The driver lay down.
One of Coluzzi’s men tossed his machine gun into the car and slid behind the wheel.
“My belongings,” said the prince, his eyes shifting to the calfskin briefcase visible in the back seat. “Please.”
Coluzzi returned to the prince. “Leave it.”
“Papers for my work. They are of no value to you.”
Already his men were running back to their vehicles.
Coluzzi shoved the prince away from the car, sunglasses falling to the ground, and the prince shoved back, fighting to go around him. The princess lunged at her husband in a vain effort to stop him. The prince knocked her away, then grabbed Coluzzi’s tunic. “I will find you.”
Coluzzi looked into the prince’s eyes. He saw fire and resolve. They were the eyes of a man accustomed to cruelty and having his way. They were not the eyes of a playboy.
“Excuse me,” he said, using the barrel of his rifle to free the prince’s hands from his person. “I must be going.”
The prince stepped away.
Coluzzi banged a fist on the roof of the prince’s car. The engine revved, then pulled out of line and sped away. Coluzzi jogged to the rear of the convoy and jumped into the Renault. “Allons-y.”
As the Renault accelerated, he looked over his shoulder. The prince and princess stood staring at the space where the cars had been.
Coluzzi wondered if five was still the prince’s lucky number.
Coluzzi threw the empty petrol can into the front seat of the burning BMW and watched the flames lick at the automobiles. His clothing, sunglasses, shoes, socks, even the false mustache he’d been wearing, were inside. Anything that could tie him or his men to the crime would be incinerated.
His phone rang. “Yes?”
“We counted it.”
“And?”
“Six hundred twenty-two thousand.”
“Not bad for a few days’ work.”
“Not bad at all.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Coluzzi returned to his car. The engine was running, and in a moment they were doing a hundred down the farm road. He looked down at the calfskin briefcase and recalled how the prince had so zealously guarded it. He thought of the sallow, fatigued-looking American with his rusty French offering him the job.
“All I want is the prince’s briefcase,” he’d said. “The rest is yours.”
Just then his phone rang. It was the American. He let the phone ring and ring until the call rolled to his voice mail.
“Where to?” asked the driver.
Coluzzi put the satchel on his lap.
“Just drive,” he said.
Chapter 2
Two hundred miles away as the crow flies, another man was contemplating theft.
Simon Riske strode across the lawn of Battersea Park, his fingers tingling with anticipation. Years had passed since he’d done a job of this nature. He wasn’t frightened. He’d practiced for days and his skills remained sharp. If he was anxious, it was because he feared he might like it too much. He’d sworn never to go back.
“Tickets?” he asked the attractive blond woman accompanying him.
“Right here,” said Lucy Brown, slipping them from her purse.
“Stay close once we’re inside.”
“Like I’m your girlfriend,” she said, threading her arm through his.
“My assistant,” Simon corrected her and gently freed himself.
He was a compact man, an American, markedly fit in a bespoke navy suit, white cotton shirt open at the collar. His hair was dark and thick, receding violently at the temples, and cut to the nub with a number two razor. He had his father’s dark complexion and brooding good looks and his mother’s beryl-green eyes. People mistook him for a European—Italian, Slavic, something Mediterranean. His nose was too bold, too chiseled. His chin, too strong. Take off the suit, add a day’s stubble, and he’d fit in hooking bales of Egyptian cotton across a dock in Naples.
The night was warm and humid, the air alive with the scent of brine and exhaust. The first star winked from the violet canopy. Across the river, Big Ben and the spires of Whitehall cut a noble profile. Riske enjoyed a surge of contentment. He was thankful to be a free man.
His destination was a modern exhibition hall, all mirrored glass and shiny metal girders. Banners advertising fine French champagne and luxury Swiss watches lined the path. All around him, elegantly dressed men and women moved eagerly, drawn by a common excitement.
The event was Sotheby’s annual classic car auction. In an hour, thirty of the world’s most valuable automobiles were to be sold to the highest bidder. Ferrari, Lamborghini, Mercedes, Porsche. Estimates ranged from two hundred thousand dollars to twenty million.
But Simon Riske had not come to bid on an automobile.
“You ready?” he asked, pausing ten paces from the entry.
“All I have to do is show me bits and brass,” said Lucy Brown. “Easy enough.”
Simon appraised his companion. If memory served, she was twenty-three years of age. Far too young for him. She’d dressed in a white skirt and a navy blouse. Though conservative, the garments did little to hide her toned legs and generous cleavage. No one would be watching him with her anywhere nearby.
“Don’t really show them,” he said. “Just…well, you know. Do as I told you.”
“Of course, boss.”
“And the glasses.” He’d insisted she wear a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles to tone things down. It was a classy event, after all. To spite him, she’d tucked them into her shirt.
“Must I?”
Simon nodded.
Grudgingly, she put on the glasses. “Happy?”
“Thank you,” he said. “Much better.” He extended an arm. “After you.”
Simon was given a sales catalogue at the door. Lucy led them inside. The hall was vast, dimmed lights making it impossible to gauge its true size. A stage occupied the right-hand side with a dozen rows of chairs set up in front of it. The automobiles to be auctioned were situated across the floor on raised platforms and bathed in flattering spotlights.
“See him?” asked Lucy.
“Just look for his bodyguards,” said Simon. “He never goes anywhere with less than four. They’re as big as Stalin skyscrapers.”
“What skyscrapers?”
“The buildings in Moscow built by Joseph…Never mind. They’re tall. You can’t miss them.”
Lucy wrinkled her nose. “What’s he so frightened of?”
“He’s Russian. He’s a billionaire. And he’s a gangster. Take your pick.”
Simon flipped through the catalogue as he strolled. At one time all these people wandering the hall, laughing easily, holding their drinks with aplomb, had been his peers. Not long afterward, they were the enemy, adversaries to be shorn of their valuables—essentially prey. Today, they occupied a middle ground.
Simon was a man between classes. An outsider by choice and by circumstance. The tailored suit, the easygoing smile, the splash of Acqua di Parma. All of it was no more than a silk sheath over a razor.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced a dignified voice on the public address system. “The auction will commence in fifteen minutes’ time. Please make your way to your seats.”
A waiter approached carrying a tray overloaded with flutes of champagne. “Madam, a drink prior to the bidding?”
“Why, thank you,” said Lucy, reaching for a glass.
“But, no,” cut in Simon, taking her by a shoulder and guiding her in the opposite direction. “This is work.”
“It’s free.”
“I’ll buy you a case of the stuff,” said Simon. “After we’re done.”
“Promise?”
“Watch yourself. I’ll put you on paint duty tomorrow.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
On the side, Simon was the owner of a small but well-regarded automotive shop in a quiet neighborhood not far from Wimbledon that specialized
in European cars, namely Ferraris and Lamborghinis. He didn’t just fix their engines, he rebuilt them from top to bottom, a process that could last two years and run to hundreds of thousands of dollars. In such cases, one of the first tasks was to strip the paint off the chassis. It was a tedious and exhausting job done with a heating gun and a scraper.
Lucy Brown worked in his shop as an apprentice mechanic. It was a long story.
“Let’s find our man,” he said. “He’ll be bidding on the prized lot. That’s as good a place as any to start.”
Simon rolled up the catalogue and headed toward the center of the hall, where a crowd was gathered around a red sports car. The vehicle was a 1964 Ferrari 275, one of just twenty-three to roll out of the factory in Maranello, Italy. Of these, fewer than ten were in working order. LOT 31, as the Ferrari was labeled, was a prime example, and the first to come up for sale in a decade. Bidding began at fifteen million dollars.
Simon scanned the crowd surrounding the car. He didn’t need a description to find Boris Blatt. The man was in the tabloids every other day. Blatt was in the process of building the largest house in London, a ninety-thousand-square-foot mansion atop Highgate Hill. Not a day passed without a neighbor, contractor, or city official having something ill to report. Simon couldn’t buy a tin of Altoids at the corner kiosk without seeing Blatt’s elfin features leering back at him.
“Excuse me.” A security guard brushed past, nudging his shoulder. A second guard followed close behind.
“Go right ahead,” said Simon, making way.
“What’s that all about?” asked Lucy.
There was a commotion to his right. An emergency exit opened. The alarm sounded briefly, then died. Security guards formed a cordon to allow someone to enter. Simon spotted a large man with hulking shoulders and a crew cut leading the way. Another man identical to him followed behind. Simon’s pulse quickened. Blatt’s gorillas.
“He’s here.”
Cameras flashed. A murmur rippled through the crowd. He caught sight of a pale, fat man with close-cropped white hair. Boris Blatt was dressed in a black suit and open-collar shirt, his eyes focused on the ground ahead of him.
“Let’s go, then.” Simon took Lucy’s hand and pushed through the crowd. He needed proximity to his target. Once everyone was seated, his window of opportunity would be gone.
“You can’t be serious,” protested Lucy, getting her first look at Blatt’s bodyguards. “They’re big as mountains.”
“Don’t think I can take care of myself?”
“They’ll snap you like a twig.”
“Probably right,” he said. “I wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Thank God,” said Lucy, relaxing. “Can we go, then?”
“What about that case of bubbly?”
“I’m happy with a pint at the Dog and Duck.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Lucy nodded emphatically.
By now, Blatt was standing next to Lot 31, conversing with a slim blond man dressed immaculately in a dove-gray suit. The man was Alastair Quince, the evening’s auctioneer and Sotheby’s chief automotive expert.
“Let’s take a closer look,” said Simon.
“At Blatt?”
Simon smiled easily. “Forget Blatt. I mean the Ferrari. Might be the only chance we get to see one in person.” It was a lie, but he needed Lucy relaxed. She had little experience in this line of work. It was essential she appear calm and at ease.
“Must we?” she asked, resisting the pull of his hand.
“We must,” said Simon.
Blatt’s arrival had drawn a crowd to the Ferrari, with more people arriving every moment. Simon maneuvered through the cluster of guests until he was standing behind Blatt’s bodyguards. He formed a space for Lucy to join him, then tapped one on the shoulder. “Do you mind? The lady would like to take a closer look.”
The bodyguard glared at Simon before catching a glance of Lucy. Simon squeezed her hand. As instructed, she smiled at him. The bodyguard’s eyes widened and he rushed to clear a space for her. Simon followed close behind. Like that, he was standing next to Boris Blatt.
“But, Mr. Quince, we must fix your commission,” Blatt was complaining heatedly to the auctioneer. “The seller is already paying you too much.”
“Not if I do my job well,” said Alastair Quince, shining and dapper and much too polished.
“Exactly my point,” said Blatt. “To charge me another five percent on top…it is an insult.”
Unconsciously, Simon tightened his fist into a ball and ran his thumb across the knuckles. In all manner of robbery, speed was essential. In pickpocketing, it was more than that. He had come to attempt something far more difficult than lifting a wallet.
“Alastair. Good to see you.”
“Oh, Simon, hello. You here about this beauty?” Quince leaned forward to shake Simon’s hand. The two knew each other in passing. A car restored by Simon’s shop had sold for a handsome price. Still, it was apparent Quince wasn’t pleased to be interrupted. “For a client, perhaps?”
“’Fraid not. Just wanted to take a closer look. I’ll leave it for Mr. Blatt. Won’t you introduce us?”
Quince forced a smile. “Boris Blatt. This is Simon Riske. He owns a small operation restoring Ferraris and Lamborghinis. Top quality workmanship.”
Simon had his business card ready. “Not that this one needs any work,” he said, then leaned closer to the car. “Though the paint on the hood appears a little spotty.”
Ferraris in their original factory condition had a nasty reputation for shoddy paintwork. The men who’d designed and manufactured the cars in the 1960s had been concerned with speed and handling. Things like chassis fitting and paint had been of secondary importance.
“Really?” said Blatt, with more than a hint of outrage.
“Absolutely not,” retorted Quince, his cheeks alarmingly flushed. “Mr. Blatt, I promise you…”
Blatt pushed past Simon to study the bodywork. For a second—less, even—shoulder brushed shoulder, arm brushed arm.
“No, no,” said Simon, joining Blatt to look closely at the Ferrari. “I was mistaken. I apologize.”
“You’re certain?” asked Blatt. “Mr.—”
“Riske. And yes. I’m positive. A trick of the light.” Simon threw the auctioneer a look. “Mr. Quince would never let a car get by with a run in the paint.”
“I most certainly would not.”
The public address announced that the auction would start in five minutes. The crowd around the Ferrari began to thin.
“Good luck, then,” said Simon, leaning closer, putting his hand on Blatt’s arm. “She’s a beauty,” he whispered, and Blatt leaned even closer. “But not a penny over twenty million.”
Blatt stepped back and studied the business card. “American? Where from?”
“New York.”
“I have friends there.”
“Is that so?” Simon was quite sure he was acquainted with one or two.
“Maybe I call you,” said Blatt, slipping the card into his jacket.
“Any time.” Simon turned to leave and found himself staring at the chest of one of the bodyguards. “Do you mind?” he asked roughly, speaking a Muscovite’s Russian.
Blatt uttered a command and the bodyguard moved aside.
Simon put his hand on the base of Lucy’s spine. “Shall we?” he whispered, giving her a little shove.
“You speak Russian?” she asked.
“Just go.”
Keeping the smile in his eyes, he steered Lucy away from Lot 31 and Boris Blatt. The light jazz piped in to foster a festive, sophisticated environment stopped playing. Guests headed toward the stage like a tide rushing back into the ocean. The mood shifted palpably. The time for small talk was past. A pall of nervous expectation filled the hall. Bidding on collectible automobiles was a serious business.
Simon carved a path toward the exit. It was a rule to put as much distance as possible between the mark an
d yourself. Should for any reason he be stopped and searched, he was in possession of stolen merchandise. Until he was clear of the building and had delivered the take to its rightful owner, he was a thief, and punishable as such.
Reaching the main doors, Simon stood aside as a last-minute rush of guests forced their way past. At that moment he saw Blatt take a seat in the front row, extend his left arm, and check the time.
“Leaving already? Mr. Riske, isn’t it?” A hand touched his shoulder. Simon turned to see a member of the Sotheby’s staff. Behind him stood a pair of security guards.
“We’re not feeling well.”
Lucy clutched her stomach. “Too much champagne, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry,” said the man from Sotheby’s.
Simon had his eyes on Blatt, watching the Russian stand and gesture violently to a bodyguard, who rushed over. Words were exchanged.
“Dammit,” whispered Simon, under his breath. “He noticed.”
The bodyguard began to walk up the aisle. Toward Simon.
“What is it?” asked Lucy. “You’ve gone white as a sheet.”
Simon didn’t respond. The bodyguard was jogging now, his cheeks red. He raised a hand, signaling to him. Lucy turned and spotted the man approaching. “Simon,” she said worriedly. “He’s looking at you.”
“Is he?”
The bodyguard came nearer, the crowd making room for him. He looked directly at Simon, then looked away and continued on another few steps, intercepting a server holding a tray of champagne. Hurriedly, he grabbed two flutes and returned to Blatt.
“Ready to go?” asked Simon as his heart recommenced beating. “I think we’re done here.”
A moment later, they were outside, cutting across the lawn to the parking lot.
“Did you get it?” asked Lucy.
“Keep walking,” said Simon.
“But there were so many people.”
“Exactly.”
“But he didn’t even—”
“Exactly.”
“And you put the other one back on his wrist? How?”
“At one point in my life I had plenty of time on my hands and a very good teacher. That’s enough about that.”
They arrived at the car. Not a Ferrari. A Volkswagen Golf R model. It had more than enough power to get around London as fast as anyone was able. Maybe one day he’d buy himself a Ferrari. But not for a while. He had better uses for his money than a fancy automobile, no matter how much he loved them.
The Take Page 2
