had seen the two of them in Samson Sun’s bedroom, and that had been but briefly and in the dark. He’d been left unconscious, but for how much longer? The only other person to suspect them was currently swimming to shore.
A British actor famous for his blue eyes, tousled hair, and beguiling stutter placed a hand on Lucy’s arm, nuzzling her with far too much familiarity. Simon couldn’t hear what he said to her. It didn’t matter. The actor was older than her by three decades. Simon whispered a few words of his own into the actor’s ear and the man dropped his hand as if he’d been shocked.
“But that was—” Lucy said.
“Yes, it was.”
“And he wanted to—”
“I’m sure he did.”
“Mr. Riske! There you are!”
Simon turned and found himself face-to-face with a short, pudgy, bald Asian man of indeterminate age. Thirty? Fifty? It was impossible to tell. “Samson, hello. And please, call me Simon.”
“I missed you at the auction.” Indonesian accent by way of Oxford. At least, that’s what he’d told Simon.
“Too rich for my blood, I’m afraid.”
“You? I doubt that.” Samson Sun was dressed entirely in white—suit, shirt, tie, even his shoes—his one contrasting feature the round, black-framed eyeglasses that were his trademark. Sun turned to Lucy, the top of his head reaching her chin. “And who’s this lovely creature?”
“My friend, Lucy Brown. Lucy, say hello to Samson.”
“A pleasure, I’m sure.”
Behind the pebble lenses, Sun’s eyes stayed on Lucy a beat too long. “What’s this, then, Miss Brown? A present for your host?”
Lucy’s mouth worked, but no words came out.
“Actually, you gave it to her,” said Simon.
“Me?”
“A door prize.”
Sun returned his attention to Lucy. “Please join me,” he said, gesturing to a table at the back of the room. “You may find some new clients.”
“Thank you, but we wouldn’t want to interrupt.” Simon placed a hand on Lucy’s elbow as his eyes scanned the room for trouble.
“Not at all. Perhaps Miss Brown would like to meet the cast of my movie.” He took Lucy’s hand. “Are you an actress by any chance?”
“An actress? Me? Course not.”
Sun had come to Cannes as the producer of a movie called The Raft of the Medusa. The film was based on a true story of a group of African refugees whose boat had sunk as they made the crossing from Libya to Italy and had spent three hellish weeks adrift on a makeshift raft, nearly all of them perishing. Several of the survivors played themselves in the movie. Simon spotted them seated at Sun’s table.
“Next time,” said Simon. Then: “You’ll be in Cannes the entire festival?”
“Naturally,” said Sun. “Our film is to be shown closing night. A prestigious honor.”
“Congratulations. We’ll see you on the Croisette. And thank you for the invitation. Great party.”
“Good night, Mr. Riske. And good night, Miss Brown. I hope to see you again.”
Simon guided Lucy across the floor, past a vodka bar carved entirely from ice and tended by pretty blondes clad in string bikinis and faux-fur shapki. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Sun had returned to his table, taking his place at the center of his entourage. A moment later, a commotion as two security guards arrived at his table. One was Pierrot, no longer unconscious nor on the floor of Sun’s bedroom.
Time’s up.
Simon ducked out a side door, Lucy in tow, and onto the fantail. He glanced over the rear safety railing. Two RIB tenders—twenty feet long, rigid inflatable hull, dual Mercury outboards—sat moored to the floating dock, crew in white tunics and navy-blue shorts at the ready. Somewhere belowdecks there was a miniature submarine as well (for pleasure? escape?), but Simon was no Captain Nemo. He was, however, a good Marseille boy who’d spent enough hours making trouble on the docks of the Vieux-Port to know the difference between a half hitch and a reef knot, and how to drive anything with a motor, on land or sea.
“This way,” he said, setting off to the crew’s ladder, which descended to the floating deck. “If anyone asks, you’re sick. You need to get to a hospital straightaway.”
“I am?” said Lucy. “I mean, yes, I am.”
“Quick learner.”
Simon reached the bottom of the ladder, offering Lucy a hand. “The lady needs to get to shore,” he said to the mate. “She’s ill.”
“The boat will dock in forty minutes. We’re returning to port due to the weather.”
“Too long,” said Simon, palming the mate a wad of one hundred euro bills—he didn’t know how many.