The men below deck weren’t going anywhere, and this camouflage above deck was key to hiding the pending session. Until recently, secrecy hadn’t been a priority. Immense wealth and power brokered a fair amount of privacy anyway, at least enough to mask the quarterly meetings. But when rumors surfaced about the alliance’s directive, and conspiracy theorists had zeroed in for closer looks, concealment had become imperative.
He’d been lucky that his turn to host the quarterly updates had fallen so close to his anniversary. What better cover for a top-secret meeting between the most powerful people on earth than a celebration with many of the most powerful people in the world in attendance?
The press cameras pointed toward the Esme wouldn’t have a clue what they were filming. And once aboard the yacht, privacy was assured. He’d spared no expense to make certain of that. From the anti-paparazzi shield, which used lasers to disrupt the recording of images, to the electronic jammers that filled curious ears with a flood of static noise, his floating mansion was preeminently secure and perfect for their agenda. Nobody would question the helicopters constantly ferrying people between the yacht and shore, not when every press rag between New York and Paris had heralded Eric and Esme’s fifteenth-anniversary spectacular as the social event of the year.
Still, by the time the final helicopter merged with the sky, ferrying the last of their staff to the glittering Monte Carlo mainland for the remainder of the evening, Eric was ready to cast off the trappings of the camouflage and get down to business. Turning from the window facing the helipad, he lifted Esme’s slender wrist to his lips.
“It’s unfortunate our anniversary got caught in these”—he glanced around the empty stateroom to make sure the two remaining staff members—the captain and cook—had left them to their privacy as instructed—“business dealings.”
“Ah well, it couldn’t be helped, darling.” She offered a tired smile. “Try not to let them keep you too long.”
Eric drew back in surprise. “You won’t be joining us?”
“Not this time.” She lifted her foot and gingerly eased off a glittering red sandal. “All those rubies and diamonds might sparkle like a Christmas tree on the dance floor, but they’re hell on the feet.” She set her bare foot down and lifted the opposite foot, slipping that shoe off as well. “Go to your meeting. I’m going to take a nice long soak in the tub.”
With one last fatigued smile she walked away, idly swinging her glittering, bejeweled shoes.
Once she’d disappeared from view, he stepped behind the ebony bar and pressed a button next to the enclosed liquor case. A narrow panel housing a button and a lever opened. The button activated a sixty-inch retractable television hidden within the bar.
He pulled the lever instead, twisting it to the right. A distinct metallic snick sounded. With a mechanical purr, the shelf slid to the right, exposing a narrow doorway and a carpeted ramp descending downward. The door closed behind him as he stepped inside. At the bottom of the ramp stood a well-lit room. There were no windows, instead three crystal chandeliers cast bright white light from corner to corner and bathed the sandalwood walls with a wet sheen.
Seven men, their attire ranging from designer jeans to designer suits, lounged in leather executive chairs around a huge, ornately carved ebony table. While their clothing, age, and physical appearance ran the gamut, each had one characteristic in common. They wielded an aura of authority with the same casualness they wore their clothes. A round of hails broke out as he stepped into the room, and the door at the bottom of the ramp slid shut and locked behind him.
“Manheim.”
“About damn time.”
“Bloody hell, Manheim, it’s been hours.”
“Manheim.”
Eric nodded or shrugged in response as he skirted the breadth of the imposing table. The piece’s legs were carved to resemble a Siberian tiger’s limbs—complete with paws for feet. The dark sheen of the ebony wood shimmered with satin gloss against the Persian Vase rug below it and served as a physical reminder of the critical role he and his associates played in earth’s future.
Ebony trees, and Siberian tigers . . . two of the most endangered species in the world, both protected, yet constantly available on the black market.
“I trust there were no issues boarding the Esme?” Eric asked as he slipped behind a compact bar tucked into the corner.
The staff had been occupied in the ballroom, at the opposite end of the vessel, when the helicopter had landed, and the chopper pilot had returned to Monte Carlo once his passengers disembarked. There’d been nobody to witness James Link access the secret passage from the main stateroom and lead the council belowdecks.