At first they made small talk. “Everything okay?” “You get a room with a bed?” “Need any weed or anything else, for that matter?”
Simon replied that he was fine. He required no favors. He’d known what to expect coming in. In Les Baums, you found your own space. Cells stood open twenty-four hours a day. The assignment given on arrival didn’t count for anything. Built in the 1930s to house a population of six hundred, the prison held three times that number. On the day he arrived, Simon became inmate 1801.
He’d fashioned a shank during his time in the city jail and concealed it the only way he could. He knew how to spot the weaker man. The fight, when it occurred, was brief and bloody. Simon had his bed.
Situated in the suburbs of Marseille, the prison anchored a leafy neighborhood of lower-middle-class homes and businesses, separated from its civilian neighbors by no more than a street and a twenty-foot stone-and-mortar wall. There were no watchtowers. No barbed-wire fences. Just the wall with statues of the seven deadly sins built into its side and the towering steel door that served as the prison’s sole entry and egress.
Inside, conditions were hellish. Few renovations had been made since its construction. Even fewer repairs. The interior was bare concrete, same as the beds. There were no bars on the cells, just doors that closed no differently than ones in your home. Each cell had a bed and a hole in the ground and whatever furniture you could bribe a guard to allow you to smuggle in. Some even had windows. In the summer, temperatures inside the housing unit rose to over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. The air, rank with the shit and piss and stench of nearly two thousand sweaty men, was insufferable.
Simon’s sentence was six years with the opportunity to reduce his time with good behavior. It was a light penalty as far as armed robbery with aggravated circumstances (firing with deadly intent at police) went. The judge, a woman of forty and a new mother, had been weak. She had taken into account his age, his father’s suicide, his difficult family environment. When Simon had addressed the court with his new haircut and pressed shirt, and said with a halting voice that his days as a criminal were behind him, she had believed him.
“Someone wants to meet you,” one of the men said.
“I’m not hiding.”
“Signor Bonfanti doesn’t like it outside.”
Simon followed the men without further protest. Bonfanti was “Il Padrone,” the boss, and was the de facto ruler of La Brise de Mer. His son, Theo Bonfanti, had been killed in the course of the aborted robbery. Bonfanti’s room was on the fourth floor and had windows that opened wide enough to crawl out of. The room had a real bed and a Moroccan carpet and every other amenity of civilized life, including an independent supply of electricity. In theory, he could have engineered his escape any time he chose. For the past five years, it had been safer for him inside.
“You’re Ledoux?”
Simon nodded.
Bonfanti was a short, toad-like man with gray hair and an ample belly, his voice as rough as asphalt. “You got my son killed.”
“The police killed him.”
“It was your job.”
“It was.”
“And the police were waiting.”
Simon nodded again.
“So who talked?”
Simon said nothing. From the corner of his eye, he noted the other men drawing closer. They were no longer either casual or friendly.
“Who talked?” Bonfanti asked a second time.
Simon maintained his silence. The men pressed against him, ready to kill him if given the word. He could smell their eager sweat. Simon suddenly felt his age, a nineteen-year-old in far over his head.
Bonfanti gestured at a wooden chair. “Sit.”
Simon did as he was told.
“Here’s how things stand between us. It was your crew. Your plan. You were in charge. Whatever happened that day, you’re responsible. Agreed?”
Simon said yes.
“First, you owe me for my son’s share, then you owe me for his life. Still with me?”
Simon met Bonfanti’s eyes. The answer had already been made for him. To say no, to ask a question, was to sign his death warrant.
Bonfanti extended a callused hand. Simon shook it.
“There’s a man here who wishes me harm,” said Bonfanti. “You don’t need to know why. You only need to know his name. It is Nasser-Al-Faris. He’s a barbu.”
He explained that Al-Faris ran drugs inside for the barbus and the North Africans. Like Bonfanti, he was a powerful man. He was protected at all times. He never ventured into the yard without a bodyguard of five soldiers. He lived in the far corner of the housing unit, separated from les blancs. The only time he was unprotected was when he showered. Guards on his payroll cleared out the bathing unit. Every day at nine a.m. Al-Faris had fifteen minutes and all the hot water he desired for himself.
“Al-Faris has one weakness,” Bonfanti said, leaning close. “He is homosexual. He prefers young partners. Like you.”
“I’m not that way.”
“You don’t have to fuck him. You just have to kill him.”
The plan was put into motion the next day.
Bonfanti’s men set upon Simon in the yard as punishment for an unseen infraction. In plain sight of the population, Simon allowed himself to be beaten. He cowered. He ran. For the next week, he walked the yard alone, careful to keep his distance from everyone. He was a pariah, not welcomed by any group. He found a stretch of wall and made it his own. Each day, returning to his room, he passed les barbus. One day, he saw Al-Faris. He looked at him. He met his eyes. He allowed his gaze to linger. The next day, he did the same.
A week later, he received a note. A meeting was set. Nine a.m. The bathing unit.
Simon arrived at the designated time. He stripped naked. A guard checked his hands, felt beneath his balls, then looked away as Simon entered the shower.
Al-Faris was alone. He beckoned Simon forward. The bargain was made without words. In exchange for his body, Simon would receive protection. He would no longer be alone. He would be welcome among les barbus.
Al-Faris was Egyptian, a tall, muscular man with tattoos covering his back and his arms. He put his hand on Simon’s chest. He rubbed his back. He came closer so their bodies touched.
Simon looked into his eyes, playing his part.
Al-Faris cupped Simon’s buttock in his hand. He opened his mouth to kiss him.
Simon turned his head. In his mouth, he clenched a razor between his teeth. For the past ten days he had practiced the violent motion required to puncture a man’s neck and sever his carotid artery. He must bring his jaw high, grasp the man by his shoulders, hold him tight, then propel the blade powerfully downward, entering the neck just below the ear, slicing diagonally, viciously, and without hesitation.
He did this now.
Al-Faris opened his mouth to cry out but could make no sound. Blood erupted from his ruined throat in a panoramic geyser, pulsing with the last powerful beats of his heart. He grasped madly at Simon, but Simon held him in his grip, looking into his eyes as the life dimmed. Al-Faris slid to the floor. In seconds, he was dead.
Simon spat out the razor.
The guard whisked him away. Today he was on the Corsican’s payroll.
Minutes later, Simon stood before Bonfanti. He was given a hit of hashish and a thimbleful of cognac. He was informed that killing the Egyptian satisfied but half of his obligation. The murder of Al-Faris took care of the monetary debt. If Simon had not killed him, Bonfanti would have been required to pay another of his soldiers to do the job. That sum, in Bonfanti’s mind, covered what was due his deceased son had there actually been money in the hold of the Garda armored truck. What remained of his obligation, said Bonfanti, was payment-in-kind for his son’s death. Bonfanti was alone in the world. Simon must also be alone. He would be placed in solitary confinement in a dank subterranean cell known to all as “the hole.” For how long was Bonfanti’s choice.
A day.
&n
bsp; A month.
A year.
There was, however, another alternative.
Should Simon tell him who betrayed the crew to the police he would not have to endure “the hole.” Not for a minute. One name and Simon’s debt would be discharged in full. Even more, he could move to the fourth floor to occupy a private room near Bonfanti’s for the duration of his sentence. He would enjoy permanent protection while on the yard. It was his choice.
“And so,” Bonfanti asked, “who betrayed you?”
Simon did not answer. He’d promised himself he would not say. He would keep the name for himself. Revenge would be his and his alone.
“He’s mine,” said Simon, with the vehemence of a wronged man.
The taxi driver looked over his shoulder, startled. “What is it, sir? You are all right?”
Simon shook himself from his haunted reverie. “I’m sorry. Yes, I’m fine.”
The taxi drew to a halt in front of the hotel. “We have arrived. You are at your destination.”
“Yes,” said Simon, still shaky, fighting off the memories. “Thank you.”
But inside him another voice answered. No, it said. Not yet, I haven’t. There’s someplace I still need to go. Someone I need to find.
Chapter 18
Nikki Perez entered headquarters and took the elevator to her office on the second floor. The lieutenant was loitering in the corridor. Before she could turn around, he spotted her.
“Perez, come here,” he shouted, wagging a finger in her direction. “You finish taking statements from the drivers?”
“Three to go.”
The lieutenant was short and chunky and wore white short-sleeved dress shirts all year round. No one called him by his name. “Clock’s running. Get to it.”
“We’re thirteen for thirteen,” said Nikki. “No one’s offered anything useful. Twelve men with machine guns. All wearing black utilities. Combat boots. Faces covered. Plates off the cars. No one said a word except the leader and he spoke only to the prince.”
“And so?”
“It’s like listening to a broken record. I’d be better off spending my time working the streets, talking to my sources, the staff at the hotel. The bad guys had to have had a lookout there.”
“Since when do you dole out assignments?”
“Just an idea, sir.”
“Like the one that got you on administrative duty for ninety days?”
“Better than that.”
“So you say.” The lieutenant stepped close enough that his gut rubbed against her. “I want all the reports on my desk by noon. Including the last three.”
Nikki turned to leave. “Prick,” she said under her breath.
“What was that?” The lieutenant was in her face, eyes bulging.
“By noon. Yes, sir.”
“That’s what I thought you said.”
Nikki continued to her desk. Ten years on the job and still the same nonsense. She’d joined the police a month after passing the “bac”—or baccalaureate—the nationwide examination that determined eligibility for entry into France’s elite universities. With a score in the top two percent, she’d had her choice of the litter: the École Normale Supérieure, ParisTech, Sciences Po, or the Sorbonne. France was very much a hierarchical society. Graduation from any of these universities would have guaranteed her a place in the nation’s ruling classes. But Nikki had never had an interest in joining the technocrats who governed the country from their stately offices on the Boulevard Haussmann, or the corporate warriors with their perfect hair and perfect suits charging across the esplanade of La Défense.
For as long as Nikki could remember, she’d wanted to be a cop. Maybe it was all the Clint Eastwood movies her father used to watch. Dirty Harry, Magnum Force, The Gauntlet. Or maybe it was because she’d always loved guns. Or maybe it was because she enjoyed breaking rules and being naughty just a little too much, and she knew that being a cop was her best shot at keeping that part of her in check. She’d stopped explaining her career choices long ago. It came down to this: She liked carrying a gun and a badge. She liked the feeling she got when she solved a crime. And she liked thinking of herself as someone who gave back more than she took. At the end of the day, she wanted to make a difference.
She sat and perused the statements she’d taken the day before. A stack of pages as thick as a phone book and as much help. Thirty-six hours after the crime, the task force had yet to come up with a single clue. She dropped her head to the desk. So far she’d served ten out of her ninety days on desk duty. She wouldn’t make it through eighty more.
Her latest infraction took as its root an unwillingness to either “obey” or “respect” a statute in the police handbook regarding who was to receive official recognition for making an arrest. Or to put it in language anyone could understand: who got the collar for nabbing a perp.
The perp in question was Elias Zenstrom, an Estonian computer wiz who ran a phony credit card operation in the north of the city. Zenstrom and his gang would buy credit cards from Gypsy pickpockets, copy the data from the magnetic strips, and fabricate duplicates, which they would then sell or use themselves. Nikki had been assigned the case by her superior, a man whose name she refused to utter ever again.
For nine months she gathered evidence, interviewed dozens of victims, filed hundreds of requests for phone taps, spent countless nights in surveillance vans, and when the day came, she broke down the bad guy’s door and, at risk of grave bodily harm, entered into an exchange of gunfire. Zenstrom was captured, as was his superior, who’d been visiting at the time. The gang was disbanded. Case closed.
Except for one thing.
Nikki made an error in her final report. When prompted to fill in the name of the officer in charge of the case, she typed her own: Nicolette Perez. Despite all her dogged work, she had not been—according to the police handbook—the officer in charge. The credit for the arrest of Zenstrom and his gang went to her superior, who had done precisely nothing other than assign her the case. And it was her superior who received a promotion. Nikki received a bottle of cheap champagne and, from her superior, a pinch on the ass and a drunken invitation to spend the night.
She was not pleased.
So she’d done what she’d done to earn her third ninety-day suspension.
Next time she nailed a perp she was going to make damn well sure she got the credit.
The phone rang. It was the reception informing her that one of the chauffeurs had arrived. “Send him up.”
She leaned back in her chair, hands clasping her head. There was a disgruntled smile on her face. She was thinking about Simon Riske. She couldn’t keep from wondering how he’d managed to slip the cigarette back into the tin. She’d kept the box closed during their conversation and was certain she’d seen him put the cigarette into his jacket pocket.
Then there was the scar on his forehead. Car accident, she decided, though she was sure any trained surgeon would have done a neater job stitching it. She’d been mistaken in her assessment of the man. He was hardly as polished a customer as he wanted people to think.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?”
Nikki looked up to find Commissaire Dumont standing before her. Immediately, she sat up straighter, placing her hands on her desk. “Planning my day,” she said.
“How did it go with Riske?” he asked.
“It went.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s an arrogant one. Coming into our office, asking of our time to help solve his client’s problem. An English client, I’m sure.”
“You might want to cut him some slack.”
“I already have enough on my desk as it is. You know what he’s looking for? A letter.”
“Must be important.”
“You’re joking?”
Dumont sat on the edge of her desk. “Something I didn’t tell you. The time we worked together tracking down that English girl…Riske had done his homework. He warned me that her boyfriend h
ad connections to an Eastern European syndicate. He suggested that we go in heavy. Bring backup. I didn’t believe him. I was like you. I thought he was a lightweight. We didn’t have the kid anywhere on our radar. I thought he was just some punk. Simon didn’t argue. We went in just the two of us. I was armed. He wasn’t. We knock. The door opens and there’s this guy standing there with a gun pointed right at me. He fired before I could draw my weapon.”
“You took two bullets.”
“In the hip and thigh because Riske shoved me out of the way…which left him standing unprotected not two feet from this coked-up maniac waving his gun around.”
“You didn’t say anything about Riske being shot.”
“He wasn’t. The guy’s gun jammed. At least, I think it did. We never really talked about it afterward. All I can say is I’ve never seen anyone move so fast.” Dumont snapped his fingers. “Like that, it was over. The guy was down, his arm broken so badly the bone was sticking clean through his sweater, and screaming like a stuck pig. Suddenly, I wasn’t feeling so sorry for myself and my two lousy bullet wounds.” Dumont leaned closer. “I guess I’m trying to say that Riske saved my life. So give him a hand. For me.”
“I’m nailed to my desk for another eighty days. Lieutenant’s orders.”
“I’ll talk to him. Get out of here.”
“Really?”
“Move it.”
Nikki grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair. “Oh,” she said, scooting out the door. “And, Commissaire, there’s a witness coming up. He’s all yours.”
Chapter 19
When Simon returned to the hotel, his seat in the gallery was available. He read a copy of the New York Times Global Edition, keeping one eye on the lobby. Fifteen minutes passed before he spotted the chief of security, bustling across the lobby in the company of another Middle Eastern guest. Their manner was serious yet intimate and bespoke a relationship as much personal as professional. The two men stopped at the concierge’s desk. The head of security made his goodbye and headed Simon’s way.
The Take Page 11
