Monaco, that glittering tax haven for tawdry tycoons and deposed despots, has been rudely awakened from its slumber of indolent opulence. A bomb, presumably of the exploding variety, has rearranged the morning of a Ukrainian oligarch of unspecified ill-gotten gains. The victim, a man whose wealth is measured in yachts and whose conscience is measured in negative integers, is reportedly in a stable condition, which is more than can be said for Monaco's reputation as a neutral playground.
Let us be clear: this is not the first time the long arm of the Kremlin has reached into the Côte d'Azur. Putin's Russia, a nation that treats international law as a suggestion box, has form for these little 'accidents.' Remember Litvinenko? The polonium-laced teapot tempest? This has all the hallmarks of a Kremlin special: a bomb, a target with Ukrainian connections, and a trail of breadcrumbs leading to a FSB safe house in some godforsaken suburb of Moscow.
But hold your horses, dear reader. Before we don our tin foil hats and declare World War III, let us consider the alternatives. Perhaps this was a domestic squabble, a business rival with a grudge and a penchant for pyrotechnics. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the work of a jilted lover. After all, Monaco is the kind of place where emotions run as high as the property prices.
Nevertheless, the manhunt is on. Interpol has been alerted, and every border guard from here to Vladivostok has been issued a photograph of a man in a dark coat who definitely isn't the real culprit. The French police, a force that excels at surrendering to paperwork, are on the case. Expect a breakthrough any decade now.
Meanwhile, the oligarch himself recovers in a private clinic, surrounded by a phalanx of lawyers and accountants. His first concern, one imagines, is not his health but his share portfolio. After all, a dead oligarch is a poor oligarch, and this one has no intention of joining the celestial balance sheet.
What does this mean for the rest of us? It means that the shadow war between East and West continues unabated, fought not with tanks and drones but with car bombs and poisoned umbrellas. It means that no amount of wealth or Riviera sunshine can protect you from the reach of a vengeful state. And it means that the next time you sip a cocktail in Monte Carlo, you might want to check for suspicious packages under your deckchair.
But fear not. The show must go on. The world is a stage, and this is merely another act in the grand theatre of international intrigue. So raise a glass to the oligarch, to Monaco, and to the enduring mystery of who planted the bomb. The answer, as always, is probably a man in a suit with a phone and a plane ticket. The question is whose suit, whose phone, and whose plane ticket. And that, my friends, is the only question that matters.
Biff Thistlethwaite, signing off. If I'm not back in an hour, assume I've been recruited by MI6 or bought by a Russian oligarch. The pay is better.
