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me, how long have you been with Andreas?”
    “From the beginning.”
    The beginning of what? she wondered. Michael was only about forty — too young to have been with Andreas since birth. In a servant’s capacity at least. Maybe he was the son of Andreas’s father’s butler, or something like that. Maybe Michael really was Andreas, and this was all an act to give him a peek behind her facades and defenses. She’d know soon enough.
    Two large men whose disposition seemed more soldierly than cordial gave Michael a nod and stepped away from the foot of the Anzhelika’s gangplank. Were those sidearms under their pressed white jackets?    
    “After you,” Michael said.

Chapter 10

    THE VIP GATE attendant, a GQ/Soldier hybrid in a pressed white suit, gave me a look that indicated he didn’t think I was VI. “Sorry sir, but the show closed at six thirty. With the prince making the rounds, only owners and their guests are allowed in this evening. You can’t get in without an invitation. And you can’t leave your motorbike here.”
    As I pulled out my wallet, he nodded toward an overhead camera. “Don’t bother, sir. Along with the Grand Prix, this is our signature event. The principality takes security very seriously.”
    With every second of delay, Emily was disappearing deeper into the crowd. And since they’d swapped out her purse, I had no electronic means of tracking her. I ran back to the Ninja, and Jo. “Are there other entrances, or do I need to get more creative?”
    Jo pointed. “Around the corner and down a hundred meters or so. Aren’t you glad I brought the bike?”
    “Yes. You’re a genius.”
    We covered the distance in about a second and a half, after which I backed the Ninja in between a shiny black Maserati and an equally polished white panel van. I slipped the Range-R into a breast pocket opposite my Glock, while Jo stuffed a few items into her purse before locking the pannier. “This event has vendors, right?” I asked. “Companies selling yachts and navigation systems and jewelry for the mistress?”
    “Of course. Hundreds.”  
    “Do you know what admission costs?”
    “At least a hundred euros, I’d guess. But they’re not selling tickets tonight.”
    “They’re always selling tickets. It’s just a question of tactics and price.”
    “Tactics and price?”
    “A price that motivates flexibility, and tactics that supply an excuse to bend.”
    I kept simple tools with me at all times, including paperclips, parachute cord, and bills of large denomination. I palmed five hundred euros, leading Jo toward the gate and scoping the scene as we walked. I angled our approach to put my back in the right place while we passed the guard, and strode toward him exuding authority like the chief of police. Jo followed suit.
    This guard appeared to be the other guy’s twin — a model’s face with a soldier’s physique and grooming. The Prince of Monaco’s version of a corporate receptionist. He eyed us with interest, but not alarm. “We left our badges back at the Rolex booth. They just gave us this temporary pass.” I slipped the bill into his left palm without breaking stride, leaving him with two options.  
    He made the wrong choice.  
    He grabbed my right shoulder with his right hand.
    Throughout history, the Latin proverb “ Fortune Favors the Bold” has been adopted as the motto of many of the world’s elite military forces, urging soldiers to undertake the same valiant action that helped create the Roman Empire. It’s a tactic I often employ, both because it’s a personality fit, and because most people are content to leave well enough alone. Unfortunately, this guy wasn’t. By grabbing my shoulder, he’d invoked another classic axiom: Newton’s Third Law of Motion.
    I shot my left hand up and clamped it down above his right, trapping it atop my shoulder while lifting my right elbow and spinning around in a rapid, fluid sequence. This combination placed the startled