Operation Sea Ghost (20 page)

But Twitch was driving so fast down Avenue Albert I, that by the time he heard Batman, he’d completely overshot the man.

Batman yelled for him to stop and turn around, but Twitch just wound up spinning the sports car in a triplet of screeching 360-degree turns.

Even in a place where Maseratis were common, this display attracted a lot of attention. The soaking wet man saw it all and ducked down the nearest alley.

Twitch finally got the car under control. They sped off toward JFK Drive hoping to catch the dripping man on the other side of Regent Square. By the time they made their way through the traffic, though, there was no sign of him.

They drove up and down De La Costa Boulevard and then D’Ostende Avenue, but still no luck.

Then Batman got an idea.

He told Twitch to stop. They pulled over to the side of Boulevard de Suisse and just waited.

Monte Carlo was more like a small town than a city. There just weren’t many places a soaking wet man could go. So, what would happen if they stayed still, just another Maserati parked along the curb, and waited?

They sat there for two minutes, engine idling, handguns on their laps. Then, sure enough, they spotted their prey again.

He’d popped out of an alley three short blocks away and began walking west again, this time toward Avenue Saint-Laurent. Twitch jammed the Maserati in gear, hit the gas and resumed their pursuit. But after fighting traffic and blasting the horn all the way up the Escalier des Fleurs they were stopped by a line of policemen cordoning off a section of the roadway for a practice lap of Grand Prix cars.

Once more the dripping man managed to lose himself in the crowd. But Twitch was not going to let him get away so easily this time.

Steering around the policemen, he again slammed the Maserati into gear and started driving right on the famous racecourse itself. And for a third time, they actually caught up to the mystery man. Walking through a crowd of Japanese tourists, still dripping wet from his dive, he stuck out easily from everyone around him.

They had him …

But … at that moment the sky darkened. Where just minutes earlier there were no clouds, now a huge black overcast had moved over Monte Carlo. It opened up and the sunny place for shady people was suddenly treated to a massive downpour.

People scattered. Windows were slammed shut. Awnings were quickly lowered. Even the policemen ran, as if they would shrink if they got wet. The deluge was so intense it was impossible to see much of anything. Twitch had to pull the car to the curb again to wait it out.

The torrent lasted just a minute, and then the clear skies returned. But now everything had changed. Now, just about
everyone
within their view was walking around soaked to the skin.

Batman couldn’t believe it. This was crazy.…

I knew I should have gone to Gottabang
, he thought suddenly.

But then came a bit of luck. Just as they were about to give up, a taxi went by them, weaving through the post-storm traffic. As it passed by, the passenger in the back seat looked out his window and right into the Maserati.

It was their dripping man.

“Son of a bitch!” Batman cried. “There he is…”

The taxi immediately accelerated with a squeal and was off.

Twitch turned to Batman and asked: “What do we do?”

“Chase him!” Batman yelled.

Another deafening screech, and Twitch was again in pursuit.

The taxi was really moving. Apparently in Monte Carlo during Race Week, everyone thought they were in a Formula One car and, therefore, drove like a madman.

But Twitch was a madman all year round. He wheeled his way in and out of traffic like a pro. Riding the curb, downshifting, upshifting, double clutching, triple-clutching—he was doing it all, and with a prosthetic leg no less. It was madness—and they weren’t doing the Maserati any favors either. But Batman could do nothing but hold on and hope for the best.

And somehow it worked. Because by the time the taxi reached the outskirts of Monte Carlo, the Maserati was only a few blocks behind.

But then the game changed yet again. The taxi began climbing one of the steep winding roads that led out of Monte Carlo, heading toward France.

Now the advantage was greatly in the taxi driver’s favor. Not only was he driving as insanely as Twitch, his little Fiat was more than a match for the powerful sports car at taking turns, especially when traveling at more than 100 mph. They lost sight of the taxi within seconds.

Still, the chase continued. The sun was gone and suddenly it was night and Twitch had a hard time finding the Maserati’s headlamps switch. Batman tried to help, but he had his seat belt pulled so tight he couldn’t move but a few inches forward. These few particular moments of madness, driving on the incredibly twisting, recently wet road, with no lights, going in excess of 100 mph, with Twitch at the wheel, were simply terrifying. Batman found himself wondering if such a fancy sports car might have an ejection button he could push.

Finally, Twitch found the headlights switch, and suddenly the road was illuminated, just as they were going around a very sharp bend at warp speed.

That’s when they saw the taxi again.

It went cruising by them—going in the opposite direction.

Twitch made yet another heart-stopping 180-degree maneuver, overtaking the taxi, then turning wildly a second time. There was dust, smoke and burnt-rubber fumes, but when it was over, the Maserati was blocking the road. The taxi could not get by.

Batman and Twitch jumped out of the steaming car, weapons in hand, and rushed up to the taxi. But they quickly discovered only the driver was inside. No one was in the backseat.

Twitch yanked the driver out and threw him to the pavement. Batman vigorously searched the backseat and even the trunk. But there was no sign of the passenger, other than the backseat was soaking wet.

“Where did you drop him?” Batman screamed at the driver.

The driver was frightened—and he couldn’t speak English. But he knew what they wanted.

With shaking hands he pointed to the top of the mountain.

“Drop off!” the driver was telling them. “Right there … top of mountain.”

The top of the mountain was a gradually sloping rock that ended in a conical peak jutting up into the night sky. It almost looked like a naturally formed Tower of Pisa.

“There!”
the man insisted. “Crazy man, all wet, jump out.”

They let the driver go, climbed back into the Maserati and resumed driving up the steep mountain.

Inside a minute, they were close enough to see the peak clearly. And climbing up the face of the weird rock formation was the dripping man.

Twitch cried, “Who
is
this guy? And what’s he going to do up there? Dive off?”

Batman said, “We got him cornered. He can’t come down from there without us catching him.”

They jumped out of the car, weapons in hand.

“After all this,” Batman growled, “I’m going to personally kick his ass—
then
ask him what the fuck this is all about.…”

They ran up the sloping field and were soon approaching the rock formation. They could see the dripping man’s silhouette against the night sky. He seemed to be waiting for something.

Then they heard an awful roar behind them. The ground started shaking. The air around them felt like it was vibrating.

Batman and Twitch looked over their shoulders and saw an amazing sight.

A jet fighter was passing right over their heads.

It was not a typical jet fighter. It was a Harrier jump jet, one of the few airplanes that could take off and land vertically, without the need of a runway. It was also devoid of country markings or tail numbers.

Batman and Twitch watched in astonishment as the hover-jet stopped right above the rock formation and, with admirable skill, put its nose wheel on the rock itself. Its canopy slowly opened.

The dripping man clambered up the last bit of the peak and, with some impressive dexterity himself, scrambled up onto the wing and crawled into the open cockpit. The canopy was just closing as the pilot started moving away.

Then the plane quickly picked up speed and roared off into the night.

*   *   *

THE MASERATI’S DASH back down to Monte Carlo was even more terrifying than the trip up.

There was no conversation. Twitch was focused on getting to the bottom of the mountain as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, Batman had two enormous questions spinning around his head. Who could call in a Harrier
jump jet
to get them out of a jam like that—an unmarked Harrier no less? And why would someone with that kind of capability go to such great lengths to mislead them with such a lame sci-fi story of glowing boxes and death rays killing people?

None of it made sense.

He was sure of only one thing: Whoever the dripping man was, he knew about the Z-box and he at least knew Maurice’s name.

This meant Beta Squad had to find Maurice.

The problem was, they didn’t know how. They had no phone number for him, they had no idea where he was staying or even his real name.

But they knew four people who probably did.

*   *   *

THEY FINALLY REACHED the city and sped back to the Grand Maison.

The same car attendant took their Maserati, doing so without a word. They headed straight for the penthouse, hoping the four girls had returned. The reasoning was simple: If Maurice had arranged for the penthouse, he must have somehow arranged for the four bikini models as part of the ornamentation. They might know where to find him.

There was also a chance that Maurice himself had returned to the penthouse in the time Beta Squad was out chasing the dripping man. Perhaps they had a message from him waiting there. Either way, they were in a hurry to get back to their luxury digs.

They used the casino’s side door again and headed for the elevator. But right away they noticed all of the plasterers’ equipment was gone from the hallway, as was the yellow caution tape. For the first time, they had an unobstructed view of the casino’s bustling main lobby.

Arriving at their private elevator, they saw the work repair sign was also gone. More surprising, before they could enter their pass code to call the elevator down, it arrived on its own. The doors opened and a couple stepped out. She was young and beautiful; he was middle-aged and wearing a cowboy hat. They brushed by Batman and Twitch as if they weren’t there.

The elevator doors closed before Batman could jam his foot between them. So they punched in their pass code, hoping to retrieve it quickly. But the code didn’t work. They tried a dozen times, with the same result.

Left with no other choice, up the stairs they went. Ten steep and narrow flights in all. They were seriously out of breath by the time they reached the sixth floor.

Here they found a hallway full of unmarked service doors. Because all of the penthouses on this floor had private elevators, none of the doors had numbers on them, only computer locks accessed by encrypted card keys carried by the casino’s service staff. Batman and Twitch had no such key, so they spent the next twenty minutes trying to figure out which doors belonged to their suite.

After using rough triangulation, they finally estimated where the six service doors leading into their penthouse would be. They tried all six, but each one was locked.

So, they knocked on one—and were heartened to hear female voices and someone padding their way to the door.

“Ten bucks it’s the blonde,” Batman said.

The door opened, but it was not one of their bikini model friends on the other side. It was a chambermaid. One they’d never seen before.

They’d guessed correctly, at least—this
was
their penthouse. They were looking through one of the bedrooms and could see the familiar balcony, the empty liquor bottles and spectacular view just beyond.

But the chambermaid would not let them in.

Not without proper ID.

Batman tried to explain to her that while, yes, they had no ID, that they really
didn’t need
any.

But she was adamant: No ID. No entry.

Both Batman and Twitch fingered their handguns—but hesitated.

What were they going to do? Shoot the woman?

In that moment of indecision, she ended the conversation. She slammed the heavy door in their faces and locked it from the inside.

*   *   *

THEY HURRIED BACK down to the lobby. The place was crowded, hectic and drunkenly festive. The line waiting at the front desk was a dozen people long, so Batman and Twitch tried to stop ordinary employees to explain their plight. But no one wanted to help them.

Finally Batman grabbed a floor manager and wouldn’t let go. The man barely spoke English, but it didn’t matter. He was clearly uninterested in their story. Batman was persistent though, allowing the man a glimpse of his handgun. His request was straightforward: Who’d reserved the royal penthouse and how could they get in touch with him? Finally the manager told them to wait in the lobby while he disappeared to check the occupancy records. When he returned he told them the penthouse was not listed in either of their names. Nor was it listed under anyone named “Maurice.” In fact, he claimed the penthouse had been unoccupied for the past six weeks while it was undergoing renovations and would not be available for another week or so.

Batman insisted the man accompany them back upstairs, threatening to shoot him if he didn’t. The manager reluctantly agreed. He overrode the elevator’s pass code, and Batman and Twitch rode up filled with nervous anticipation, hoping this was all some huge mistake.

The elevator doors opened, and again, they could see it was undoubtedly their penthouse. But now, from this vantage point, looking directly into the main living area, it was clear the place had been cleaned of all evidence that they’d been there. Plus, it was full of scaffolding, paint cans and plastering materials. And there was absolutely no sign of the four bikini models.

Again, Batman began to protest, but the manager cut him off this time. The penthouse was obviously under repair. And even if it wasn’t, where was their luggage? Their clothes? Their personal effects?