Читать книгу The Black Squares Club - Joseph Cairo - Страница 6

L’hotel de St. Marie is the most exclusive resort in Monaco —— if not the world. Located in Monaco-Ville, it offers a panoramic view of the city. Suites range from five to ten thousand a night. Le Chateau de Pompeii is the most luxurious lodging in the complex and the most exclusive. Overlooking the main hotel on Mont Agel, it is replete with its own gardens, sundeck, pool and spas. Guests receive a comp for the accommodations by meeting a wager minimum of fifty thousand dollars a night at the casino which is a short boat ride from the hotel. Only royalty are permitted to occupy Le Chateau de Pompeii, but that restriction is a mere formality, easily overcome by the payment of a tribute tax, which goes directly into the coffers of the Royal Family. In return, the Prince Albert’s personal secretary bestows an honorary title effective for the length of the stay. The attendants of Le Chateau refer to the guests accordingly, as His or Her Serene Majesty.

The late afternoon sun had already refracted from floral white to blanched almond. In less than an hour it would turn a crimson red before descending into the aqua-blue waters of the Mediterranean. Esther lay nude on the chaise lounge next to Sam. She seemed unconcerned by the porter who emptied a fresh wheel barrel of ice into the ice spa. Even after a full day of vigorous sexual activity, Sam was still aroused by her beautiful form. When the porter disappeared from view, Esther mechanically rose and tiptoed over to the ice spa, sighing loudly as she jumped in feet first. She very quickly maneuvered her shivering wet body from out of the cold bath and into the hot tub where she relaxed for several minutes. Before returning to her chaise-lounge, she went under the San Trope tower—a shower-like apparatus that applied suntan oils. Sam watched her intently as she frolicked about. She moved like an angel, Sam’s private angel. Sam was in heaven. But, he wasn’t the only one watching. The deck was visible by telescope from every hotel in the city, and tele-peeping is one of the principle daytime activities in Monaco.

Sam used his iPad when he was abroad to get his emails. Ninety-six new e-mails were listed across his screen. Tim had obviously done his job well.

“Anything interesting?” Esther asked.

“Yes, most interesting. Tim forwarded me Eleanor Moreau’s e-mail that she received prior to her death.”

“What are you looking for, Sam?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. Sam began reading the e-mail to himself. “She corresponded regularly with her sister who kept her abreast of family matters. She also corresponded with her ex-husband, mostly regarding custody arrangements for their youngest child,” Sam continued. “And it appears that you and Eleanor Moreau had something in common.”

“Really? What’s that?” Esther asked.

“Apparently, she was also a member of the Black Squares Club.”

“There’s nothing unusual about that,” Esther replied, “it’s the best online crossword puzzle club in the country. And it’s the only one that offers prizes.”

“You mean you can actually win prizes?” Sam asked.

“You earn points that are redeemable in the R. SPELLMAN catalogue.”

“Here’s something else interesting—a number of correspondences from Henri Gateau.”

“Isn’t Gateau the race car driver?” Esther asked.

“Formula One, I believe.”

“He’s very debonair and good looking. Perhaps he’s racing in the Grand Prix?”

“If he is, he’ll be dining at the hotel tonight. All of the drivers are invited to a pre-race dinner.”

“What do his correspondences say, Sam?”

“I’ll read you his last e-mail sent January 15, three months before her unfortunate demise.”

Dearest Eleanor,

I have raised the cash, but I need it back by the 17th. We’ll need twice that for the operation. Hope we’re still partners in business as well as in love.

All my love,

Henri

“That’s a strange letter, Sam. Eleanor Moreau had all the money in the world. She was a charter member of the jet set. Why would she be giving Gateau for money?”

“That’s a very good question. Let me check her out box. Perhaps she replied to the letter. Yes. Here it is.”

My beautiful Henri,

Send the cash. One more thing. Tell Jacque I’ve finished the Alaska layout. Froze my butt off. Kept it on ice for you.

Love,

Eleanor

P.S. I will definitely return it by the 17th. And, yes, we are still partners in every sense of the word.

“Wait a minute,” Sam said.

“What is it, Sam?”

“There’s a shadow cc attached to her e-mail.”

“A shadow what?” Esther asked.

“A sophisticated virus-like program that forwards incoming and outgoing mail.”

“How’s that possible, Sam?”

“General Patton once said, ‘fixed fortifications are a monument to the stupidity of man.’ ”

“Was that General Patton or George C. Scott?”

“What’s the difference? The point is that computer security is also a monument to the stupidity of man. For every measure there is a counter-measure. If I remember my hacker’s manual correctly, the program in question is called inkspot. It can find its way into the operating system of a computer in any number of ways. Watch this,” Sam said as he turned the iPad toward her. He clicked on the Start icon at the bottom of the screen and then clicked on Find. Under files and folders he typed in the word inkspot. Within microseconds a file was displayed on the screen. “Yes. Look here . . . the hacker didn’t even bother to change the name of the program.”

“You’d really be a great detective if you could tell me who was checking her mail. You implied that there’s no infallible security system on computers. Prove it!”

“No sweat. The address of the hacker is embedded in the program. He used a mathematical code to hide it, but I’m familiar with the code. It’s a mailbox on a remote site. Foolishly, the hacker chose a Hotmail address.”

“Why do you say, foolishly, Sam?”

“Because the serial number of every Intel chip is encoded in the ROM. Hotmail has a program that reads the serial number and matches it against the purchase orders of every computer sold. Ninety-nine percent of computer owners register their computer in order to validate their warranty. Virtually everyone who has a mailbox at Hotmail can be traced by the serial number of the chip.”

“Too bad you don’t have access to the Hotmail database.”

“Oh, but I do my dear. I can break into the Hotmail database faster than you can say Jackie Robinson.”

“Who the hell is Jackie Robinson?”

“He was the first Black baseball player to break into the majors and he was as fast as greased lightning. He was my father’s favorite player on the old Brooklyn Dodgers. Look, I’m in. Let me type in the date, January 15, and see what we have. Let’s narrow it down to New York City.”

“Not too bad, Sam. You’re down to about 500 entries. What now?”

“Moreau’s letter was sent at 10:52 P.M. Let’s scroll down the list. An e-mail was received from New York City at 10:53 P.M.: Clarion@Hotmail.net.”

“Now what genius?”

“Now we access the database and trace it back to the serial number on the chip.” Sam cleared the screen and typed in a series of commands. A menu appeared on the screen prompting the user for an e-mail address. Sam typed in Clarion. Within seconds, the serial number of the Intel Chip together with all the registration information appeared on the screen.

“Sam, look at this. The computer is registered to an L. Smith in Washington, D.C.”

“Could be a Fed. I wonder . . . in accordance with the Freedom of Information act, the serial numbers of all government computers are listed with their department and agency. I know the URL of the website to trace a location by serial number. Sam typed in http://www.interagency/interweave/processor, hit enter, sat back and waited.

“Boy, it’s taking a long time to load. I’m used to supercomputer speeds. All right, Esther, we’re ready to go! What’s that serial number again?”

“A3Q42E-21C*P”

Sam entered the serial number. “The computer that received Eleanor Moreau’s e-mail is located in the FBI building, room 417, cubicle B.”

“So it is the FBI! Why do you think the FBI was interested in Eleanor Moreau?”

“Maybe just her Canadian connection. They may have viewed her as a security risk after her divorce.”

“Can you break into that computer?” Esther asked anxiously.

“Not from here. But I could plant the same inkspot virus into his Hotmail box. I’ll get a cc of every e-mail he sends out or receives from that box.”

“Do it Sam.”

“If I do, there’s a possibility that the agent who has claim to that box will find me the same way that I found him. You and I could end up in a heap of trouble.”

“Wait a minute, why am I included,” Esther asked nervously.

“There’s a well known maxim in the business, my love: whatever the subject knows, so does the girl. And it’s easier to pump her for information. Maybe even torture her.” Sam was getting some sadistic satisfaction in needling the latest love of his life and self-fashioned sleuth.

“Then forget it. I don’t really give a damn who killed her.”

“Too late! I’ve already attached the shadow program.” Sam got up from his lounge chair and ran over to the ice pool. He bellowed loudly from the shock of the icy cold water. He nimbly transferred to the hot mineral bath. Esther followed him into the spa.

Sam clutched her around her waist. Her body was firm, beautifully carved and proportioned; she was electrifying. Esther dug her fingers into his shorts and fondled his derriere. Then she undid the string and pulled down his shorts. Sam stepped out of them and let them fall to the pool bottom. Her hands ranged ravenously over his body, dancing from one muscle group to the next, massaging them, and caressing them, until she finally reached home. She loved his rock hard phallus. It was longer and harder than any she had ever known and she had known a few. She played with it hungrily and then turned to brace herself on the side of the pool, her legs spread open in a perfect v-shape. She loved it in the water. Sam’s long penetrating thrusts made her cry out uncontrollably. When Sam climaxed it felt like Mt. Helena erupting with all its fury inside of her. “Sam, no one has ever pleased me like you,” she said, in earnest.

Sam climbed out of the mineral bath and showered under the San Trope tower. Esther followed him and they went back to the chaise lounges fully spent. There were two piña coladas waiting for them. Their skin was scorched by the hot sun and they were drained from their exercise. The iced drinks quenched their thirst and revived them.

“I think we’re going to break some kind of record,” Sam said.

“Do you think you can keep up with me?” Esther teased.

“The more we do it, the more I want you.”

“Nonsense,” she replied, “the more you have of me the more you want to put Qu Min on your list of conquests .”

“You’re crazy,” Sam said.

“No need to pretend, Sam, I know you. I saw how you looked at her, even when she had her shirt on.”

“What do you know, Esther?”

“No woman can possess you—not yet. Not even me.”

“You underestimate yourself Esther. I’m all yours.”

“Are you, Sam? I saw you sneaking glances at Qu Min pretty intensely on the plane.”

“Esther, we’ve been over this before. I didn’t tell her to take her shirt off. But when she did, I was merely examining the evidence as any good detective would.” Sam grinned.

“Sam, could you ever forgive me if I slept with another man? Never mind. Don’t answer that. You know I would forgive you if you slept with another woman as long as you didn’t love her. If you feel you must have Qu Min to fulfill some sexual fantasy, I’ll understand. I only have one request. You have to be honest with me. I have to know about it if you do. And remember, whatever you do, just don’t fall in love with her.”

Sam didn’t answer. He put his Yankee hat over his sunglasses and lay back on the lounge. He was wondering if Esther might be right about him. That he did view Qu Min with his bedtime eyes.

“Sam, I was thinking,” Esther said.

“You think too much,” he snickered.

“Is it possible any of the other victims might have had a shadow on their e-mail?”

Sam reached for his iPad and scrolled the e-mail. He clicked on an e-mail of Everton LeBraun.”

“It’s there, isn’t it Sam?”

“It sure is. And to the same Hotmail address. Let’s try an e-mail of the Byteman kid.” Sam clicked on an e-mail entitled end of the rainbow. Nothing. No shadow here. But of course he was an expert hacker himself. He’d have had the same whistle on his e-mail that I do.”

“If the FBI knew who the victims were they might also know who the killer was?” Esther surmised. “Or . . .”

“Or perhaps Mr. Smith is the crossword murderer.”

“Sam, I’m tired of playing Nick and Nora. Do you think you can live without me for a couple of hours?”

“It won’t be easy,” Sam said.

“I need to get my hair done for tonight, and I want to buy that evening dress we saw in the Princess Caroline Boutique.”

“Have fun,” Sam said.

“What will you do?” Esther asked.

“Don’t worry. I’ll find something to keep me busy.”

“Blackjack, again. How much have you lost, Sam?”

“I’m down around 80 grand, but who’s counting?”

“I’m really not interested. Sorry I asked.” She walked through the lily garden and into the townhouse.

Sam was thankful for the sex-free interlude. He continued to browse Eleanor Moreau’s e-mail. There was one more thing of interest that caught Sam’s attention—several correspondences with the Black Squares Club. Apparently there was a rating system by which each member was rated with respect to his or her performance. Once the member reached a certain rating, they became eligible for the next level. But rating alone was not sufficient to insure membership in the highest echelon of the club. Some kind of test was required. Moreau had failed the test a number of times, but she kept requesting to retake it. Very near the time of her death, she had received an e-mail confirming her acceptance into the highest echelon of the Black Squares: The Ninth Circle. Sam made the connection immediately. The Ninth Circle was the name of the club that Lentz had asked Sam to join in the parking lot. It was yet another connection between Lentz and Moreau.

“Front desk, s’il vous-plait?” Sam asked the operator.

“Certainement, M. Sonn,” replied the operator.

“Allo, front desk,” answered a female voice.

“This is Mr. Sonn. I’m staying at Le Chateau de Pompei. Would you be kind enough to tell me if a friend of mine has registered?”

“Of course, Monsieur Sonn. And whom might that be?”

“Henri Gateau.”

“Oui Monsieur, he is registered. Monsieur Gateau always stays with us during the week of the Grand Prix. Should I connect you?”

“Please.” The phone rang twice.

“Allo, Gateau,” a man answered gruffly.

“Parlez-vous Anglais?”

“Oui, Monsieur, I speak it fluently.”

“Monsieur Gateau, my name is Samuel Sonn. I’m a private investigator recently retained by Eleanor Moreau’s family. I thought we might have a drink together to discuss some aspects of the case.”

“Certainly. Can you meet me at the Riato Lounge in half an hour? You’re familiar with the hotel?” Gateau asked with a pronounced French accent. Though his English was fluent, he still hadn’t mastered the intonation of the language.

“Yes, I am. I’m also a guest here. See you then.”

An afternoon at Chez Pierre can run up a hefty bill, especially if Pierre is your stylist. It runs two hundred euro just to get in the door. Besides having her hair cut and blown, Esther had a facial and a manicure. It was nearly four when she left the beauty salon and strolled across the Palais Princier. Cherchez les femmes! She was a sight to behold, wearing a full-length silk skirt with a striking black and orange geometric pattern, a tight fitting white cashmere top with matching sun hat, and Cassini sunglasses. The Square was bustling with wives and mistresses of the rich and famous. The gown that Esther wanted may have already been snatched up. She hurried toward the boutique, relieved to see the dress still displayed in the window. But as she was about to enter the shop she heard a voice calling her from clear across the square. “Shit,” she cursed. It was Radford. He jogged across the square.

“Hey gorgeous,” he said to her. “You know you’re the most beautiful thing in Monaco?”

“Better not let your girlfriend hear you talking that way.”

“I left Qu Min at the baccarat table. She’s losing badly. But I have the feeling I’m saving money. She’s probably more dangerous here.”

“I’m about to reek my own havoc, so if you’ll excuse me.” Esther was not pleased to see Radford—nothing was going to come between her and her evening gown.

“Mind if I tag along. Maybe I can offer my expert opinion.”

“That isn’t necessary, thank you.” Esther was clearly giving him the cold shoulder.

“Are you sure?” Radford didn’t give up easily.

“Yes, quite sure.” Esther turned and walked into the boutique.

“May, I try on the black gown you have displayed in the window?” she asked the salesman.

“No, Madame. I’m afraid that dress has already been purchased.”

“By whom?” Esther asked.

“By Mademoiselle Yvette, Princess Caroline’s cousin.”

“How much did she pay for it?” piped in a male voice from behind Esther. It was Radford. Apparently, he didn’t get the message.

“Five thousand euro, Monsieur.”

“I’ll give you ten thousand,” Radford said.

“Monsieur, if Mademoiselle Yvette ever found out . . .”

“If she wanted it so badly then why is it still in the window?” Radford demanded to know.

“Well, she wasn’t really sure she wanted it. It is a Louis Blanc that was originally ordered by the Princess herself, but had a change of heart when she tried it on.”

“Why? Why didn’t she take it?

“Sorry Monsieur, that is confidential.”

“Well, at least let Mademoiselle try it on. If it fits, I’ve got the cash.

“Oui, Monsieur,” the salesman agreed. He took the dress from the window.

“Buddy, I appreciate your help, but I can’t let you buy it for me and I’m not sure Sam would be willing to spend nearly fifteen thousand dollars, American, on a dress.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a gift,” he said.

“No, I’m afraid I can’t accept it.”

“Do you think it would look better on Mademoiselle Yvette? Try it on,” he said, flinging it to her.

“I don’t think Sam would be too happy if he knew I had accepted a very expensive gift from someone else,” she said holding the dress in her hands.

“Why not? You consider me a friend don’t you?”

“Yes, but…”

“'Nough, said,” Radford quipped in his best southern drawl. “Besides, you don’t have to tell him. Anyway, I am asking for something in return.”

“And what might that be?” Esther asked.

“Nothing complicated. I’d like some company when I drink my Tom Collins at the bar across the street. And I’d like to see you wear the dress tonight. And . . .”

“What else?” Esther interrupted.

“And I’d like you to throw the dice for me tonight at the craps table. I’m losing my shirt. Maybe you’ll be the catalyst to change my luck.”

“Sounds simple enough. I must warn you though; I haven’t brought much luck to Sam. He’s down around 80 grand on my rolls.”

“I’m down more than 200. So then it’s a deal?”

“Sure, why not.”

“Try it on then.”

Esther tried on the dress, which fit her perfectly. It had been altered to fit the 5 foot 7 statuesque Princess Caroline. Esther was nearly that height. She considered it flattering that she had a similar build to Grace Kelly’s oldest daughter. Radford made quite a fuss. It was a tactic which was not at all lost on Esther. She was both flattered and receptive to Radford’s excessive fawning. He was smooth and well mannered to a fault. Esther could not deny her attraction to him. Their conversation graduated to another level at the Café across the street.

“You know, I know the highlight of this trip will be seeing you in that dress. I am sure it will be worth every penny it cost me,” Radford said, staring at Esther across the dimly lit table located at the rear of the café.

“Buddy, stop. You’re girlfriend is quite beautiful, you know. Even Sam finds her attractive,” Esther responded. She was cuing Radford. She wanted to hear him say that her beauty was far superior to that of Qu Min.

“She has hidden talents as well,” Radford replied, purposely ignoring Esther’s prodding.

“You’re a very lucky man then, Mr. Radford.”

“If I’m so lucky then how come I’m down 200 grand at the blackjack table?”

“Well you know the expression—lucky in love, unlucky in cards. Maybe you should try a different game?” Esther suggested.

“No, it’s not that,” Radford replied.

“What is it then?” Esther asked.

“Luck is a woman. She has to be seduced.”

“And just what does it take to seduce Lady Luck?” Esther asked with genuine interest as to Radford’s response.

“The right combination.”

“And you think that we’re the right combination?”

“I’m betting on it.”

“As long as you understand that our agreement runs only as far as the craps table.”

“I’ll play by the rules, only . . . ”

“Only what?”

“Only I really can’t see you and Sonn . . ..” Radford was moving in for the kill, betting that he had penetrated Esther’s armor.

“And why not?”

“Because he’s not truly in love with you.”

“He is in love with me,” Esther insisted.

“Perhaps, but he’s in love with himself and there is no room for him to love a woman more.”

“How do you know?

“It doesn’t take me long to size up someone. But it really doesn’t matter.”

“And why not, Mr. Radford?”

“Because you and I are all that matters. We’re more alike than you think.”

“In what way.”

“We both get high on sex. And we both know that the greatest high comes when we cheat.”

“I’ve had my flings, Mr. Radford. I’m not interested. Fun and games are over for me.”

“Then I think that it’s only fair for me to put you on notice. I want you and I’m going to do whatever it takes to win you. Besides you and Sonn aren’t even married, no less engaged. Like it or not the game is on,” he said.

“You can forget it Mr. Radford. Our agreement goes as far as the craps table and that’s where it ends. I admit that I find you attractive, but I am in love with Sam.”

Buddy clutched Esther’s hand and kissed it. Esther felt a bolt of lightning flash through her bosom and into her soul. “I’ll see you later,” he said.

“I want the titanium cams, Jacques, I don’t like the sound of the steel ones. I’m coming down to make sure you’ve installed them properly. I’ll do the test drive myself.”

Sam walked toward the table at which Henri Gateau was seated. He had come in on the tail end of the conversation Gateau was having with his pit boss over his cell phone. Gateau, a tall thin brown haired Frenchman with a razor thin mustache looked up at Sam.

“Monsieur Gateau, I’m Samuel Sonn.”

“You don’t look like a private eye, Monsieur Sonn.” he said, with a perfect blend of English and French.

“What do I look like, Monsieur?”

“More like a race car driver,” Gateau answered.

“I’ve done some stock car driving.”

“For whom?” Gateau asked.

“For myself,” Sam answered.

“Racing is an expensive business, Monsieur Sonn.”

“My father financed me.”

“And how did you do, Monsieur Sonn?”

“I became a private investigator.”

“It appears that you have made the right decision, Monsieur. Le Chateau de Pompeii is more than most race car drivers can afford.”

“There’s good money in industrial security. I want you to know that I took the Moreau case as a favor to the family, and . . .”

“And for the publicity, no doubt, Monsieur.”

“The publicity doesn’t hurt. But the case is intriguing. Do you have any theories as to why Eleanor Moreau was chosen as the seventh victim of the crossword murderer?”

“I don’t know, Monsieur. I know nothing about puzzles.”

“But Eleanor was an avid puzzle solver.”

“Oui, Monsieur. She did them all the time, but without me.”

“Did you ever see her compose a puzzle?”

“Excusez-moi, Monsieur.”

“I mean did she ever construct her own puzzles for publication?”

“It is odd that you should ask me, because she was constructing a puzzle shortly before her death. She was using a computer program to help her. I didn’t think she was doing it to be published. But perhaps she was.”

“Do you know if she had any enemies that might have wanted to do her harm? Did she express to you any fear that someone might be trying to hurt her?”

“Monsieur, Eleanor Moreau, how do you say it, did not know the purpose, excusez-moi, the meaning of the word fear. As for enemies, oui Monsieur, there were many. Half of Canada never forgave her for cheating on her husband while he was Prime Minister. Then there were the right-wingers, the skinheads, in France and Germany. And many of her photographs were done without permission— taken with a telephoto lens. Then there were the anti-environmental groups. Not to mention the oil cartel. They hated her. Just recently she had completed a series on the oil spill in Alaska.”

“I checked her e-mail. There was a message from you concerning money.”

“Oui, Monsieur. Right now I am in the hole for over a million euros.”

“She wrote that you were partners. May I ask in what?”

“We have a mutual friend—Philippe Toursey. He is known in France as the next Jacques Cousteau. He located a Spanish galleon that sank in the vicinity of 12 kilometers off the coast of Nice nearly two hundred years ago. He needed financing to salvage the vessel.”

“But you sent her money,” Sam said.

“Oui, Monsieur, a speculative investment—no records, no income tax, no lawyers. She promised to reap a tenfold return. That’s all I know.”

“Interesting,” Sam said.

“Monsieur, I’m late for an appointment at the proving grounds. I must test the installation of our new titanium cam rotors.”

“I understand. Thank you for your time. You have been most helpful.”

“Monsieur, I know that you may find this request unusual. But I feel that you have brought me luck. Perhaps you would like to accompany me to the racetrack. I would enjoy showing you my racer.”

“I’d be honored, Henri.”

The proving grounds were nearly forty kilometers outside of Monaco-Ville, in Vielle. Gateau drove his black Chevy Corvette through the winding mountain roads with expert precision. Sam found it amusing that the great French driver preferred an American sports car to a Porsche-Peugeot, but chose not to comment on it. “You’re a fantastic driver, Henri,” Sam said.

“Knowing the road is the key to driving,” Gateau replied.

“Henri, you said that Eleanor was constructing a crossword puzzle on a computer. Where was that computer?”

“It was a laptop. But Sam, as I recall, she left it at my beach house in Nice. I will have it sent here for you to inspect tomorrow.”

The racetrack at Vielle was a marvelous facility; the track was newly paved, the lane lines were recently painted and the pits were among the most modern on the circuit. The crews were making last minute adjustments to the racers. Henri drove his black ‘Vette onto the track and into pit quatorze where his crew was working.

“Jacques this is Samuel Sonn, a friend of mine. He knows cars—an ex- driver. So tell us what you have been doing.”

Jacques, Henri’s pit boss was about 40, portly appearance and bald. “My pleasure Monsieur Sonn. Were you a formula-one driver, Monsieur?”

“No, stock cars—on the Nascar circuit,” Sam replied.

“I have worked on stock cars . . .” Jacques began.

“Jacques, the car,” Henri interrupted impatiently.

Jacques quickly turned his attention back to Henri. “We have checked the timing, the fuel injection, the hyper-drive gears, the turbo and we finished installing the titanium cams. The seating is perfect, but it has to be road tested. If it meets your approval we’ll clean out the fuel tanks and spray the interior with an acrylic insulation.”

“Tres bien, Jacques. I’ll do ten laps.” Gateau put on a racing helmet and strapped himself into the Formula One racer. He roared out of the pit and onto the track bringing the Porsche up to max speed before the first turn. Gateau made it back to the pit in less than five minutes, emerging from the car with a look of frustration. “The high gear is sticking. It’s the linkage, I’m certain.”

Jacques slid under the car and made some adjustments. “The tie rod was bent, but only slightly. When you brought the car to max speed before the first turn it might have limited the gear ratio. I’ll get another rod.” The car was pumped two feet off of the ground by an electronic jack and the rod was installed in what seemed like nanoseconds.”

“Would you like, as you Americans say, to give it a spin, Sam?” Gateau asked after the repair was made.

“I’d love to,” Sam replied.

Gateau handed Sam his racing helmet. “Remember, shift into third before the first turn. Unlike stock cars that have four gears, Formula One cars have five gears. Do you think you can handle it, Sam?”

“I’ll be fine,” Sam replied.

Sam cruised out of the pit in second, eyes glued to the tachometer. When it read 10 thousand rpms, he shifted into third just before the first turn. As he straightened out, the gas pedal had reached the floor; the only way to increase the rpms was to switch on the afterburners. But when he turned on the fourth and final afterburner to drive the engine to 25 thousand rpms, he felt a vibration before locking in gear. When he approached the second turn, he downshifted. Once around the turn he flicked the switch to ignite the fifth and final afterburner. The car jolted ever so slightly before engaging the gear. He pulled back into the pit after only one lap.

“What’s wrong, Sam?” Gateau asked.

“There’s a crack in the vacuum seal of the fuel injector.”

“That’s impossible,” Jacques said.

“I guarantee you there’s a fuel leak above the transmission housing that has burned out the gear. If I kicked that car into gear one more time, the engine would have imploded.”

Jacques motioned to the pit crew to raise the car on the electronic jacks. Then both he and Gateau looked under the car and came to the same conclusion.

“C’est incroyable, mon ami. The engine housing has a leak above the transmission, just as you said. If you had gone one more lap the engine would have seized —— you could have been killed!”

“I knew it,” Sam said.

“There’s more,” Gateau said.” It was done intentionally. The casing was punctured with a sharp instrument.”

“It’s more than likely that whoever sabotaged your race car was trying to kill you, Henri.”

“Oui, Monsieur Sonn, but who?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Sam replied. Sam descended beneath the car to examine the fuel casing. It had been punctured; there was no doubt about it. Gateau was right: Sam was his good luck charm.