Read Chapter 28: The Mastermind

The vault’s auxiliary light flickered—a dying halogen bulb that cast Marcel’s silhouette in jagged stripes across the evidence table. Camille’s hands were still raw from shoving the vault door open with the director’s shoulder pressed against hers, both of them gasping in the recycled air that smelled of copper and old paper.

“Your office,” she said, flat. “Now. Before the night guard does his rounds.”

Marcel didn’t argue. He was a man unmoored, his expensive suit wrinkled, his manicured nails bitten to the quick. Whatever authority he’d wielded as auction house director had evaporated somewhere between his confession and the creak of the vault’s hinges.

They moved through the back corridors—service routes that smelled of floor wax and dust—until Marcel’s keycard granted access to his private office on the fourth floor. Camille closed the door behind them and twisted the lock.

“You know Victor’s name,” she said. Not a question.

Marcel poured himself a whiskey from a crystal decanter. His hand shook. “Everyone in the trade knows Victor Marsh’s name. The question is why you’re still working with him.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Camille stepped closer, planting her hands on his desk. The photographs she’d taken from the evidence drawer were folded inside her jacket. “The police have my name. They have Victor’s name. They have *us* paired together on a monitoring list. That’s not public knowledge. That’s the kind of thing that comes from someone inside the operation feeding them information.”

Marcel drained the glass. “Then you already know more than I do.”

“Tell me about the debt.”

He blinked. “What debt?”

“Victor’s debt. The reason he took the job in Monaco in the first place.” Camille watched his face for a flicker of recognition. She’d pieced it together from fragments: late-night phone calls, Victor’s evasiveness about his past, the way he flinched whenever Lidia’s name came up. “He owes someone. Someone big. And that someone is in Monaco right now.”

Marcel set the glass down slowly. For a long moment, he said nothing, then he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a worn leather address book. He flipped it open to a dog-eared page and slid it across the desk.

The entry was written in precise blue ink.

*Thomas Falk. 48 Avenue de la Costa. +33 6 …*

“Falk,” Camille read. “Who is he?”

“The man with all the strings.” Marcel’s voice had gone quiet. “He’s not a thief. He’s not even a fence. Falk is a financier. He lends money to people with expensive problems, and when they can’t pay, he collects in unusual currencies. Information. Access. Favors.” He tapped the page. “Victor Marsh has been in Falk’s pocket for three years. I’d heard rumors that Falk was securing his position in Monaco, but I didn’t know it was this. Not until Lidia mentioned his name.”

Camille’s pulse quickened. “Lidia knows Falk?”

“Lidia is Falk’s broker.” Marcel’s laugh was hollow. “I was her dupe, you were her mark, Victor was her pawn. She built the entire operation around people who owed Falk something. The insurance fraud was just the chassis. The engine was something much larger.”

“What kind of larger?”

Marcel rose, walking to the window that overlooked the harbor. The gala lights were already being erected on the far pier—white tents and gold trim, visible even from here. “A private collector. Someone who doesn't want the pendant displayed or authenticated—they want it buried in a basement in Geneva or Dubai, displayed for no one, owned by no one but them.”

“The pendant as collateral.”

“Yes.” Marcel turned. “Lidia used the original necklace two years ago as collateral for a loan through Falk’s shell company. When the insurance payout came through, she’d repay him double, and the collector gets the real piece. Everyone wins but you, me, and the auction house’s investors.”

Camille’s mind was racing. “So Falk is here to close the deal.”

“He arrived last night. Privately. By boat.” Marcel’s expression shifted—something like fear creeping into his features. “I only know because my assistant handles the auction house’s yacht permits. Falk’s vessel is moored at the Quai des États-Unis.”

She pulled out her phone, then remembered it was still dead from the vault. “I need the yacht’s name. And I need to get to Victor.”

“You can’t walk out the front door. The police—”

“I know.” Camille was already moving toward the window, evaluating the fire escape. “They have my name. But they don’t have me yet. Give me Falk’s details.”

Marcel hesitated, then wrote something on a slip of paper. “The yacht’s called *Aurelia*. She docks at slip seventeen.”

Camille took the paper. “You’re still going to be here when this is over.”

“I know.” Marcel’s voice was barely a whisper. “Go.”

---

The service elevator let her out at the loading dock, and she slipped through the delivery entrance just as a patrol car rounded the corner two streets over. Camille ducked into the shadow of a catering van, counted to ten, then ran—not toward the police, but along the harbor promenade where the night was thick with tourists and drunks.

She found Victor where she’d left him, two blocks from the auction house, leaning against a low stone wall with his phone pressed to his ear. The moment he saw her, he ended the call and pushed off the wall, crossing to meet her.

“You’re an hour late. I was about to—”

“Falk,” she said, breathless. “Thomas Falk. He’s here. He owns your debt, and he’s in Monaco to close a triple deal with Lidia as the broker. The yacht is called *Aurelia*, moored at slip seventeen.”

Victor’s face went still—a controlled mask, but not fast enough. She saw the flash of recognition, the tightening around his jaw.

“You knew,” she said.

“I suspected.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Falk doesn’t move without a reason. When I heard he was coming to Monaco, I knew it had to do with Lidia—she’s the only person who can move a piece like this.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this?”

“I didn’t know it was tied to the pendant. I thought it was another job.” Victor’s voice was low, urgent. “Falk finances heists. He doesn’t orchestrate them. If he’s here in person, that means the take is bigger than I thought. Bigger than a single necklace.”

Camille stepped closer, her voice dropping. “It’s not the necklace he wants. It’s the collector relationship. Lidia’s been courting a private buyer for two years, and the pendant is the proof of concept. Falk gets a permanent client, Lidia gets her insurance payout, and the real pendant disappears into a vault in Geneva where no one will ever see it again.”

Victor’s eyes were dark. “So we need the piece before the gala.”

“We need to find Kovač,” she agreed. “But we also need Falk’s schedule. If we can figure out when and where he plans to meet Lidia tonight, we can intercept the exchange.”

“Lidia’s not meeting Falk tonight.” A new voice cut in from behind them.

Camille spun. A woman stepped out of the shadow of a palm tree, shaped by the spill of harbor lights. Mid-thirties, dark hair pulled back, a waiter’s jacket over formal wear. Recognition hit Camille like cold water.

“Eloise Marchand,” she breathed.

Lidia’s assistant. The woman who’d ordered the fake pendant from Pierre.

Eloise smiled—thin, practiced, dangerous. “Marcel called ahead. He said you two might need a guide.” She held up a gala lanyard with Camille’s name printed on it. “Falk doesn’t meet clients in person. He watches remotely. If you want to stop him, you need to find the pendant first.”

She tossed the lanyard to Camille.

“The problem is,” Eloise continued, “I just got word from Kovač’s handler. He’s already moved the piece. It’s not coming to the gala.”

“Then where is it?” Victor demanded.

Eloise’s smile widened. “That’s what Falk is betting you can’t figure out.”

She turned and walked away, her heels clicking on the cobblestones, leaving Camille and Victor alone with the weight of a single, unwelcome question: if the pendant wasn’t at the gala, where in Monte Carlo could it possibly be?