In a development that has sent ripples through the principality’s notoriously immaculate sewers, a Ukrainian oligarch of unpronounceable wealth has been lightly peppered with shrapnel after a bomb made a spirited attempt to rearrange his internal organs. The explosion, which occurred outside a casino that tastes money more acutely than a sommelier tastes wine, has triggered a manhunt so intense it could make a Bond villain reconsider his career choices.
And who should come galloping to the rescue but Her Majesty’s constabulary, offering their world-renowned expertise in catching people who go boom. Yes, the same forces that spent three days searching for a stolen wheelie bin in Stoke-on-Trent are now poised to teach the gendarmes of Monaco a thing or two about detective work. One imagines the briefing will involve a lot of pointing at maps and saying things like “the suspect was last seen wearing a balaclava and a sense of entitlement.”
Let us pause to consider the oligarch in question. He is a man whose net worth exceeds the GDP of several small nations, yet he cannot enjoy a quiet game of baccarat without some disgruntled ex-colleague attempting to turn him into a human jigsaw puzzle. The poor fellow will now have to upgrade his security detail from mere ex-SAS types to a full platoon of robots with laser eyes, all because someone didn’t get their cut of a gas pipeline deal. Truly, the burdens of immense wealth are as numerous as they are gilded.
The British police, for their part, are keen to point out that they have “extensive experience” with bombings, which is a bit like saying a firefighter has extensive experience with arson. Indeed, the UK has endured decades of Irish republican bombings, Islamist bombings, and the occasional bored teenager with a chemistry set and a grudge. So yes, if anyone knows how to sift through rubble for clues while maintaining a stiff upper lip, it is the British bobby. Whether that expertise translates to Monaco, where the suspects are more likely to wear silk suits than shell suits, remains to be seen.
One can picture the scene at Scotland Yard: a hastily convened meeting of top brass, all looking grave and important, while an intern updates a PowerPoint titled “Policing the Playground of the 1%.” The plan, presumably, involves a lot of polite knocking on doors and asking if anyone has seen anything suspicious, to which the average Monégasque will reply, “Suspicious? My dear sir, I employ people for that.”
The irony is that the man they are chasing is probably already sipping an espresso in a café in Nice, having driven there in a car that costs more than the combined annual budgets of three British police forces. He is probably reading about his own exploits in the local paper, chuckling at the photos of baffled detectives looking at bits of wiring. But no matter. The British are coming, and they brought their finest tea and their most penetrating questions.
“Did you see anyone suspicious, sir?” they will ask a retired banker in a Armani suit. “Oh yes,” he will reply, “everyone in Monaco is suspicious. It’s part of the charm.” And the interview will go round in circles, like a lost tourist in Monte Carlo’s winding streets.
So here we are, ladies and gentlemen. A manhunt in the world’s most glamorous tax haven, with British coppers stumbling about like extras in a farce. The oligarch will survive, the bombmaker will probably get away, and the British police will return home with a new appreciation for the simple pleasures of a wet Tuesday in Manchester. And somewhere, a gin and tonic is being prepared in my honour. Cheers.
