Standing in the middle of all those policemen was a little boy, about twelve, in a red T-shirt, lowrider jeans hanging down to his knees, and Nike sneakers. He was holding a cell phone.
He looked at the policemen one after another, not in the least afraid. Then he flashed a huge grin, revealing a broken tooth, and remarked in earnest, ‘Holy shit, man! Cool!’
FIFTY-TWO
It was almost two in the morning when Hudson McCormack pulled up near the wharf at the Fontvieille marina, stopping in front of a large cabin cruiser with blue fenders, moored between two yachts. He got off his scooter and kicked down the stand before taking off his helmet. He had rented a scooter rather than a car, because he thought it would be easier in the Monte Carlo traffic. The city was already chaotic in the summertime and getting around by car was a real drag, despite the many parking garages. But during the regatta, Fontvieille was a huge scrum of people coming and going – crews, media, sponsors and their representatives, not to mention the hordes of fans and onlookers.
Getting anywhere was a constant obstacle course and the best way to wriggle through the commotion was by motorbike. Plus, wearing goggles and a helmet was an excellent disguise to keep from being recognized and stopped at every turn by someone asking about his boat.
Looking at the enormous cruiser, Hudson McCormack thought of the endless debate over yachts and motorboats that often exploded in furious bar-room arguments between aficionados of one or the other. To him, the distinction was meaningless. They were all motorboats, except that a yacht doesn’t have a traditional propeller or gear cranks, cylinders, pistons and fuel located somewhere under the hull. A yacht’s motor is the wind. And like all motors, it has to be analysed, understood, its pulse regulated, and its natural advantages exploited to the utmost.
While watching car races, which he loved, he had seen engines explode in a sudden burst of white smoke. Many times, he had seen single-seaters pull off the track as the others raced past, and the driver would get out of his car and bend over the rear axle, trying to understand what had betrayed him.
It was the same for boats. A yacht was also subject to the whims of its motor – the wind – which twisted, changed direction, rose or fell as it pleased. Unexpectedly, without any warning, the sails could fall limp while just a dozen yards away your opponent’s boat was speeding along with the bright-coloured spinnaker so swollen that it looked like it might burst.
And sometimes that too could happen. The ripping of the sail made a noise like a huge zip, and organized chaos ensued: the excitement of changing the damaged sail, the skipper’s orders, the instructions of the tactician, the crew members crossing the deck like dancers on a moving stage.
Hudson McCormack had no personal explanation for all of that. He only knew that he adored it. He didn’t know why he felt so good when he was at sea, and he didn’t care. You don’t analyse happiness, you live it. He knew he was happy on a boat, and that was enough.
He was suddenly excited for the coming regatta. The Grand Mistral was a sort of dress rehearsal for the Louis Vuitton Cup at the end of the year, which was itself a competition to find a challenger to take on the holder of the Americas Cup. This was when you showed your cards before reshuffling them if you needed to. The crews sized one another up, tried out their boats and tested the innovations designed to make them more competitive. Afterwards, there would be plenty of time to make the necessary changes before the most important and prestigious race of them all.
Everybody came to the Grand Mistral. Experienced crews and newcomers, even absolute beginners like Mascalzone Latino, a new Italian boat. The only one missing was Luna Rossa, the boat sponsored by Prada, still training at Punta Ala.
Hudson’s team’s boat, Try for the Sun, was parked with all its gear in a rented shed equipped for haulage and launching near Cap Fleuri, a few miles from Fontvieille. The workers were staying there too, in spartan but functional accommodation. The boat had to be under close watch twenty-four hours a day, so that prying eyes would not discover the top-secret details. In ocean racing, as in car racing, a revolutionary idea can mean the difference between triumph and defeat. Ideas were unfortunately easy to copy, and everyone tried as hard as possible to keep the details of their boats, the Formula 1 vehicles of sailing, hidden.
Of course it was to their advantage that most of the aerodynamics, so to speak, were located underwater. You never knew what could happen, though. There were oxygen tanks and underwater cameras and unscrupulous people. Someone who was shallower than him – Hudson McCormack smiled to himself at that word – might think such precautions excessive.
But substantial economic interests were at stake as well as the honour of victory. It was not for nothing that all support crews had artificial respirators on board, the ones that use oxygen, not air, invented during the Second World War for underwater attacks. They recirculated carbon dioxide so that divers could approach an enemy ship without revealing their presence through air bubbles rising to the surface.
Wooden legs, eye patches and cutlasses were not in style and the skull and crossbones no longer flew over the ships, but buccaneers were still around. Their progeny were alive and well and spread over the seven seas. Kings and queens no longer dispensed fleets of caravels, but sponsors gave out millions of dollars instead. The men and the boats were different, but the reasons were the same. They had merely substituted a sophisticated weather-forecasting system for what was once ‘the pointing of a moistened finger’ to find out which direction the wind was blowing.
The crew of Try for the Sun, to which Hudson belonged, were staying aboard the yacht flying their sponsor’s corporate colours in the Fontvieille marina. It was all a question of PR. The venture’s backer, an international tobacco company, intended to get as much publicity as possible. And quite frankly, with the amount of money it had put down, Hudson figured it had every right.
The official presentation of the boat and the crew was held at the Sporting Club d’Été. All the members of the team had attended in their sailing uniforms, which Hudson found much more elegant than the tuxedos and evening gowns of the other guests. At one point, the master of ceremonies had requested everyone’s attention: a skilful play of lights, a drum roll from the orchestra, and they had run out from either side of the room to stand in a row in front of the guests, while images of Try for the Sun were projected on the wall behind them. ‘We Are the Champions’ by Queen, arranged especially for the occasion, was played with a large string section to evoke gusts of wind in the sails.
They were introduced one by one and each received a round of applause as he stepped forward at the announcement of his name. They were strong, agile, intelligent men of expertise: the best the sport had to offer. That, at least, was the way they were presented and it was nice to believe it for a little while.
After dinner they had moved on to a nightclub, Jimmy’z. They were athletes and usually behaved themselves. Their mindset and attitude could be described by the adage, ‘Early to bed, early to rise.’ But they were not going to sea the next day and the team management thought that a little moderate partying could only help the crew’s morale.
Hudson locked a chain around his scooter. It was a big chain, covered in clear red plastic to match the scooter itself. They had all told him that there was no need to worry about thieves in Monte Carlo, but this habit was ingrained. He lived in New York City, where people could steal your shirt without even touching your back. Taking precautions was part of his DNA.
He stood on the wharf in front of the large cruiser, lit only by the service lights. There was no movement on the boat. He lit a cigarette and smiled. He wondered what the bosses of the tobacco company would say if they saw him smoking a rival brand of cigarettes. He strolled along the quay to finish his cigarette, leaving the yacht behind him. The person he was waiting for, if he knew anything about women, would not arrive for another half-hour, twenty minutes if he was lucky.
He’d spent the entire evening talking to Serena,
a New Zealander he had met by chance at the party. He didn’t really understand what she was doing in Monte Carlo, except that she was there for the regatta. She wasn’t on the staff of any of the teams, each of which required extensive personnel in addition to the crews and reserves: technicians, designers, press agents, trainers and masseurs. One team had even brought a psychologist, though their boat was not considered particularly competitive and gossip around the dockyard had it that he was there more to comfort the crew after losing than to gear them up before the race.
Serena was probably just one of those rich girls who travelled the world on her family’s money, pretending to be interested in one thing or another. Sailing, in this case.
You know, the wind in your hair and the sound of the prow cutting the waves and that liberating feeling . . .
Or something like that.
Hudson was not usually so susceptible to female charms. Not that he didn’t like women. He was straight as they come and a pretty girl was always a great way to pass the time, especially if she had class. He had his affairs in New York, and they were fulfilling but without commitment, by mutual agreement. He could take off at any time for a regatta without explanations, without tears and handkerchiefs waving on the pier in the hand of a sad girl mouthing the words, ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ He liked women of course, but he didn’t need any trophies.
Tonight, however, was special. The lights, the people, the applause – a little narcissism was understandable. He was there doing what he loved most in the world, in one of the world’s most beautiful places. It was captivating. He could not deny that Monte Carlo was magical to him. After all, he was an American through and through. The beauty and uniqueness of the place and all those stories of princes and princesses . . .
Serena’s eyes had flashed at him. What’s more, under her evening dress she had a gorgeous pair of breasts. They had chatted about this and that. Sailing, of course. Mostly they had discussed sailing gossip, who was who and who did what. Then their conversation had moved to a topic that Hudson was vaguely aware of: the story of the killer who snuck around Monaco disfiguring people. The girl was all worked up. The story had even pushed the regatta into the background. The criminal had killed nine or ten people and he was still at large, which was why there was such a massive number of police in the city. Hudson had thought of his scooter chain: so much for the place where crime was rare.
As they became acquainted, a comforting, promising expression had appeared in Serena’s eyes that said, ‘Knock and ye shall enter.’ And between one glass of champagne and another, Hudson had knocked. A few minutes later, they were both wondering why they were still there, in the middle of all those people.
And that’s why he was pacing up and down the wharf at Fontvieille at that time of night. They had left the disco almost immediately. They had decided that he would go down to the wharf to park his scooter and she would come and pick him up in her car. Serena had told him she had a convertible and had suggested a night drive along the coast.
In other words, a land regatta, free and easy, with the wind in their hair. He suspected their jaunt would begin and end without leaving her hotel room. Not that he minded. Not at all.
He threw his cigarette into the sea and walked back to the cruiser. He went on board in the absolute silence, listening to the gangplank creak under his step. There was nobody around and the sailors were sound asleep. He went down to his cabin next to that of Jack Sunstrom, the skipper. Jack was a terrific guy, but he snored so loudly that he sounded like a go-kart race. Light sleepers needed earplugs to be anywhere near him. The two cabins on either side of Sunstrom’s were chosen by lot and he and John Sikorsky, the tactician, had lost.
There was no noise coming from Sunstrom’s cabin, a sign that he was still at the party or still awake. Hudson removed the jacket of his official uniform, planning to change and put on something less flashy. The affair that evening was one thing; going around town like a colourful tropical fish was another. He put on a pair of blue trousers and a white shirt that showed off his tan. He decided to keep his shoes on – comfortable, cool deck shoes. His all-American looks didn’t require a pair of cowboy boots. He sprayed on a little cologne. Looking at himself in the mirror, he thought that, narcissism aside, a touch of healthy, honest male vanity would add spice to the evening.
Hudson left the boat, trying to make as little noise as possible. The sailors – professionals who worked hard and looked down on regatta crews as spoiled and lazy – were not very understanding about people who disturbed their well-deserved rest.
He found himself back on the pier, alone.
Serena must have decided to go back to her hotel and change before coming to pick him up. Her evening gown and heels were not the right clothes in which to continue the evening, however it would end. And it was quite likely that her own healthy, honest female vanity required a bit more time.
He glanced at his watch and shrugged. There was no need to keep checking the time. He would have the next day all to himself and that allowed for some laziness. Up to a point, anyway.
Hudson McCormack lit another cigarette and pondered his stay in Monte Carlo. It included a few tasks that were not exactly part of the regatta. A classic two-birds-with-one-stone. He had to speak to a few bank directors and see a couple of business people. People who were very, very important for his future.
He ran his hand over his chin, still smooth from his close shave before the fancy event. Hudson knew what he was doing and the risks he was taking. Anyone who saw him as just a good-looking American – healthy, athletic and in love with his sport – was making a big mistake. There was an intelligent, extremely practical mind behind his charming looks.
He was well aware that he didn’t have what it took to be a king of the courtroom. Not because he lacked the ability, but because he simply didn’t want to wait. He had no desire to slave away trying to pull delinquents out of jail when they had every reason to be there. He had suspected for some time that his studies were not particularly suited to his temperament: he had no intention of working his butt off all his life, hobnobbing with the filth of society at whatever level. He did not want to reach the age of sixty-five only to find himself playing golf with other geezers full of money, making sure his dentures wouldn’t fall out on the putting green. He wanted the things that interested him now, at the age of thirty-three, while his mind and body were able to back him up in the fulfilment of his desires.
Hudson McCormack had his own philosophy on life. He wasn’t greedy. He wasn’t interested in villas or helicopters or endless amounts of money or power. In fact, he considered those things more a sort of prison than a sign of success. He pitied the bigshots, the ones who slept two hours a night and spent their days buying and selling bonds or whatever it was from five different phones. They all ended up in intensive care with heart attacks, wondering where it had all gone wrong and why, with all their money and power, they couldn’t buy themselves more time.
Hudson McCormack, the young lawyer, took absolutely no pleasure in arranging the destinies of others: he wanted only to control his own. His ideal life was on the ocean, sailing. The wind in his hair and the sound of the prow cutting through the waves; the freedom to choose the route, any route, according to the moment.
He threw his cigarette butt into the sea. To do what he wanted, he needed money. Lots of money. Not an enormous amount, but a substantial sum. And there was only one way to get it in a hurry: by circumventing the law. That was how he put it. A slight euphemism. Not breaking the law, but circumventing it. Walking along the edge, on the margins, so that he could turn around quickly if someone called, showing his good-boy face and answering ‘Who, me?’ with innocent eyes. He could not deny that there was a risk involved, but he had weighed it up carefully. He had examined the question up and down, front and back, and decided that the risk was, all told, acceptable. There were drugs involved and that was not to be taken lightly. Still, this case was special, very special, as
cases involving mountains of money always are.
Everyone knew where drugs were produced and refined and what they were used for. Entire countries based their economies on different kinds of powders, which cost less than talcum powder where they were produced but went up 5,000 or 6,000 per cent once they reached their destination.
The various comings and goings of these operations were part of a horrific war, no less ferocious and well-organized because it was underground. There were soldiers, officers, generals and tacticians who remained in the shadows but were no less capable and determined. And liaising between the various armies were people who had turned money laundering into a professional calling. The business world was not sophisticated enough to turn its back on someone who came with three or four billion dollars, if not more.
Hudson McCormack was not a big enough hypocrite to hide his head in the sand. He knew that what he was doing was a legitimate part of the shit that was destroying the planet. He did not intend to shirk from his own implacable judgement. It was only a question of stimuli, of weights on the scales. For the moment, what he wanted was on one side and had much greater weight than any argument he could put on the other.
He had carefully assessed the situation during long evenings at home, poring over the facts with the same coldness used to analyse the balance sheet of any legitimate company. He believed that he had foreseen everything. He had even made a list of things that were unforeseeable. The possible events and outcomes that couldn’t be known.
In the best-case scenario, he would have enough money to soothe his conscience and get the boat he wanted. Then he would sail around the world, free as the wind. In the worst-case scenario – and he knocked on wood – the consequences would not be that bad. In any case, they would not be enough to ruin his life completely.
He had left himself several outs, which put acceptable limits on the risks. As acceptable as a risk of that kind could be. Everyone has a price, and he knew he was no different. Still, Hudson McCormack was neither corrupt nor greedy enough to raise the price to a rash level that he could not support.