The Ambassador eased into the dock. On deck stood Slim McCoy, his head bowed slightly against the noon sun as the passengers disembarked.
‘I’ll miss playing with you, Dimitar.’
‘Money saved is money earned.’ Dimitar laughed, shaking the older man’s hand. ‘I’ll catch up with you in Marseille without having to lose to you in a poker tournament. Have a great time until then.’
‘For now, my friend. For now.’ the old man laughed. Dimitar took his holdall in his hand and lifted it, slinging it onto his back as he waited the last few minutes for the ramp to come up to meet the ship’s deck. The Ambassador had looked like a daunting obelisk when Dimitar had seen it from the British shore. He had shared time with his high roller ally Sam Houston, then lost a battle to Peter Serf online.
The memory of losing five figures to his bitter enemy overnight had been fresh in his mind. Now, the recent experience of winning $80,000 in the poker tournament on the ship was prevalent. He again had hope of raising the million-dollar ransom he needed.
Yes, he had missed out on the $220,000 top prize that Slim McCoy had claimed, but the American philanthropist would make good on his promise to donate it to the youth charity he passionately advocated on the ship as he did with all his poker winnings. But Dimitar had still won money.
‘Thinking about the Cruise to a Million? Still?’ said Simone, her jet-black hair glossy and bright in the sunshine.
‘Well, not the tournament… but the money. €100,000 is a lot. But I still need to turn it into a million to pay the ransom and buy-in to play that monster, Serf.’
‘To beat a monster,’ Simone said, her thin hand gripping Dimitar’s bicep. ‘Think of everything that you’ve learned, the painful lessons you’ve taken on at the felt. He has been babysitting your girlfriend while you’ve been—’
‘Don’t say babysitting, Simone. We don’t know how hard it has been for her.’
‘Nor does she know what it’s been like for you.’ Simone cooed, closer to Dimitar, so close their cheeks were almost touching. ‘Don’t worry about the time you have spent away. You still have time to raise that amount.’
‘Twelve more days. Maybe ten by the time we reach Portugal.’
‘You haven’t seen how I drive.’
‘Who said you’re driving?’ asked Dimitar, as they stepped onto the ramp and made a brisk exit towards the car hire port. Dimitar turned and waved to McCoy.
‘I’ll see you in Marseille!’ McCoy shouted into the midday breeze. Dimitar smiled back and nodded.
Marseille. Where Elena and Serf would end up too– but would she be alive?
*
They began in Brest, on the North-West coast of France, and it was Simone who drove. She was a natural and knew the route. Dimitar felt like he was in a taxi most of the way, just one where any gears below fifth didn’t seem to apply.
Despite driving at speed, it still took them the day and some of the evening to make the trip down the West Coast of Western Europe to Bordeaux. There, they checked into a small, cheap hotel with a twin room. They had lived off snacks from a service station at lunchtime. Their bodies now craved a hot meal as the clock ticked past eight in the evening, and they got a fine one.
‘Let’s keep clear heads,’ Dimitar said when the waiter in their hotel’s restaurant offered them wine.
‘We’re in Bordeaux. It would be a crime to say no to this man.’
Simone ordered them a bottle of local wine, and they happily shared it. Dimitar couldn’t deny that Simone was physically attractive. She was beguiling, sweet and had the kind of eyes he could lose three days in. The problem was that he felt so much guilt over Elena.
‘What are you thinking?’ Simone asked. The way she cocked her head had the ability to crack open any secrets he harbored. He liked it about her.
‘Not regret. Just… wondering whether us being together was the right thing. I know that I can trust you. I just feel bad for Elena.’
‘There are moments in life when you must go with the flow, Dimi.’ Simone said, skewering a piece of chicken delicately. They both chose Poulet Sauté à la Bordelaise for the main course. Their hunger had been barely sated by the bread and butter they finished off before their meals arrived.
‘I can’t help feeling guilty about being with you. I love Elena. I got her into this mess. I slept with Serf’s wife and his revenge has already almost cost Elena her life. Will she ever forgive me?’
‘If you save her life? If you rescue her from the clutches of that man? Of course. I would.’
‘You haven’t been taken hostage.’
‘This is true,’ Simone admitted, ordering a second bottle of wine with barely a flick of her wrist and a smile to the waiter.
‘What would you do?’ Dimitar asked.
‘If I was you?’
‘If you were Elena.’
Simone thought. She held a piece of shallot on her fork but didn’t put it into her mouth.
‘I would do anything to survive. To buy you more time.’
Dimitar said nothing.
‘Not the answer you wanted to hear.’
They slept together again that night, pushing the twin beds into the center of the room, eradicating all of the stress from the day by the moonlight alone. When they slept, it was deep, hard-won and constant. The morning brought more miles as Dimitar drove for a couple of hours while Simone continued to rest. She stretched out languidly in the passenger seat like a sated lizard. He drove on, not to her pace, but steadily, following the map into Portugal.
*
They stopped briefly in Lyon as the train refueled, and they partook in a light lunch. The journey from Northern France to Marseille on the South Coast was punctuated by stunning scenery, none of which Elena saw. Her only thought was the steak knife she had smuggled into her quarters and how she needed to hold onto it.
As the train sighed on through the countryside, she and Serf spoke little. They both knew that whatever would happen would happen in Marseille, and they both desperately wanted to arrive. When they finally did, they were met by a wall of sunshine and heat that greeted them at the station like a too-familiar family friend.
Outside the first-class carriage, Serf took her bag, and she was happy to let him. She had hidden the knife in her belt, cutting into the leather to slide the blade beneath the thick shield strapping around her waist at the back. It was where she was in most pain, and as such, she’d noticed that Serf had avoided the area, whether out of guilt or for some other reason she wasn’t sure, but he didn’t go near her there.
‘Look at this weather and tell me that we can’t have fun here for a week.’ Peter Serf smiled, his tongue escaping his mouth momentarily before retracting like a snake’s.
They made it to the hotel, and Serf checked them in. He seemed twitchy for a few minutes after they unpacked, this time both of them having a twin bed separate from each other. Would they be pushing the beds together tonight? Elena didn’t know, but she had to hide the knife, and under the mattress seemed the safest place for it to go. She put it there while Serf was changing in the bathroom.
Elena wore the dress Serf had chosen for her. She smiled throughout their evening meal and laughed at his jokes. Still, he looked about the hotel nervously, like he was expecting Dimitar to arrive.
After they’d enjoyed dessert and were about to retire, a man entered the bar. He nodded at a couple of the waiting staff and approached their table.
Peter Serf immediately relaxed, his body easing into its seat, and a sickly grin spread over his face. Elena didn’t recognize the newcomer, but as soon as she heard his voice, she knew exactly who he was.
‘Delighted to see you Peter. And of course, your friend.’
He turned to Elena.
‘I’m Jeremy.’
Jeremy. The man who spied on Dimitar in London. The man who regularly updated Serf on Dimitar’s bankroll. The man responsible for keeping track of the only person who could save her.
Elena smiled weakly and kissed him on each cheek.
About the Author: Paul Seaton has written about poker for over 10 years, interviewing some of the best players ever to play the game such as Daniel Negreanu, Johnny Chan and Phil Hellmuth. Over the years, Paul has reported live from tournaments such as the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas and the European Poker Tour. He has also written for other poker brands where he was Head of Media, as well as BLUFF magazine, where he was Editor.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.