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CHAPTER ONE

The Mediterranean Sea, off the coast of the French Riviera

Alexandra Martel turned, spotting her approaching quarry weaving

through the crowd.

All around her was the smell of the sea, the briny scent cutting through the cologne and perfume of the well-heeled guests aboard the luxury megayacht Aurora as if to remind them that, for all their wealth and refinement, the sea was more formidable. Aurora and all she represented were merely transitory things bobbing on its undulating and unforgiving surface.

As her target breezed past, Alex exchanged her empty glass with a new flute of champagne from atop his tray. Mission accomplished. She sipped as the tuxedoed waiter smiled and moved on. Her mood was light, buoyed by the atmosphere of celebration and, perhaps, the champagne.

The spacious enclosed salon pulsed with music as multicolored lasers slashed through the darkness. Fog machines belched mist from an elevated stage. An ornate starfish mosaic encrusted with thousands of LED fibers seemed to scuttle across the dance floor as she strode through a pair of sliding glass pocket doors into a much quieter corridor.

The guests had boarded the ship at its home port in Antibes, France, the coastal town situated on the Mediterranean Sea between Cannes and Nice. At 148 meters—more than 485 feet—Aurora wasn't short on private spaces. Somewhere in one of the many salons on this deck, Alex would find the person she was actually looking for.

Madame Celeste Clicquot, secretary general of Interpol, had excused herself twenty minutes ago, telling Alex she had to meet with someone. But she had been evasive when Alex inquired further. That was out of character for Clicquot, who, since the events in Paris in the early summer, had been more open and forthright with Alex about her work affairs.

Alex opened a door into a lavish sitting room filled with plush velour settees, Persian rugs, vases, and sculptures from the Far East. Across from her, a man emerged from a doorway to what appeared to be a small private salon. He was older and unfamiliar to her, wearing a business suit that gave him the air of an outsider on this boatful of merrymakers. Stepping out from behind him was Celeste. Alex thought better of calling out to her and instead receded into the darkness. She watched as the man turned and shook Clicquot's hand, then hurried down a hallway toward the vessel's bow.

When Clicquot had taken a few steps in her direction, Alex stepped out of the shadows into the salon, taking a long sip of champagne for effect.

Clicquot spotted her and called across the room. "There you are!"

"Oh, hey! I thought I'd never see you again," said Alex.

"It is this boat, my dear. It's so massive."

She took Alex by the hand and led her back toward the dance hall. They emerged into the crowd of guests showing off their moves on the dance floor, where Clicquot found another waiter and relieved him of two fresh glasses of bubbly.

"I'm still working on this one," Alex protested, shouting to be heard above the din.

"Who said either of these is for you, my dear?" Clicquot replied, draining one in a single gulp.

Oh, what the hell. Live a little, Alex thought.

She polished off her own glass and seized another from the waiter's tray.

"You are a devil," Clicquot said conspiratorially. "Come. Follow me."

She led Alex up a highly polished chromium spiral staircase, her midnight-blue silk dress billowing in the breeze like the spinnaker of a grand sailing vessel as they climbed the stairs.

The deck they entered was open to the sea and as dark as its murky depths. A warm breeze wafted over the ship's gunwales as it steamed ahead. Clicquot guided them to a terrace overlooking the vessel's stern and dropped into a cushioned rattan deck chair. A glass-bottom swimming pool two decks below in the ship's beach club shimmered like sky-blue plasma. Behind them, a ribbon of luminous white foam split the sea, illuminated by a waxing gibbous moon hovering over La Baie des Anges—the Bay of Angels.