon which were perched a pair of trendy designer glasses. Affixed to his perfectly pressed uniform was the prestigious clefs d’or, or crossed keys of gold, marking him as a member of the top concierge society in the world. Beneath the clefs d’or was a name tag which read “Leveque.”
“May I help you, sir?” the concierge asked as he saw Harvath approach.
Harvath smiled. “I hope so,” he said, removing a stack of bills, counting off a thousand dollars, and sliding it across the counter to the man. “I’m going to need some dinner reservations while I’m here, and I also would like to charter a yacht.”
“Absolutely, sir. Where would you like to eat?”
It was all Harvath could do not to reach out and throttle the man right there. If only half of what Dominique Fournier had told him about Leveque was true, it would be too much. He was a fixer for the Russians. Whatever they wanted, he got for them: drugs, underage children for sex, you name it. Fournier used to arrange liaisons for the wealthy guests of the Hotel du Cap, but had stopped. She claimed the Russians drank too heavily and when they did they beat her girls mercilessly. Add to that the fact that Leveque trafficked in children for prostitution and Fournier had severed all ties with him—at least until he had orchestrated the kidnapping of her son.
Harvath brought his mind back to the business at hand and answered the man’s question. “A colleague of mine is supposed to e-mail me some suggestions. Can I get back to you on that?”
“Certainly,” said Leveque. “What about your yacht charter? If you can tell me which day you would like to go out, how many people, how long you’d like to go, and what kind of a vessel you are interested in, I can get started on that right away.”
“I’d like to go tomorrow for a half day. There will just be four of us, and I’d like to have lunch served. As far as the vessel, I’d like a motor yacht at least seventy meters in length. Oh, and we’d like to swim.”
“Of course. Tomorrow should be a beautiful day for swimming. I’ll get started right away on this for you.”
Harvath gave Leveque his room number and headed upstairs. After tipping the bellman, he put the stopper in the tub, turned on the tap, and called