Authors: Norman Moss
It was playground stuff and it should not have worried a grown man. Running away from those louts was the sensible thing to do. It was no more cowardly that running away from a lynch mob, or an angry dog. But there is something of the little boy in most of us, and I hated hearing that. I was grinding my teeth with anger at the same time as I was telling myself that it was stupid to care.
After a while I stopped running, out of breath, taking care that they were not nearby. I started to walk back towards the hotel, looking out constantly to see whether they were about, pushing aside some underbrush. My shoes were muddy now. I tried to recover my morale by looking at the moon reflected on the mountain tops and recalling how Maggie and I had enjoyed the sight together.
As I got close to the car park I heard a car drive up, and then I heard Sylvie’s voice. I wondered what she was doing out here at this time of night. I heard her talking to the louts and, curious, I moved closer, staying in the darkness of the trees. The excited tone in some of the voices made me think it might be a good idea to stick around. I moved still closer to try to hear what they were saying. I heard Mario saying something about teaching a lesson.
I could just about see them now. Sylvie was not dressed as she had been last night; she was wearing jeans and an orange shirt with the top few buttons undone.
One of them said, “Poor Mario. You wouldn’t put out for Mario.”
“He ran away?” she asked.
“Yes, like a frightened rabbit. So you’ve missed the fun.”
Another said, “That’s a great outfit you’re wearing, Sylvia. We can almost see your tits.”
“Why don’t you show them to us?” said another.
“We deserve it for what we’ve just done,” another added.
“I’m going home,” Sylvie said.
I guessed the picture. She had obviously turned down Mario’s advances the night before and, coming after the encounter with me, he felt humiliated. He had probably boasted that he was going to score with her. So he had somehow persuaded her to come along and meet some of the lads, to watch them beating me up. Now they had her in an empty car park.
I imagined them full of aggression and triumph after making a foreigner run away, testosterone frothing over, leering at this rich sexy bitch, which was probably how they saw her.
They moved into the shadows so I couldn’t see any more but I heard, “We deserve some reward for teaching that Yankee a lesson, don’t we guys?”
“Yes,” came a chorus of agreement.
I heard Sylvie say, “Get your hands off me.” There was some scuffling and then, “Let go of me, you pig!”
“Oh, oh!” a cry from the others. Then from Sylvie again: “Let go!” This time there was fear as well as anger in her voice.
Their excitement was getting out of control and the next phase was likely to be gang rape. I moved forward, walking quickly rather than running so I was moving quietly. One of them was holding Sylvie from behind and one of the others was pawing at her breasts. She was struggling. They were totally preoccupied, and did not hear me coming even when I was on top of them.
I was going to get this over as quickly as possible. The nearest one had his back to me. I hit him hard with the edge of my hand on the side of his neck, karate-style, and kept on going past him as he fell. Mario turned towards me and raised his arms in surprise. I grabbed his nearest wrist, lifted it high in the air, bent under it and spun him around so it was pinioned behind him, then gave it a sharp jerk upwards, guaranteeing a sprain. He howled in pain. He was not going to do any damage with that arm for a while. Then I let go and hit him in the stomach. He sat down heavily.
The third was the one who had been holding Sylvie. He let go and turned to face me. He was shaken, I could see that, but he came forward and swung his fist. I blocked it and hit him on the chin, which rocked him. It took some of the force out of his next blow, which caught me on the side of the cheek. I stepped back and we looked at each other for a moment.
I indicated the man I had chopped on the neck, who was lying flat and moaning slightly. “Does he have high blood pressure?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“Do you know whether your friend has high blood pressure? I hit him in the carotid artery. If his blood pressure is higher than normal, this could be fatal. You’d better see if he’s breathing OK.” It was bullshit but it gave him a get out. He broke off the fight, went over and bent over the prostrate form.
Sylvie was sobbing. Her shirt was ripped open showing a red bra. Her car was a few yards away, a bright blue sports model. She had had a scare. I said to her sharply, “Get in the car.” She looked at me and I ordered her again, “Get in the car!”
She walked over meekly, still sobbing, and opened the door. “Get in the passenger seat and give me the keys,” I said. She did as I said. I put the key in the lock, started the car and drove out of the car park. I drove slowly about half a mile down the road, then pulled over and stopped.
I leaned back and breathed deeply. I was trembling inside. She said, “They were awful. Horrible. If you hadn’t—”
“Shut up!” I commanded. I did not want her chatter. I took some more deep breaths and waited until I felt calmer. I can handle violence but I don’t like it, and I hate inflicting pain. What I did to Mario was vicious.
After a while I turned to her and said, “You stupid bitch, what did you think you were doing with those three punks at night? You were playing with fire.”
“Mario said they would teach you a lesson.”
“You were going to watch them beat me up?”
“He said they wouldn’t really hurt you, just make you look silly.”
“They would have hurt me. And because of you, I got into a fight, which I don’t like. And I’ve got a bruise on my cheek. And you could have had a very nasty time. You could have been raped.”
We were silent for a while. “I suppose I should thank you.”
“It would be appropriate,” I said.
“Those fucking sons of bitches,” she said. The anger was coming back. “I’m glad you hit Mario. I hope it hurt him. You were great. Please don’t tell my father. I told him I was just going for a drive after supper. To get some fresh air.”
“He ought to know what you’re up to. Somebody ought to stop you getting into situations like that.”
“Please don’t. He’ll take away my car.”
I thought for a while. Then I said, “All right, Sylvie, but if I don’t tell your father, I want you to do something for me. You owe me, anyway, I think you’ll agree.”
“What do you want?” she asked warily. As she said it she pulled her torn shirt around her to cover her bra.
“It’s about a diamond your mother has. A large, very special diamond. Your father gave it to your mother and she wears it sometimes.”
“You mean the pale blue one?”
“Yes. The big pale blue one.
“Do you want to steal it? Do you want me to help you?” A gleam of excitement came into her eyes. She was ballsy, I had to admit.
“No, I don’t want to steal it. I want to know about it. Where it comes from.”
“Where it comes from?”
“I want to know where your father got it. Can you find that out for me?”
“I don’t know. I can ask him, I suppose.”
“Ask him. He may not tell you. Get any details you can. As much details as possible. If you can do that, if you get that information for me, then I won’t tell your father what happened tonight. Although I think I should. If I don’t, try not to get into any more scrapes like this. I won’t be there to get you out next time. Now, are you all right to drive home?”
She nodded.
“Go ahead. I’ll walk back to the hotel. The walk will do me good.”
I had a late breakfast the next morning and waited around the hotel for a telephone call. Towards the end of the morning I telephoned Maggie. I asked whether she had got home all right and said I didn’t think I would be around for much longer.
She said, “What have you done? Sylvie is asking questions about the diamond. She was fluttering her eyes at the accountant and asking him for an address.”
“She’s doing it for me. We met by chance last night.”
“I thought she might be. How on earth did you manage that?”
“My power over women,” I said. “You’re one of the few who have resisted it.”
“So far,” she said, which sounded promising.
Sylvie telephoned in the afternoon. “He got it from a woman called Nadia Bulganov,” she said. ‘She lives in France, on the outskirts of Nice. My father told me. But you wanted more details so I found out something else for you. The sale was made through a diamond dealer in Paris. I saw the invoice.”
“Did he tell you where it comes from originally?”
“No, I asked him but he wouldn’t tell me that. Maybe he doesn’t know. But I’ve got Nadia Bulganov’s address. Do you want it?”
“Yes, please,” I said, and she gave it to me.
Then she said, “Now you’re not going to say anything to my father about last night, or anyone. That was the deal, yes?”
“Part of it. But you should be more careful in the future.”
“You rescued me, and you said that I ought to say thank you.”
“As I said, it would be appropriate.”
“Well go fuck yourself.”
I laughed. There was a kind of integrity about Sylvie. She wasn’t going to change to suit the circumstances.
*
I telephoned Madame Bulganov from my hotel room, sitting on the edge of the bed. A man answered the phone. I said I wanted to speak to Madame Bulganov. Who was I? I said I was from Fitzwilliam Harvey Security. He went away and came back and said could I come the day after next, at four o’clock. She seemed accommodating. I said that would be fine.
I called on Max and told him I had enjoyed my stay and that my business in Villars was done, and I would be leaving the following day. Then I took a taxi into town just to be somewhere different. I ate at a rustic-looking restaurant which really did have cuckoo clocks on the walls and where the waitresses had blonde plaits and embroidered aprons, and looked at me as if wishing it was later in the year and I was an après-ski party of six who drank and left big tips. I had a fondue and some wine, and then drank a stein of beer in a bar. I bought a postcard and mailed it to my sister Susan. I was a tourist for an evening.
I took the train to Nice, watching the landscape change as we went south from the Alps towards the Mediterranean. I like travelling by train. In a train you are really travelling through the land. Flying, you go into one airport and out from another, and it’s more like teleportation; edelweiss to palm trees and nothing between but an enclosed, pressurized space.
I stepped down from the train into the warm, fragrant, evening air, in time for a late supper. I checked into a small, modern hotel in the old town, rising with its narrow streets above the sea front, and had dinner in a bistro nearby, determined to enjoy Nice for the evening. I ordered bouillabaisse, since this part of the world is famous for it, and it was magnificent, containing a variety of tastes and scents and chunks of fish that drove all other thoughts from my mind. I looked around at the other diners and remembered something Van Gogh wrote to his brother Theo from Provence: “I’m painting with the passion of a Marseillaise eating bouillabaisse.” It was so substantial that I could not manage the main course to follow, and settled for some Provençal cheeses.
The next day I took a stroll along the
Promenade
des
Anglais
, the boardwalk along the sea front, and looked at the Mediterranean for a while, whipped into waves by a sharp wind. I stared out towards the horizon and Africa beyond, and reflected on how much of the history of the Western world happened around this sea. I also reflected on how, for many, it had always been a holiday destination, from the Roman emperors with their villas on Capri to the English upper classes whose taste for it gave this boulevard its name. Today Mediterranean holidays are for the masses, the few late summer vacationers on the beach now with their mats and paperbacks and sun tan oil they did not need, their representatives.
After a contemplative half hour I pulled myself back to present-day concerns and took a taxi out to the Bulgalov villa. It was large and pink, behind a well-groomed front garden. I presented myself at the door, and was ushered into a sumptuously furnished living room.
After a few moments Nadia Bulganov entered. She was a tall, dark-haired, handsome woman in her late forties wearing a tailored pale blue jacket and trousers. I could not tell what material it was but somehow I knew it was expensive. She was that kind of woman. It was that kind of room.
“Do you have a business card?” she asked. She spoke fluent but heavily accented French. I presented it to her. She studied it and then asked, “Do you carry a gun?”
“What?” I was surprised at the question. “No. I live in England. It’s not allowed there.”
“But you are used to handling firearms.” She had a commanding manner.
“Well, yes, I was an officer in the American army for four years.”
“An officer. Good. I thought I detected an American accent. You speak very good French for an American.”
I bit my tongue. I wanted to say, “
Yes
,
I’m
an
American
and
I
speak
a
foreign
language
,
isn’t
that
amazing
?
And
I
like
Provençal
cheese
as
well
as
hamburger
,
and
I
don’t
eat
popcorn
at
the
opera
.” OK, maybe I have a bit of a hang-up about being American. I can trace it back to the girlfriend I had for a little while when I was at school in England. She used to introduce me to her friends saying, “David is American but he’s very intelligent.” She did not last long but I was sixteen and it stayed with me.
“Now, please tell me what experience you have had in security,” Mme Bulganov went on.
I was supposed to be asking the questions, but since I wanted her help I thought I had better go along with her. “Not a lot, actually,” I said. “I’ve only done one assignment for FHS before this one.”
“And what was that?”
“As a bodyguard. To a wealthy African visitor to England.”
“Good so far. Did you have any problems?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. A gang tried to kidnap him. I was able to stop them. But I’m not sure—”
“Excellent. Now I shall explain what will be expected of you.”
“What will be expected of me?”
“Yes. Also, you should know that I will be interviewing other applicants.”
“But Madame Bulganov—”
“Please don’t interrupt. And I will want references of course.”
“Madame Bulganov, there seems to be some mistake.”
She stopped. “What mistake?”
“I’m not an applicant. I’m not applying for anything.”
“You are from a security firm?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re not here because you want to be a bodyguard?”
“No. Although we do supply bodyguards.” I thought I would add a positive note.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to ask for your help in a certain matter.” She studied me for a moment, looked at my business card again, and then said, “Sit down there please.” It was a command, from someone used to giving commands. I sat down on the couch.
She picked up the telephone and dialled a number, then said into the phone, “Jacques, darling, did you recommend a security firm called…” she studied my business card. “Fitzwilliam Harvey Security in London… You’ve never heard of it. Thank you.”
She turned to me and said, “Yes, there has been a mistake. I want a personal assistant and bodyguard. A friend of mine said he would recommend a company that supplied them. Since you came from a security firm, I naturally thought that’s what you were here about. What have you come about?”
“I’ve come to ask if you can help me with something. But first let me say that my security firm does supply bodyguards, and we may be able to meet your needs.” This could make my mission more of an exchange of assistance, and please Jeremy.
“We can talk of that presently. What can I help you with?”
“I’m making enquiries about a diamond you used to own. A special one.”
“A special one? In that case, you probably mean the Uzbek diamond.”
“That’s right.”
“I want to know where you got it from.”
“My husband bought it for me.”
“Do you know where he got it?”
She studied me for a few moments and then said, “Mr Root, my husband is Nikolai Bulganov. Do you know anything about him?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
She paused before replying and studied me some more. She might have been about to award me points, pondering how many she should give. Then she said, “Are you really a journalist?”
“No. I promise nothing you tell me will appear in print.”
“I would be delighted if it did. The more people know about me, the better. The less chance I will disappear without anybody noticing, without a fuss. I want a high profile. My husband is what your newspapers call an oligarch. That is, he’s a very wealthy Russian. Since you’re asking about the diamond, do you want to know why I sold it?”
“Certainly.”
“Hold on a moment, please.” She disappeared and returned a few moments later with a clipping from
L’Express
, the weekly news magazine. It read: “
Nadia
Bulganov
,
a
Russian
currently
resident
in
Nice
,
won
a
record
divorce
settlement
from
Russian
oligarch
Nikolai
Bulganov
in
a
Moscow
court
yesterday
.
Under
the
settlement
Mme
Bulganov
is
to
receive
half
a
million
euros
a
year
and
property
in
France
.
During
the
proceedings
,
Mme
Bulganov
accused
her
former
husband
of
adultery
with
up
to
five
young
women
.”
She was looking at me intently so I read those last words out aloud. “‘Adultery with five young women.’ Wow. He’s piling it on.”
“The kind of girls Nikolai and his friends pick out of the gutter,” she said. “They like blondes. ‘Lemon tarts,’ we call them.”
I read on. “
Mme
Bulganov
accused
her
husband
of
using
violence
against
her
on
several
occasions
,
and
witnesses
confirmed
her
story
.
A
counter
-
claim
by
M
.
Bulganov
that
his
wife
had
committed
adultery
was
dismissed
by
the
court
.”
I looked up. Again, she clearly expected some response. I said, “He accused you of adultery.”
“Yes. He accused me of having an affair with a young army officer. It wasn’t true. Would you like a drink?”
“Thank you.”
“I have vodka and whisky here. Or perhaps you would prefer tea.”
“Actually, I would prefer tea.” She rang a bell and a maid came in. She said something to her in Russian, and the maid went away.
Mme Bulganov turned back to me and said, “All right, it was true, but he couldn’t prove it. That bit is not for publication. He thinks I have no right to what he calls his money. But so long as I’m alive, he has to pay it, every month. Do you get the picture?”
“I think so.”
“It probably sounds rather paranoid, but I know my husband’s world and I know the way they do things there. Also, I have some expensive jewellery here, and I like to wear it when I go out sometimes. Although I don’t want that spread around.”
The maid came back with a pot of tea and a dish of delicate cookies. Nadia poured the tea and we sipped it, and she said, “So you see why I want a bodyguard.”
“I’ll pass that on. What about the diamond?”
“Ah yes. He gave it to me as a present on our tenth wedding anniversary. I was threatening to leave him and he wanted me to stay.”
“And you sold it.”
“He wanted it back. It’s from Uzbekistan and he’s part Uzbek. He said I wasn’t really his wife when he gave it to me. I sold it right away just so there was no question of that bastard getting it back. He likes the idea of a diamond from Uzbekistan. His mother is Uzbek, an Uzbek peasant.
“I sold it through the same dealers in Paris that he bought it from – Azamouth Frères. I don’t know who they sold it to.”
I said, “I do know, as a matter of fact. A Greek named Stravros Stakis. But I’m trying to trace it back to its origin. What I really want to know is, who owned it before your husband.”
“I can tell you that. A film star named Duncan Bridey.”
It was that simple. I probably could have found out by asking her on the telephone. But then I would not have had the bouillabaisse.
She went on, “My husband was quite tickled with the idea that it had been owned by a Hollywood film star. I think he thought that it gave it some glamour. Which he certainly didn’t have.”
“So Azamouth Frères might know the origin of the diamond.”
She shrugged. “They probably will. I don’t know.”
There was a pause. She appraised me, and seemed to decide that I was worth a few minutes of conversation. I imagine that she also had nothing to do that evening. “Do you know the French Riviera, Mr Root?” she asked. I said no, I had last visited it as a child. This was memorable for me because it was my last holiday with both my parents, but I was not going to go into that kind of personal detail with her.
She told me something about how charming some of the people here were and how elegant their yachts. But most of it was in the past tense. I guessed that she had once been at the centre of a social whirl and now was being passed by.
After a while I said I thought I had taken up enough of her time, thanked her for the help she had given me, and left.