Fournier tried to stop crying. “Antibes.”

HOTEL DU CAP-EDEN-ROC

ANTIBES

The only thing Harvath disliked more than Russian Communists was the Russian mafia, and the Côte d’Azur was lousy with them. What once was a tasteful European summer playground was now choked with bulletproof Hummers, women overinjected with silicone, and men wearing so much gold jewelry that no matter what direction they faced when sitting down in the cafés, they always ended up pointing magnetic north.

They were as gaudy as the Saudis and had bought up much of this stretch of the French coast. Even the Russian president was rumored to have a villa here. They did what they pleased and even handled crime in their own special way. To wit, when the home of a rich Russian gangster had been burgled, he sent his own leg breakers in every direction to crack heads until they found the perpetrators.

Once the Mafioso’s goods had been recovered, he loaded the two thieves into his helicopter, flew it out over the Mediterranean, and shoved them out. The French police never even lifted a finger.

For years, the center of Russian gravity was the exclusive Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc. Its owners were more than happy to suck up the Russians’ ill-gotten gains, and once they found themselves to be the hotel of choice, they began ratcheting up their prices. Not only was it a license to print money, they found that the more expensive they were, the more popular they became. As their clientele rarely used credit cards, they abolished their use at the hotel completely. Instead, armored cars came three times a day to carry away the money to the bank.

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 room service.

Fifteen minutes later a waiter knocked on the door and was shown in. Harvath tipped him and told him he could leave the table on wheels in the middle of the room.

Next, he called down to the valet and asked to have his car brought around. He then began filling the tub the rest of the way with the ice the waiter had brought.

He tossed the buckets into the closet, moved the table out of the way and, once everything else was ready, called down to Leveque. The concierge was only too happy to personally bring Harvath an Ethernet cable for his laptop and help him retrieve the e-mail his colleague had sent with restaurant suggestions in Antibes.

When Leveque’s knock fell upon his door, Harvath was ready. He opened it with a smile and showed the concierge in. Once the door had closed behind him, Harvath sprang.

The punch took the Frenchman completely by surprise and he staggered backward, knocking over a lamp and hitting his head on the coffee table as he fell to the floor.

Grabbing him by the back of his collar, Harvath dragged him into the bathroom and dropped him next to the tub. He wrapped one hand around the concierge’s throat and used the other to pull the Glock from underneath his shirt.

“Make one noise and I will kill you. Do you understand me?” he asked, the barrel of the weapon pressed against Leveque’s head.

The man nodded slowly, the terror evident in his eyes.

“Good,” replied Harvath. He pulled the pistol away and then slammed it into the side of his face, breaking the man’s jaw. “That was for Dominique Fournier’s son.”

Leveque wanted to cry out in pain, but Harvath squeezed his throat so hard no sound was able to escape. “Now we’re going to go ice fishing. Let me know if you see anything.”

With that, Harvath raised the concierge up and over the side of the tub backward so that his head went into the water upside down.

Filling the tub with ice and submerging the victim in this fashion intensified the psychological trauma. A spinoff of waterboarding, it was known colloquially as iceboarding and was based on a concept called “cold calorics” that could manipulate and irritate brainstem reflexes.