The Take

by Christopher Reich

  “Excuse me.” Simon stood as the hotel security man passed. “Do you have a moment?”

  The man stopped at once, giving him his full attention. “Of course,” he said, trained smile at the ready. “How may I help?”

  “My name is Riske. I’m a guest of the hotel. I was hoping we might speak.” He offered his business card, which stated his affiliation with a firm called Special Protective Services and Investigations and listed addresses in London, Hong Kong, and New York. “Mr.…?”

  “Delacroix,” he replied, coming to attention. “Jean-Jacques Delacroix.”

  “It’s a matter of some importance. If you’ll allow me to explain.”

  Delacroix studied the card, then looked Simon up and down. “Follow me.”

  Delacroix’s office was located in a suite behind the reception. The room was small, windowless, and orderly. He studied the card before sitting, glancing at Simon as if deciding whether the man matched the profession. Finally, he gestured to a chair. “Please,” he said. “I’m always happy to be of service to a fellow professional.”

  As Simon sat, he took in the photographs decorating the wall. There was Delacroix in combat gear, arms around fellow soldiers, looking weary and victorious. By the location, Simon guessed somewhere in Africa. There was a framed diploma from the military academy at Saint-Cyr. And a commendation from France’s defense department with a medal attached nearby.

  “You served?” he asked.

  “Parachute brigade. Twenty years. And you?”

  “In a different field,” Simon answered, allowing Delacroix to imagine what he wished.

  “Am I correct in guessing this has something to do with the prince?”

  “Yes,” said Simon, then in a bit of impromptu: “Did my office call ahead? They’re a bit rattled about this one.”

  “No. They didn’t blow your cover, if that’s what you mean. I haven’t stopped answering questions about the robbery since it happened.”

  “I’m sorry to make matters worse.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” said Delacroix. “Fire away.”

  Simon cleared his throat and assumed what he considered to be his professional voice, a little deeper, a little smoother. “First, I must ask that you treat our conversation as absolutely confidential.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m sorry to be so blunt, but it’s best to get these things out of the way.”

  The Frenchman made a show of spreading his hands. A man with nothing to hide.

  Simon paused before continuing, studying Delacroix as if deciding whether he could trust him. “My firm has been retained by persons with close ties to Saudi Arabia. I don’t need to tell you the position he holds in his country.”

  “Naturally.”

  “What you may not know is that at the time of the robbery, he was carrying sensitive government documents. Highly confidential. Were anyone unfriendly to our interests—and those include the interests of France—to get their hands on them, the damage would be incalculable.”

  Delacroix nodded, giving away nothing.

  “He didn’t mention anything about these to you?”

  “No.”

  Simon considered this, nodding in a gesture of some relief, before assuming a new tack. “The prince is a frequent guest. Is that correct?”

  “He stays with us from time to time.”

  “Once a year?”

  “Twice, at least. Often four or five times.”

  “And it is his practice to travel with large sums of money?”

  “As do many of our guests.”

  “So you’re familiar with his security arrangements?”

  “Intimately. It’s my job to ensure his safety and that of his family and his possessions when he is a guest.”

  “I imagine he keeps the money in the hotel’s safe.”

  “I can’t comment on the prince’s actions. We do, however, dispose of a strong room to keep our guests’ valuables secure at all times. It’s small but impregnable. Guests make use of it to store their jewelry and other items of particular value.”

  “And I understand he travels with his own staff when he leaves the hotel.”

  “Team of five. Four junior, who vary each trip. One senior, who’s been with him forever. A Punjabi. Name of Vijay.”

  “Do you coordinate arrangements with this Vijay?”

  “The prince prefers to work directly with me. He respects my expertise in these matters.”

  “Best to keep it between two professionals.”

  “It’s the wise thing to do.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. That’s why I’m speaking with you. One professional to another.” Simon scooted to the edge of his chair. “What other arrangements did you provide? Check his room for bugs? Countersurveillance sweeps?”

  “Again, I can’t answer for the prince, but those are services that can be provided to any client upon request.”

  “And if you had provided those services,” Simon went on, “hypothetically…did you have occasion to alert him of any unwanted attention?”

  “If we had, the prince would have had nothing to worry about…hypothetically.”

  “No undue attention?”

  “None that I’m aware of.”

  Simon stifled a smile. It was his way of thanking Delacroix, before moving on to a more delicate topic. “What about transport to and from the airport?”

  “Ensuring safe passage of our clients upon their arrival or departure is another service the hotel offers. Arrangements are made by the hotel concierge. We use the same livery service for all our clients.”

  “Based on your recommendations?”

  Delacroix shrugged. “It’s necessary to vet any firm the hotel employs on behalf of its clients.”

  “And you’ve been using this particular firm for how long?”

  “Many years. We’ve never had a problem.”

  Simon rubbed a finger across his chin, eyes narrowed. Then he leaned closer and placed his arms on Delacroix’s desk. “I have a question about the route the prince took to the airport Sunday night.”

  “Yes?”

  “I lived in Paris years ago. I didn’t have a car, but I got to know my way around. Me, personally, I never would have driven all the way across the city when the entrance to the highway is only a kilometer away. The route taken by the prince left him far more vulnerable to an attack than otherwise.”

  “Alas, I was not involved in planning the prince’s route.”

  “Really? A moment ago you said you were intimately involved in all his security arrangements. Wouldn’t such arrangements extend to finding the safest route possible to the airport?”

  Delacroix sat straighter, shoulders stiff. A man accused. “The prince mapped his own route to the airport.”

  “Without consulting you?”

  “No. As I said, the hotel provided for the livery, then it was up to him.”

  “So you have no idea why he decided to take this particular route?”

  “None. My responsibility for him, his family, and his affairs stopped the moment he left the hotel.”

  Simon challenged his gaze. “Even after all these years?”

  Delacroix stared back, a current of dislike flashing behind his eyes. He placed his hands on his desk and stood. “If there’s anything else, Mr. Riske.”

  But Simon remained firmly seated. “A crime has taken place,” he stated. “Documents relevant to the security of the West are missing. The time for discretion is past.”

  “What are you trying to say, Mr. Riske?”

  “You and I both know that the criminals had advance knowledge of the prince’s route.”

  “And I told the police as much,” replied Delacroix. “Clearly, it was an inside job.”

  “So no one approached you?”

  “No. And had they, I would have been the first to tell the police.”

  Simon waited, eyes fixed on Delacroix. Finally, he stood. “That’s all I need. Thank you.”

/>   “Any time. I’m sorry I could not be of more assistance.”

  Simon waited for Delacroix to open the door, as he knew he would. As the Frenchman circled his desk and made his way to the door, Simon stepped forward a moment too soon and collided with him.

  “Are you all right?” asked Delacroix, backing away.

  “My mistake,” said Simon, ruffled. “Good morning.”

  He did not look behind him as he walked down the corridor.

  Chapter 20

  Simon proceeded directly to the nearest men’s room. Inside, he entered a stall—in this case a compartment unto itself with walls running from floor to ceiling—and closed and locked the door. If a commode had to serve as a workspace, at least he’d chosen a nice one.

  Like most European models, Delacroix’s phone ran on a SIM card that housed the phone’s memory—calls, texts, emails, photos, and all apps—and could be transferred between devices, for instance, whenever one upgraded models. He popped the back of the phone and removed the micro SD card and the battery, revealing the SIM card, which was white and rectangular and no larger than his thumbnail. Using a spudger—nothing more than a miniature spatula—he pried the SIM card loose and snapped it into the card reader he held in the palm of his left hand.

  Thirty seconds later, the contents of Delacroix’s phone belonged to him.

  Simon reassembled Delacroix’s phone and left the men’s room, returning to the lobby. At noon, the large, airy room was bustling, guests and staff moving purposefully in all directions. Delacroix was nowhere in sight. Simon stopped at the concierge’s desk and asked for a table at Le Relais de l’Entrecôte, a few blocks away. As the concierge consulted his computer for the establishment’s phone number and placed the call, Simon allowed Delacroix’s phone to slip from his pant leg to the floor, then used his toe to scoot it close to the counter.

  “Monsieur Riske, a table is booked under your name.”

  Simon slipped the concierge a ten-euro note. “On second thought, cancel it. Something’s come up. Thank you.”

  Simon left the hotel and walked down the street toward the Pont de l’Alma. He had not lifted Delacroix’s phone to learn about the Hotel George V head of security’s activities, though he suspected he was in some way involved. Delacroix was too smart to have left any digital breadcrumbs on his phone—or anywhere else for that matter—that might tie him to Coluzzi.

  Simon had borrowed Delacroix’s phone for another reason entirely. He was certain that it contained a great deal of information about Prince Abdul Aziz bin Saud.

  If Mr. Neill refused to tell him what exactly the prince had stolen, that was fine.

  Simon intended to find out for himself.

  Valentina Asanova stood across the street from the Hotel George V, staring into the window of an exclusive jewelry store. The display showcased a diamond necklace, emerald earrings, and a sapphire ring large enough to sink a ship. She was not a fan of what the French called haute joaillerie. It was just as well. Any one of the items cost more than her monthly salary.

  Valentina turned from the store to study the hotel. Since receiving the assignment, she’d read everything she could find about the robbery two days earlier and viewed every newsclip available on the Internet. Director Borodin had provided her a single lead: his belief that Jean-Jacques Delacroix, the hotel’s chief of security, was somehow involved. Otherwise, he’d given her no specific instructions. How she found the man who’d robbed the prince was up to her.

  She had dressed appropriately for the mission. No spandex shorts and watch cap today, but a dark skirt, a white blouse, a string of pearls around her neck, a Rolex on her wrist.

  Valentina continued up the street, watching hotel guests come and go. She did not pay special attention to the man with close-cropped black hair and a tailored navy suit leaving the hotel, other than to remark on his purposeful gait and fine posture. She liked a man with a spring in his step.

  After a moment, Valentina abandoned her casual surveillance and continued up the street toward the Champs-Élysées. Like the man in the blue suit, her stride was purposeful and her posture beyond reproach. She mapped out the afternoon ahead. Coffee, a short rest, additional surveillance, then time to go to work.

  She’d done her homework. She had little doubt she could convince Monsieur Delacroix to tell her everything he knew.

  Valentina put on her sunglasses and lifted her face to the sky.

  Alone in a foreign country on a mission for her government and with a mandate to take any and all necessary measures, no questions asked. She’d never been happier.

  Chapter 21

  Nikki gunned her bike, a Ducati Monster, hugging the tank, eyes glued to the road as she weaved in and out of traffic. Aziz François still hadn’t called back. This irked her. François was her best informant and one of the city’s biggest drug dealers. He was in hot water.

  Ahead, the light turned yellow. At the intersection, cars nosed forward. Nikki feathered the throttle, the bike’s throaty engine urging her forward, daring her to make a move. The light turned red. She punched the gas and rocketed across the intersection, horns blaring to either side. She looked over her shoulder, thinking it was closer than she might have liked, but not caring. Inside her helmet, she smiled. It was the first jolt of excitement she’d had all day.

  For as long as she could remember, Nikki had enjoyed going fast. Maybe “enjoyed” wasn’t the right word. She enjoyed a nice quiche Lorraine or a crisp Sancerre. She loved going fast. She lived for the moment when the needle on her speedometer crossed two hundred kilometers an hour and the world got a little fuzzy around the edges and there was only the asphalt beneath her tires and the white line running down the center of the road.

  Nikki turned onto the Boulevard Barbès. The neighborhood changed dramatically. There were no more banks and pharmacies and electronics stores. The streets were decorated with colorful awnings, vendors offering kebabs and plantains, stalls full of T-shirts and leather goods. The sidewalks coursed with a dark-hued humanity. This part of the 18th arrondissement was called the Goutte d’Or—the Drop of Gold—and it belonged to the immigrants who’d migrated to France since Napoleon III had begun colonizing West Africa in the nineteenth century. If she weren’t looking at the dome of the Sacré-Coeur, sparkling at the top of the hill, she’d have thought herself in Dakar, not Paris.

  She parked the bike two blocks from Aziz’s and locked her helmet in the rear case along with her leather jacket. Taking care, she untucked her T-shirt to cover her firearm. Aziz did his business out of a clothing boutique called Fleur d’Afrique that offered dashikis, swatches of colorful fabrics imported from Senegal, Niger, and Guinea. She stopped across the street and spent a minute observing the noontime foot traffic. A few women dressed in native garb left the store. Nikki crossed the street and continued to the alley running behind the store. Halfway down, she saw a door open and a thin white man in a black leather jacket emerge from Aziz’s back room and jump into the passenger seat of a waiting Mercedes. She grabbed the license and ran a check. The result came back in real time. Nikki shook her head. Aziz was being a bad boy. No wonder he wasn’t answering his phone.

  She checked the back door and found it locked, then walked around to the main entrance. She walked past the counter, through the racks of clothing, and passed through a bead curtain. A pall of pot smoke hung in the air. She opened a door marked PRIVATE and stepped into Aziz’s office. A large muscular black man sat behind a desk piled high with folders and loose papers.

  “Come on,” she said, waving a hand in front of her face. “It’s barely noon.”

  “Wake and bake, sergeant,” said Aziz François, exhaling twin streams of smoke through his nose. “Help yourself.”

  “Put it out,” she said.

  Aziz gave her a sour look and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Aziz François sat up straighter. “How can I help my favorite police officer this fine morning?�
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  As always, she was intimidated by his size, the notion that he could be across the desk with his hands around her neck before she could do a thing to stop him.

  “Who was that guy I saw coming out the back?”

  “Of my place? No one.”

  “Sure about that?”

  “I’ve been alone all morning.”

  Nikki let it slide for now. “I’m looking for two men. Salvatore Brigantino and Tino Coluzzi.”

  “Why are you asking me? Do I look Italian?” Aziz threw his head back and laughed.

  Aziz François was a native of Senegal. Head shaved, a gold hoop decorating one ear, and wearing his favorite mirrored Ray-Bans, he stood six four with the physique of a heavyweight boxer. He did not look Italian.

  “They’re Corsican,” she said. “You know why I’m asking. It’s the reason you’re not sitting in a cell in La Santé doing twenty to life.”

  She’d busted Aziz two years earlier as he made a buy of a hundred kilos of Colombian marijuana—“l’herbe,” in the parlance. The volume of the buy guaranteed him a long stretch in prison. She had dropped the charges to a misdemeanor and made sure he was out in three months. Ever since, he’d been her eyes and ears on the street. The fact was, most criminals used drugs on a regular basis, be it marijuana, coke, meth, or, more commonly these days, opioids like OxyContin that mimicked heroin’s narcotizing effect. Aziz carried them all.

  “What did they do?” he asked.

  “Let me worry about that.” Nikki crossed her arms and gave him the look. She wasn’t about to say they stole a letter. She preferred not to be laughed out of the place.

  “Brigantino’s dead. Long time now.”

  “I hadn’t heard.”

  “Cancer. He was in Germany getting some experimental treatment. His son was in here last year looking for some painkillers for the dad.”

  “Last year?”

  Aziz nodded.

  “And Coluzzi?”