The Riviera, that sun-drenched ribbon of hedonism where the super-rich polish their yachts and the rest of us polish their shoes, has been rudely shaken by a bang. A bang that was not, as initially hoped, a magnum of Cristal exploding in a billionaire’s bidet, but a bomb. A real, honest-to-God explosive device that has turned the principality of Monaco from a tax haven into a crime scene. The target, we are told, was a Russian oligarch, a man whose fortune is as murky as the Mediterranean on a stormy day. The bomb did its job, or rather, it didn’t, leaving the oligarch alive but thoroughly inconvenienced. Now the police are combing the glitzy streets for a suspect, while the rest of us wonder if this is the beginning of a very unglamorous turf war.
Let us pause to consider the absurdity. Monaco, a place where the only crime is being poor, has suddenly become a hotbed of international intrigue. The oligarch in question, a chap with more money than morals and a face that screams ‘I’ve eaten too many caviar omelettes,’ was presumably the intended recipient of a very persuasive argument against further business dealings. The bomb, a crude but effective device, was placed under his car, a vehicle so ostentatious it probably comes with its own gravitational field. The blast shattered windows, frightened the pigeons, and sent a ripple of panic through the champagne-soaked air. The oligarch, God bless him, escaped with a scratch on his bespoke suit and a newfound appreciation for Kevlar.
The manhunt is on, of course. The Monaco police, a force more accustomed to dealing with lost Rolexes and parking violations, are now on the lookout for a shadowy figure, a phantom of the opera of capital flight. They have released a grainy CCTV image of a man in a hoodie, because nothing says ‘international assassin of finance’ quite like a hoodie. The suspect, we are told, is armed and dangerous, which in Monaco means he knows which fork to use for the oysters.
But let us not be flippant. This bomb is a symptom of a deeper malaise. The oligarchs, those grotesque products of post-Soviet kleptocracy, have long turned the Riviera into their playground. They buy football clubs, they buy yachts, they buy politicians with the casual abandon of a child in a sweet shop. But when the money runs out, or when the Kremlin decides it wants its share back, things get messy. This attack is a warning shot, a message that no amount of gold-plated bathroom fittings can shield you from the consequences of your actions. The stability of the Riviera, that delicate ecosystem of tans and trust funds, is now under threat. Tourists are cancelling their trips, or at least their second trips, and the locals are muttering about the good old days when the only explosions were from fireworks on the Quatorze Juillet.
Meanwhile, the oligarch has gone to ground, probably in a bunker lined with saffron wallpaper. His lawyers are no doubt drafting lawsuits, and his PR team are spinning a narrative of ‘business rivals’ and ‘misunderstood philanthropy.’ The rest of us can only watch, clutching our glasses of airport gin, and laugh at the beautiful, bloody circus that is modern life. The manhunt continues, but in a place where everyone wears sunglasses, no one really sees anything.
