at the four bikini models again.
“Anything to report yet, ladies?’ he asked.
They giggled, and one replied, “Not yet, Monsieur Battie.”
Batman looked at Twitch and said, “Any more questions?”
The balcony phone rang; Batman answered it. A woman with a thick German accent who said she was calling from the front desk told him a visitor was on his way up to their suite.
“Who is it?” Batman asked her.
“The man to fix the Wi-Fi,” she replied.
* * *
A MINUTE LATER, a small man in his mid-sixties stepped off the elevator.
He was dressed in a plain white shirt, slacks and loafers. His gray hair was a bit long for someone his age, but other than that, he looked like the most ordinary person in the world. He was smoking a cigarette—and he wasn’t carrying a tool bag.
He nodded to the four girls, then walked out onto the balcony. He handed Batman his business card.
“With my compliments,” he said. His accent was thick French.
On one side of the card was printed MAURICE PHILLIPE, INTERNET SPECIALIST, MONTE CARLO.
But on the other side was scrawled We must talk Z-box.
Batman nearly fell off his divan. He passed the card to Twitch, who was equally shocked.
“How do you know about that?” Batman whispered to the visitor.
The man eyed the four girls nearby and touched his ear. Batman got the message.
Batman called over to them: “Hey girls—why not go for a swim so we can take turns drying you off?”
The foursome had no qualms with that. They were soon in the elevator and gone.
Maurice then pulled up a chair and sat down.
“I’m your Agency contact,” he told them point-blank, his accent suddenly turning very American. “I’m here to help you guys get this thing done.”
Then he opened his arms to indicate the expansive suite.
“So? What do you think of all this?” he asked. “Pretty good for the setup, isn’t it?”
“The ‘setup?’” Batman asked. “What ‘setup?’”
“You know, the ‘setup,’” Maurice said with a smile. “To make you guys look like high rollers.”
“As in gambling ‘high rollers?’” Twitch asked him innocently.
Maurice smiled again, but now it was with some uncertainty.
“Well, that’s what you’re here for,” he said. “The game. You know, the big game … the Grand Gagnant?”
Both Batman and Twitch shrugged.
“We got no idea what you’re talking about,” Batman said bluntly.
Maurice studied them for a moment. “You are the pirate-hunting guys, right? Ex–Delta Force and so on?”
Batman held up his prosthetic hand, while Twitch wiggled his prosthetic leg.
“That’s us,” Batman said.
“We’re hard to miss,” Twitch added.
Maurice looked puzzled. “And you weren’t briefed on this? The game? The buy-in? All that?”
Batman and Twitch just shook their heads no.
Maurice crushed out his half-smoked cigarette. Suddenly he was very pissed.
“Who the fuck was your initial briefer?” he asked them harshly.
“Some guy named Audette,” Batman replied.
“Emphasis on the ‘odd,’” Twitch added.
Maurice shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“I think he’s a station chief somewhere,” Batman told him.
“And he didn’t give you a wire transfer notice for ten million dollars?” Maurice asked.
Batman and Twitch just laughed at him.
“Ten million dollars?” Twitch said. “No freaking way.”
Maurice’s face turned red. “Jessuzz, that’s the whole reason you two guys are here,” he said heatedly. “It’s the reason you’ve been set up in this place. It’s the reason we’re putting on this whole show. It’s the reason for everything … And now some paper-pushing asshole station chief, with no fucking time in the field, has screwed it up.”
Batman reached out and put his good hand on the man’s shoulder, calming him down. “Look, we’re quick learners,” Batman told him. “Just start at the beginning. What game are you talking about?”
Maurice took a breath, composed himself, then inched his chair closer to them.
“OK,” he said. “There’s going to be a game played here, in Monte Carlo, on the night before the big race starts. It’s called the Grand Gagnant, which, loosely translated, means: the big winner. It’s a very secret, very exclusive card game that’s being held at a very secret, very exclusive location somewhere in town. It happens here every year when all the zillionaires show up, they play it at exactly midnight, meaning about thirty-six hours from now. What makes it not your typical card game is that instead of money, priceless items make up the pot. Stolen artwork. Stolen jewelry. Moon rocks. Entire companies. Things like that. It’s just one hand, just one prize. The big winner takes all.”
He lit another cigarette and then continued.
“We have solid information the prize this year is going to be the