As usual, Papineau found himself holding his breath when the car neared the crest of the drive. Rising into view was his employer’s principal residence — a reinforced castle that looked as if it were erupting from the hilltop itself. It was rooted there, looking both ancient and modern, affording a clear view for miles in every direction.
The smooth asphalt road gave way to painstakingly installed cobblestones that massaged the car’s tires rather than jolting them. Papineau parked alongside the Koenigsegg, McLaren, Pagani, and Bugatti sports cars, which were lined up face-out along the curved drive. They were an intimidating sight — like a steel quartet of multi-million-dollar predators, ready to attack the scenic bluffs of southern California.
Papineau emerged from his rented town car and took a moment to admire the blue water of the Pacific as the gentle breeze cooled his face. Given the altitude and location, the air was still temperate, even in the autumn days of November. The only clouds were wispy, white ones, and the sky vied with the sea for the more pleasing blue.
As he approached the entrance, the most visually stunning woman he had ever seen opened the door. He smiled as he gazed upon her exquisite Brazilian features. Her deep, dark eyes seemed to twinkle in the sunlight. Her raven hair shimmered. Her toned, five-foot, nine-inch frame, the symmetry of her face, her seductive grin: it was all perfect. Papineau had seen men completely lose themselves at the mere sight of her.
‘Good morning, Isabella,’ he said.
‘Good morning, monsieur,’ she replied softly. She stared longingly at the world beyond the doorway, as if she had just been given a glimpse of something she could never have again.
Papineau walked by her, saddened, as the door swung shut behind him. He had seen her change from a lively and curious young woman into the broken hostess that she was now. Her beauty hadn’t faded, but it was merely a shell.
Her husband had drained the life from her, as he had his previous three wives. He had never laid a hand on her in anger, but he had defeated her spirit just the same. He was not cruel, but he was unyielding. His intensity, his energy, his precise demands — and also his impetuous, vague requests — made this the castle of an ogre, not a king.
Remarkably, the house had more spirit than the woman who called it home. It had been built from deeply hued cuts of granites, quarried from all across the country and shipped at tremendous expense. The artwork that hung from its walls was tasteful yet bold, as was the handcrafted furniture that littered the rooms. Staggered skylights across the breadth of the ceiling allowed natural light to flood every corner of the structure.
Papineau glanced stealthily behind him. Isabella was gone, as if she had never existed. The Frenchman proceeded to the heavy oak door of what the owner laughingly called his study. In actuality, it was the largest room in the house. It stood nearly three stories high and was designed to be the envy of the world’s greatest designers and architects — not to mention other billionaires.
The outer walls were lined with custom bookcases that extended from the floor to the rafters, all filled with hundreds of volumes covering every era of literature. Each piece in the collection was a first edition — including the Gutenberg Bible — and none of them was less than a treasured specimen. The space was dotted with heavy tables that were covered with maps, parchments, books, and charting instruments. The research spanned the length of recorded history and considered every corner of the world. It was clear that an extensive search was underway, though the exact target of these efforts was a closely guarded secret.
Beyond the tables was a ten-foot-wide, circular slab of redwood that had been transformed into a sprawling desk. Its rough bark edges indicated that it had been shaved from the end of a massive timber. A chair in the center, accessed through a channel cut into the far side of the wood, allowed for nearly three hundred and sixty degrees of usable surface, nearly all of which was covered in documents.
Standing next to the desk was Papineau’s employer.
A man named Maurice Copeland.
It was clear from his open-necked, cotton shirt and faded blue jeans that Copeland preferred comfort to fashion. Understandably so, as there was no one in his life that he felt the need to impress.
In his world, he was the alpha — the apex of the food chain.
He stared at Papineau with an expression that would pass for puzzlement in most men. In his case, the look signified annoyance.
‘You ever hear of Sam Langford?’ Copeland asked out of the blue.
‘No, I haven’t,’ Papineau replied as he took a seat.
‘He was the most feared fighter in the first two decades of the twentieth century,’ Copeland explained. ‘They called him “the Boston Terror”. He was short, maybe five foot-seven, but he had long arms like a pair of untailored sleeves.’
Just like you, Papineau thought.
‘He was ahead of his time,’ Copeland continued, his voice matching his bulldog face. ‘He could fight inside, he could fight outside. He could fight lightweight, he could fight heavyweight. And once he hit you, you stayed hit. None of this “shake it off” crap. You couldn’t hurt him either. If you somehow managed to land a shot, he just kept on coming like nothing happened. That guy was a freak of nature.’
Papineau was used to these lectures. If there was one thing Copeland loved as much as beautiful things, it was boxing. One look at him revealed that. Copeland had the crushed, altered features and hunkered-down bearing of a pugilist.
A hardheaded brawler, not a fancy-foot jabber.
His nose had been broken at least four times. His ears were just shy of being cauliflowered. His cheekbones looked flattened and weren’t quite the same height. And his knuckles had been split to the point that his gnarled hands looked more like clubs.
Copeland had often said that he had fought his way out of the Bronx in New York City. He had started his battle in the ring, but he quickly realized that the managers made all the money. So he took the fight to them. When he discovered that managers kicked their payments up the ladder to the promoters, Copeland went after them as well. He kept fighting his way higher and higher, until there was no one left to challenge.
His early struggles had given him a glimpse of how the world worked. Business was like boxing: it wasn’t the biggest guy, or the toughest guy, or even the smartest guy who won. In the end, it all came down to who wanted it more. Getting your hands dirty was inevitable; it was just part of the game.
Copeland balled his fists and threw a few jabs from behind his desk, ducking and weaving as he did. ‘Langford fought almost four hundred times in twenty years. Towards the end of it, he was nearly blind and a shell of his former self, but he kept fighting until he couldn’t see at all. Eventually, someone made the decision for him. Someone had the balls to sit him down and tell him that he was done.’
Papineau swallowed hard.
He suddenly grasped the metaphor.
Copeland was talking about him.
39
Nearly a decade earlier, Papineau had been a rising star in high society, a man positioning himself for greatness. He had already found success as an antiquities broker, and the wheeling and dealing had made him a wealthy man. Not super rich, but in the neighborhood. Looking for more, Papineau had used his money to consolidate several businesses in Europe, hoping to build an empire.
Copeland — a major player in his own right — admired him and appreciated his skills, but he sensed that the feeling wasn’t mutual. He gave Papineau a single chance to prove his respect: an olive branch in the form of a partnership. When word returned that Papineau had not only refused his offer but had actually laughed at it, Copeland was outraged.