The Russian - Ben Coes Page 0,2

billionaire, a man, in fact, worth more than $10 billion. It was one of the man’s many properties. She was his only daughter—the man had three sons—and her rehearsal dinner would cost him more than $2 million.

Much less than RISCON’s fee, a charge being footed by the father of one of the bridesmaids.

The temperature was in the seventies and there were no clouds in the sky. In the distance, the dark blue waters of the Mediterranean glimmered beneath an early evening that was painted tangerine, black, silver, and blue. Yachts were visible as small white appurtenances and appeared as if they weren’t moving, as if placed there by a small paintbrush in the hands of a master in an Impressionist painting of striking beauty.

Beneath the large white canvas tent, the rehearsal dinner was well under way. Several hundred people were there, spread out at big tables, men, women, and children, all dressed in stylish clothing, casual but neat. This was the highest echelon of society.

Tacoma knew no one at the rehearsal dinner, yet he soon blended into the alcohol-infused anarchy of the party.

He found a seat at a long, fancifully accoutered dining table, with a white tablecloth, crystal stemware, and beautiful women in low-cut dresses. The men were in button-downs and casual linen and khaki pants, and were, like the women, tan and good-looking.

According to the report, all the bridesmaids were from England. One was royalty, and all but one were the daughters of privilege, including the daughter of his client, who was seated next to the bride-to-be.

The table was packed. The lighting was low. The sound of music from another part of the estate whistled above conversation and laughter.

The château was located in the hills above Saint-Tropez. The meal was prepared by Yves Soucant, considered the best chef in France.

Tacoma’s dirty-blond hair was brushed back over a thick cowlick that jutted up slightly at his forehead, parted to the left, dangling down to the lower ends of his ears. His face was tan. He was clean-shaven, with a sharp nose and big lips. Tacoma was thick and athletic, all muscle. The blazer pressed out, a little tight, accentuating Tacoma’s body.

* * *

RISCON had been approached through MI6 about the project.

This individual—the client—had received a call from a high-level SAP executive whose daughter had been pawned—that is, conned and robbed by a very adept thief who’d already stolen millions from women across Europe and the United States.

RISCON had been hired to penetrate the wedding and take action on a charming twenty-five-year old Dubliner with dashing Irish looks and swagger. He was at the wedding with one of the bridesmaids, the client’s daughter. His name was Jonathan Greene, but Greene was a fraud, a serial scam artist who’d run through Vienna, Amsterdam, Paris, San Francisco, and Dallas, and was now preying upon London. His methods were textbook and well executed. Get women to fall in love, propose marriage, then, in the interim period between engagement and wedding, steal millions.

According to the report RISCON had done upon being hired, the man, Jonathan Greene, was engaged to two different women in London, and had already pilfered more than nine hundred thousand dollars from the client’s daughter. His basic strategy was simple. Can I borrow a hundred dollars? Write me a check. Greene would then write “thousand dollars” after the “one hundred” and add a few zeros.

Nobody seemed to notice until after Greene had moved on to another city, another country, another woman. He left little trace.

RISCON took on the job based on its standard fee structure. A $10 million monthly retainer was required for a minimum of four months; oftentimes RISCON’s actions would lead to counteractions and their continued involvement would be necessary. After the retainer, RISCON proposed fees and such things as per diem, based upon the feasibility of the mission. The harder the objective, the higher the fee. Hiring RISCON wasn’t cheap.

In this case, if RISCON succeeded in removing the con artist, an $8 million bonus was to be wired immediately. It wasn’t the highest of RISCON’s success fees, but it wasn’t the lowest either.

The client, a New York City–based oil trader, had agreed to it immediately. He didn’t care what it cost to save his daughter from a scoundrel.

Tacoma ate ravenously but didn’t drink anything except water. He made small talk with a middle-aged couple from London.

* * *

The wedding party took limousines to a nightclub in downtown Saint-Tropez, Les Caves.

At Les Caves, Tacoma found himself seated in a big