Simon put his hands on Lucy’s shoulders, turned her around, and walked her back to the curtain. He wasn’t interested in sharing his losing battle against insomnia with Lucy or anyone else. “Tell Mr. Neill I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Simon returned to his flat. He showered, cleaning his hands and nails with a scrub brush and industrial soap, then dressed in his real work clothes. Navy suit, white open-collar shirt, and loafers shined within an inch of their lives. Exactly fifteen minutes later, he was at his desk. He spun in his chair to study the monitor that broadcast feeds from the security cameras. He quickly spotted his mechanics, but he couldn’t find the visitor. This disturbed him. He’d supervised the placement of the cameras to ensure that every square foot of the shop was covered. A look at the agenda showed no mention of an appointment for an American named “Neill.” It was rare to get walk-in visitors. A second look at the monitor failed once again to find him.
There was a knock at the door. “Come.”
Lucy opened the door. “Mr. Neill to see you.”
Simon rose and came around the desk as the impromptu visitor entered the room.
“Mr. Riske, my name’s Barnaby Neill. I’m a friend of Bill Shea’s.”
The handshake was firm and forthright.
“Ambassador Shea?”
“We go back a long way.”
Lucy remained at the door, studying Neill. At some point in the past few months she’d appointed herself his guardian.
“Thank you, Miss Brown,” said Simon. And when she lingered: “Off you go.”
The door closed. Simon appraised the visitor. Barnaby Neill was lanky, fifty or fifty-five, with receding hair and rings beneath his eyes as black as coal. A worn, reliable face with a nose that had been broken. Married. College ring. Blue blazer. Rep tie. Gray trousers. Scuffed penny loafers. Hamilton wristwatch on a leather strap.
Simon did the math.
East Coast establishment.
Old money.
Friend of the U.S. ambassador to Great Britain.
Spy.
“You’re with?” asked Simon.
“Same family as Ambassador Shea. Different branch.”
Simon nodded to show that he got the picture.
Neill motioned toward the door. “Mind if we take a walk?”
“It’s raining.”
“I prefer the outdoors.”
Of course he did, thought Simon. “Suit yourself. Give me a minute.”
“I’ll be outside.”
On the way to the front door, Simon grabbed an umbrella from the stand. Lucy was hovering nearby, eyes following Neill. “Who’s he, then?”
“Just a guy that wants to talk to me. Why?”
“Reminds me of the undertaker who took care of my brother.”
“You don’t like him?”
“He’s fine, I suppose. I just had a strange feeling when I saw him.”
Simon opened the door. Rain fell in sheets ricocheting off the pavement. He had no desire to leave his office to speak with a spook named Neill. He looked at Lucy and remembered something. “Stay here.” He doubled back to his desk and returned with a sealed envelope. “Your fee for last night.”
Lucy opened the envelope. “A thousand quid,” she said, a hand rising to catch her falling jaw.
“You did a good job. Kept your cool. It was a big help.”
“It’s too much.”
Simon took her by the arms. “Put it in the bank. No spending it on anything you shouldn’t. Promise?”
Lucy met his eyes. “Promise.”
“And remember…not a word.”
Lucy rose onto her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Simon.”
“Get to work on the Dino. I got it started for you last night.” Simon opened the umbrella and ventured into the rain. He looked to his right and left, but his visitor was nowhere to be seen. “Mr. Neill!” he called.
The sidewalk was empty.
Simon started up the road toward Singh’s Café. Ten steps and rain was sluicing onto his shoulder and dribbling down the back of his neck. “Mr. Neill?”
And then, out of nowhere, Neill was at his side.
Simon tried not to appear startled. “Happy?” he asked, bunching his shoulders to fit under the umbrella.
“Necessary precautions.”
The two walked west along Kimber Road. The few pedestrians foolish enough to be out in the rain hurried past them without a glance. Simon kept close to the storefronts as much for the protection any awning might offer as to avoid being inundated by passing vehicles.
“How did you get into the car business?” asked Neill pleasantly. “I understand you were in finance. Royal Bank of Albion, was it?”
“Something like that.” Simon wasn’t about to go into his history. “You mentioned Ambassador Shea.”
“We served in the marines together. Afterward, he went to State. I took a job in a more interesting field.”
“My work for the embassy is strictly of a commercial nature,” said Simon. “Helping out U.S. multinationals, handling contract disputes, gathering evidence to assist in background checks.”
“The word is that you’re resourceful.”
“I’m sure your colleagues have me beat hands down.”
“Sometimes a certain distance is required.”
Simon drew up. He didn’t like the direction in which the conversation was headed. He was a man who dealt in realities, not suppositions. “I’m sorry you had to come all this way, but I think you’ve got the wrong man.”
“I haven’t mentioned the job yet.”
“Let me be clear. I apologize in advance if I’m rude. I don’t work for people like you.”
“Like me? In what way?”
“I prefer clients whose names match what’s on their birth certificates.”
“You might want to restate that.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve done work for at least two U.S. intelligence agencies in the past.”
“You’re misinformed.”
“Maybe some of the clients the embassy referred to you weren’t as honest as I am.”
Simon’s mood darkened. The keeping out of camera view in his workshop. The paranoia about conducting their discussion indoors. He was not a man who liked games. “Goodbye, Mr. Neill.”
He turned around and headed back to the shop. The pallid American was at his side a moment later. “Catch the news last night? The heist in Paris? The Saudi prince who had half a million euros stolen from his motorcade.”
Simon walked faster. “I don’t recall.”
“Witnesses said the thieves only needed a minute to get the job done. I wanted to ask you about it.”
Simon stopped. His shoes felt like he’d been stomping in puddles and his jacket was soaked. But neither the rain nor the damp had anything to do with the sudden blast of cold that had taken him in its grip. “Like I said, I don’t recall.”
Neill fixed him with a damning look. “Is that so? Because I’m curious as to how you would have handled that job.”
“Pardon?”
“In Marseille. Back in the day.”
Neill grasped Simon’s left arm and slid back the jacket. With a titanium grip, he twisted Simon’s forearm so that his tattoo was in full view. It showed an anchor held by a grinning skeleton and surrounded by crashing waves. Intertwined were the words “La Brise de Mer.” The ocean breeze. It was a tattoo given to members of the Corsican mafia that ruled the South of France.
“The thieves who did the job were from your old stomping ground. I know because I put them on to it. Problem is they didn’t just take the money. They took something that belongs to us, and by us, I mean the United States government. Something important. I am asking you to get it back.”
Chapter 9
Here’s how things stand,” said Neill. “I want to be as straightforward as I can, but I can only go so far. Some elements I just can’t reveal.”
The two men sat across f
rom each other at the kitchen table in Simon’s flat. Simon sipped from a mug of tea. Neill had asked for a fernet to calm a “touchy tummy.”
A call to Ambassador Shea had confirmed Neill’s status as a high-ranking officer attached to an unnamed but well-regarded intelligence shop, some ultra-secret cousin of the CIA. Still, Simon was not entirely sure why he’d decided to hear Neill out when his every instinct screamed to run the other way. Was it Neill’s mysterious knowledge of Simon’s long-buried past? Or the flattery of being handpicked to carry out an important assignment on behalf of his nation’s government? Or was it something else still?
“It’s my experience that it’s better to know everything up front,” said Simon. “Even then, there’s always something that pops up to surprise you.”
“I’ll tell you everything you need to do the job. Frankly, there’s only so much you’ll want to know.”
“I’m glad you’re looking out for me.”
Simon wasn’t simply bored, as he’d conveyed to D’Artagnan Moore. The affair with Boris Blatt had stirred up something lurking inside him. A desire for trouble he’d kept tamped down for too many years. Even now, he could feel his fingers slipping the watch off the Russian’s wrist, the rush of superiority that came with breaking the law, the anarchic joy of breaking the rules.
And so, with his darker appetites whetted, his discipline flagging, along came Neill, offering a gold-plated, government-sponsored invitation to revisit his outlaw past.
“A week ago we became aware of a theft from CIA archives in Langley,” Neill said. “Before we could apprehend the thief, he was able to pass what he’d stolen to parties unfriendly to the cause.”
“In this case?”
“Prince Abdul Aziz bin Saud.”
“The target of the heist in Paris?”
“One and the same. What you don’t know is that Prince Abdul is chief of his country’s domestic intelligence agency, the Mabahith. They’re a tough group. Shoot first, ask questions later. Follow?”
Simon nodded and drank his tea. He decided to let Neill speak his piece and ask questions afterward.
“You’re a smart guy,” Neill went on. “I know you’re thinking ‘Saudi Arabia’s our ally. What’s a member of their royal family doing accepting stolen top secret materials, and by doing so, engaging in de facto espionage against the United States?’ And you’re right. But we’re talking the Middle East. Everyone’s got conflicted loyalties. Not a person over there who doesn’t keep two masks in his dresser, if not three. Prince Abdul’s been an America hater since way back. Don’t ask me why. It doesn’t matter. He probably doesn’t remember himself. Anyway, he comes to Washington once a year, makes the rounds, shakes our hands, takes our intel, then goes home and dreams up ways of screwing us. I’m not saying he does a bad job for his own people. He’s actually a crackerjack cop. He’s broken up a dozen rings of extremists in Saudi. You can see how our hands are tied.” Neill paused, drawing a world-weary breath. “But this time he went too far. He got ahold of something we can’t allow him to pass on. Just the fact that he’s become privy to this material is giving everyone back home a nervous tummy.” Neill picked up his glass of fernet and drank down the last drops. “Present company included.”
“Another?” Simon asked as he poured himself more tea.
“Tea’s fine. I’m already feeling better.” Neill smiled. “You don’t have anything to eat, do you?”
Simon found a box of biscuits from Fortnum’s in the cupboard, arranged them on a plate, and set them down in front of Neill along with a clean mug. He’d been in London too long. Proper manners and all that. To his credit, he made Neill pour his own tea.
“Which brings us to the heist,” Neill continued, putting down the mug and leaning across the table. “We had to move fast and we had to cover our tracks. Sure we have plenty of resourceful men and women on payroll, but the nut of this is that we can’t use them. Our position is that the missing item does not exist. Not only can we not admit that it was stolen from our archives, we can’t be seen to make any effort to retrieve it. I have some contacts with French intelligence. I mentioned I had a hush-hush job I needed done—no unnecessary details—and they steered me to the Corsicans. Since your day they’ve moved north. Paris is their territory as much as Marseille. I met with one of their capos and let him know about the prince’s habit of traveling with ungodly sums of cash. He didn’t need more prodding. All I wanted in exchange were the prince’s private belongings, especially a briefcase he carries all his confidential information in. We know about the case because we had it custom made to his specifications two years ago. Can’t x-ray it. Secret compartments. Some other nifty stuff that makes him feel like James Bond. Anything for an ally. Follow?”
Simon nodded. If anything, he was following too closely and not liking what he was learning.
“Anyhow,” said Neill, “the job went down perfectly. No one got hurt. Our guy got away scot-free. As far as anyone’s concerned, it was all about the money.”
“But?”
Neill smiled bitterly. “But our guy decided to get smart. The plan was for us to meet up last night. Hand over the case. Go our separate ways. Our guy never showed.”
“And so you’re here?”
“With open hands. We need your help.”
Simon dipped his biscuit in his tea. He noted that the spy’s skin had a translucent quality. A slight tic disturbed his right eye. “Quick decision. I mean, to contact me.”
“Like I said, you’d come to our attention before.”
“Apparently.”
“Any questions?”
“Just one. What’s in the case?”
“Something important to the ongoing security of the United States.”
“That’s not going to cut it.”
“Fine,” said Neill. “A letter.”
“We’re making progress. A letter stolen from the CIA’s archives and passed on to a closet enemy of the United States. A letter that’s crucial to the security of our country yet so secret we can’t appear to want it back.”
“That’s right.”
Simon finished his biscuit. “I’m going to need more than that.”
“Best I can do.”
Simon wiped his mouth and tossed the napkin on the table. So much for manners. “Tell me this: Prince Abdul Aziz…what did he plan on doing with this letter?”
“I’ll let you figure that out.”
“Turn it over to the enemy,” said Simon. “The real enemy. That narrows it down to a few thousand choices.”
“None of that matters,” said Neill with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Of course it matters,” retorted Simon. “If this letter is all you say, you’re not the only one who wants it. For starters, I imagine the prince is upset it was stolen. He’ll be looking for it. And so is whomever he planned to give it to. They’ll be looking for it, too. And we haven’t even gotten to the Corsicans. There’s a reason your man missed the meeting. He found the letter. He knows all of you guys want it back. He’s going to wait a few days, let everyone get hot and bothered, then sell it to the highest bidder.”
“I was told you were a quick study.”
“I’d damn sure have something in mind if I were going to screw the United States government.”
Simon slid his chair back from the table and stood. A weight had lifted from his shoulders. He no longer felt so eager to feed his personal demons. He might be “resourceful,” as Neill had put it, but he was not interested in getting involved in a matter of this magnitude. He was no expert on espionage, but even a casual reader of the news knew that things often ended badly for all concerned. Stealing a watch was one thing; stealing national secrets was another.
“Excuse me,” said Neill with concern. “I don’t believe we’ve finished.”
“I’m flattered you think I’m the man for this job. There are plenty of others who left La Brise. You don’t need me.”
“No Americans. Certainly no one
we can even begin to trust.”
“I’m sorry.”
Neill stood and followed Simon into the den. “I’m authorized to offer you one hundred thousand dollars. Tax-free in an account of your choosing.”
Simon buttoned his jacket. He frowned, noting that his sleeves were still uncomfortably damp. “Mr. Neill, the Corsicans aren’t just going to give me the letter, provided I can track it down. It’s going to get ugly. It always does with them. Pay what they ask. It’s the easiest way.”
Neill took the suggestion as an affront. “You think they’ll stop there? What if they make a copy and sell that to the other side? No, Mr. Riske, we need the letter.”
“I can’t help you.”
“We’ll double your fee.”
“My answer stands.”
“Two hundred thousand dollars. More than enough to pay for that dynamometer you’re looking at.”
“Excuse me?”
Neill stared at him unapologetically. Simon laughed at himself. To think he’d actually considered working for him. He made a note to call Bill Shea and ask that he strike Simon from his list of investigators.
Simon opened the door and waited for Neill to precede him downstairs. Outside, the rain had stopped. “Need a cab?” he asked.
“I can give you the name of the man who engineered the heist,” said Neill, coming to his side.
“Not interested.”
“You should be.”
“Nothing you can say is going to change my decision.”
“You’re wrong about that.”
“Pardon me?”
“I said, you’re wrong about that.”
Simon took in the smug expression, the knowing cast to his head. Suddenly he had his hands on Neill’s jacket and the American agent was on his toes pressed against the wall. “Didn’t you hear me?” he said. “I said no. Now go. Just leave.”
Neill didn’t struggle. He continued to stare at Simon dispassionately, with a gaze that said he’d been right all along.
“The man’s name is Coluzzi,” he said. “Tino Coluzzi.”
Chapter 10
It had been a hot day. Early September. Tourists gone. The mercury scraping eighty degrees Fahrenheit at dawn. And dry. The sirocco blowing across the Mediterranean, the “devil wind” from the Maghreb sending dust and grit and last week’s garbage spiraling through the narrow streets of the 15ème in the hilly northern reaches of the city.
The Take Page 6
