The Take

by Christopher Reich

  “I’d like to speak with Simon Riske.”

  “He’s away on assignment at the moment. May I have him call you or would you like to speak with another of our professionals?”

  “No message. Thank you.”

  Delacroix hung up. The firm appeared to be legitimate. He’d accessed their website earlier, too, finding it professional but bland. He told himself he was getting worked up over nothing. There was no reason for Riske to suspect him of tipping off the bad guys. Delacroix cursed his luck. How was he to know Prince Abdul Aziz was carrying something of diplomatic value?

  Of course Riske was correct. It was he who’d told Coluzzi about the prince’s route to the airport. He’d never liked the Saudis or, in fact, anyone from the Middle East. It wasn’t prejudice but experience. During the First Gulf War, he’d fought alongside the Saudis’ vaunted Haj Brigade. The Saudi soldiers showed the courage of a mouse and half the heart. They were paper soldiers.

  Delacroix lived on the fourth floor of an upscale building on the Rue de Grenelle a block away from Les Invalides. Two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen that needed upgrading. Not much, but he kept it neat and clean, and he had a view of the park nearby. He dropped his keys in the bowl and threw his jacket on the chair. There was a pleasant scent in the air and he imagined a beautiful woman walking beneath his window. The thought made him smile. He took a Heineken from the fridge and walked into the living room. There was a good match on television this evening. He needed a few hours to let his mind relax.

  “Monsieur Delacroix?”

  An attractive blond woman sat in his favorite leather chair. She wore a black T-shirt beneath a loose-fitting checked shirt, jeans, and men’s work boots. His first thought was What is this gorgeous dyke doing in my apartment? Then he saw the pistol in her hand. A Glock fitted with a suppressor. His smile vanished.

  They knew.

  He threw the beer at her and bolted for the door.

  The bullet struck his right knee. He crashed to the floor, writhing, grasping at his leg.

  “Look at me,” said the woman.

  Delacroix rolled onto his back. He knew what this was about, why the woman was here.

  “Who are you working with?” she asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  She raised the pistol.

  “Please,” he cried, lifting a hand to shield his face. “I already explained everything to your partner. It was the prince’s idea to take an alternate route to the airport.”

  “I don’t have a partner.”

  Delacroix grimaced. He was confused. Who was she if she was not the American’s partner? “You don’t work with Riske?”

  “Riske? Who is this person?”

  “An investigator with an English security firm. His name is Simon Riske.”

  “Riske…He is English?”

  “American.”

  “Of course he is. And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him that I had nothing to do with the robbery.”

  “Americans believe anything. We are not so gullible. Ponyatno?”

  Delacroix closed his eyes tightly. Tonight there would be no escape. “Ponyatno,” he replied in Russian. “I understand.”

  The woman circled him, the pistol dangling from her hand. “Who paid you?”

  “His name is Coluzzi. Tino Coluzzi. He approached me Friday. He’d been following the prince around the city. He knew the prince carried a great deal of cash. He asked for my help. I agreed to steer the prince his way.”

  “He’s a friend?”

  “No. I only met him then.”

  “Go on.”

  “That’s all. I met Coluzzi twice. Friday and Saturday morning. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “And this?” The woman had found the twenty thousand euros he’d hidden in the freezer.

  “One of his men left it for me at a bar last night. Le Galleon Rouge.”

  “Who?”

  “I forget…no, no.” Delacroix searched feverishly for the name of the man with long sideburns and a peasant’s mustache he’d met at the bar. “Jack. Giacomo Pizzaloto.”

  “Did you see Coluzzi there, too?”

  “Coluzzi? No. He wasn’t there. Please take it. Take the money.”

  The woman dropped the stack of bills onto the floor. “It’s yours. You earned it. Use it to buy a new knee.”

  Delacroix swallowed hard and nodded. Maybe he would live to see another day.

  The woman asked: “So you don’t know where Mr. Coluzzi is or how I can reach him?”

  “No.”

  “No phone? No email?”

  “No.”

  “And the American who visited you earlier…”

  “I didn’t tell him about Coluzzi. I swear.”

  “I don’t imagine he was interested in the money.”

  “He said the prince was carrying important documents. He wanted them back.”

  “Did he mention the letter?”

  “What letter?” Delacroix knew at once that it must be what the prince had had in his possession.

  “The letter. We are not interested in the money either.”

  Delacroix shook his head violently. “I know nothing about a letter,” he insisted.

  “Did you read it?”

  “I told you! I’ve never heard about a letter.”

  The woman crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps until she stood above him. “I’d simply like to know if you have read it.”

  “How could I have read something I know nothing about?” he pleaded.

  “Yes or no?”

  “No.”

  “Really?”

  “You must believe—”

  The pistol coughed. A bullet shattered Delacroix’s other knee. He gasped, pain robbing him of his breath. He looked down and saw blood spreading across the floor. An artery, he thought, memories of his time in combat flooding back. He needed to tie it off quickly.

  “I never saw a letter,” he managed. “I promise you.”

  “I believe you.”

  “You do? Thank God. It’s the truth. I swear. A tourniquet. My leg. Please.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “But…”

  The woman placed the pistol to Delacroix’s forehead and shot him.

  Valentina surveyed the room, the pool of blood, the corpse. She sucked in the scent of fear mixed with the acrid cordite. She opened a window, allowing in needed fresh air, then turned on the air conditioner. She didn’t want the smell leaking into the hall.

  Valentina left the apartment. After she’d walked a block, she placed a call to Moscow. “The thief’s name is Tino Coluzzi,” she said. “A professional.”

  “I’ll see if we have anything on him.”

  “I believe I can find him.”

  “I’m counting on you.”

  “There’s something else. Another man is looking for the letter.”

  There was a long silence and Valentina wondered if somehow she’d been mistaken to relay the information. “How do you know?” Borodin asked.

  “Delacroix talked. An American named Riske came to see him earlier today. Simon Riske. He presented himself as an investigator working for an English firm. I took a photo of his business card.”

  Borodin swore under his breath. “Send it over. I’ll see if we have anything on him. No matter what…make sure this man Riske doesn’t get what is ours. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Borodin ended the call.

  Valentina put on her sunglasses and walked faster. She had a rival. The thought neither pleased nor displeased her. It was simply another element she must factor into the equation.

  For the first time she wondered about the contents of the letter. She decided it didn’t matter. Knowing might only prove a distraction.

  To her, the letter was a means to an end. Nothing more.

  Find the letter and get her old life back.

  She would stop at nothing.

  Chap
ter 26

  Nikki Perez was sitting at a table in the back of Julien’s Café when Simon arrived.

  “You’re early,” he said, checking his watch. The place was empty except for an old man reading Le Figaro and the barman.

  “My father taught us that five minutes early is on time.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Simon. “It’s warm in here. Let’s walk.”

  “Sure,” said Nikki. “You’re the boss.”

  Simon eyed her warily, not trusting the nice act.

  They left Julien’s and crossed the Pont Saint-Michel toward the Boulevard Saint-Germain. “My favorite part of the city,” he said. “I lived near here when I was at school.”

  “In the nineties, right?”

  “Very funny. I slipped a sous-chef at a restaurant around the corner a few euros to give me the food they were going to throw out.”

  “You mean the rotten food?”

  “Almost rotten.”

  Nikki wrinkled her nose. “How was it?”

  “If you’re twenty-six, broke, and starving, it’s delicious. Fry anything in butter, cover it with enough ketchup or mayonnaise, and it tastes okay. I only got sick twice. Oysters. Haven’t had one since.”

  “Nice story,” said Nikki, suddenly all business. “Is any of it true or just part of your general line of charming bullshit?”

  “Pardon?” Simon smiled, hoping to keep things light, agreeable. “What happened to ‘You’re the boss’?”

  “Save it for someone else. You knew Salvatore Brigantino was dead. He was in Germany last year having some kind of experimental treatment. The word’s all over the street. Commissaire Dumont told me you were sharp, that you had good contacts. How did you miss that?”

  “We can rule Brigantino out. Good.”

  “You still won’t tell me about your little birdie?”

  “And Coluzzi?”

  “Yes, Coluzzi. He’s a funny one to be on your list. Why would a lifelong bad guy who did time for bank robbery, attempted murder, and felonious assault want to steal a letter?”

  “Good question. Once I find him, I’ll ask him and get back to you.”

  “Sure you will.”

  “Look, Nikki, I don’t know what’s gotten you so upset.”

  “You did. You’re wasting my time. You knew Coluzzi was the one all along. Why did you lie?”

  “Did you find him?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s make a deal. You tell me what’s in this famous letter and I’ll tell you if I found Coluzzi.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Really? You’ll tell me?” It was Nikki’s turn to be surprised. She stood arms akimbo, ready to deliver her next stinging riposte.

  “Promise.”

  “All right, then,” she said. “Go ahead.”

  “I don’t know,” said Simon.

  Nikki threw him a look to say she was done here, turned, and walked in the other direction.

  Simon hurried to catch up with her. “Word of honor. I don’t know what’s in that letter. My client in this matter—a man who I have every reason to believe—refused to tell me. He did make it clear, however, that it was important.”

  “Sure it is. To save his marriage or his bank account.”

  “More than that. A lot of people might be in trouble if the wrong people get it.”

  “What kind of people?”

  “You. Me. Everyone.”

  “That’s rich. I’m scared now, Mr. Riske. Trembling in my boots. Can’t you see?” Nikki narrowed her eyes and laughed sarcastically. “Pass it on to the next rube. I’m out of here.”

  Simon grabbed her arm before she could take a step. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe it,” he said.

  It was only then that he realized that Neill had gotten to him. That he really did believe he must find the letter and that he was committed to doing everything in his power to make it happen.

  Nikki looked hard at him, suspicious as ever. “So tell me why a hood like Tino Coluzzi would ever want something like that.”

  “Maybe,” Simon said, “he didn’t mean to steal it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means maybe he got it accidentally. Look, that’s as far as I can go.” He waited for a moment, expecting another rebuke. Nikki remained silent, though her expression was far from convinced. He said, “Your turn.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up.” She began walking, her shoulder nearly touching his. “I didn’t pick up anything new about Coluzzi,” she said. “Other than to confirm that he was behind a large theft of pharmaceutical drugs last year. I was able, however, to find out the name of a place where his friends hang out. It’s a bar in the Marais called Le Galleon Rouge.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “A dive. I asked around. Apparently it’s popular with that crowd. You want to ask for someone named Giacomo, or Jack. Long hair. Sideburns. Mustache.”

  “Jack or Giacomo at the Le Galleon Rouge. It’s a start.”

  She looked Simon up and down. “Don’t go dressed like that.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “The commissaire told me about you saving his life. Thank him, not me.”

  “He’s exaggerating, but thanks anyway.”

  Nikki began walking backward, away from him. “Anything for a friend of the PJ. Oh yeah…” She put a finger to her forehead. “One day you’ll tell me about that.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” she said. “By the way, word has it that your friend was looking to get a crew together.”

  “Coluzzi?”

  Nikki nodded. “Must have been some job, whatever they really wanted to steal.”

  Chapter 27

  Vassily Borodin stared at the image of the business card Valentina Asanova had sent.

  SIMON RISKE

  SPECIAL PROTECTIVE SERVICES AND INVESTIGATIONS

  9 NEW BOND STREET

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  The firm’s name meant nothing to him. There were dozens of such firms in every major world capital. Spying was a fully privatized industry.

  He put down his phone, ruing the interruption in his work. On his desk a fan of dossiers was scattered, all neatly numbered and labeled. The information inside constituted his proof. Old-fashioned, hard proof in the form of damning papers from banks, corporations, and government ministries.

  He thought of the effort required to assemble it and a wave of fatigue overtook him. He leaned back in his chair and looked out the window. The rain had continued unabated since the day before. His view gave north to the center of the city. When the air was clear and the sun shining, he had a direct view of the new business district and could count the Stalin skyscrapers set in a ring around the city. Today, the rain made it impossible to see anything except the dirt caked on his window.

  He looked once again at the business card and questioned his decision to send Valentina Asanova to Paris. Was he getting himself into more trouble or doing what any patriot would? He sat straighter. He had never been a man who shirked his duty. He would never have succeeded in the old regime, when devotion to the Communist Party demanded a uniform, unwavering, and often blithely ignorant obedience. He was a man of his time, doing what any smart, ambitious, and patriotic man of his time should do.

  It had all begun with a rumor of a clandestine meeting that had taken place almost thirty years in the past. Borodin, a major at the time, had been quick to dismiss it. A man in his position trafficked in hearsay at his peril. Then, a year later, a second source, independent from the first, repeated it. This time with a crucial detail added. The meeting had taken place at a dacha north of Moscow in the month of September, days after the momentous visit. More importantly, the dacha belonged to General Ivan Truchin, one of the first high-ranking officers to denounce the old Soviet regime.

  The smart response was to say “Nonsense” or “Rubbish” and slam the door on such dangerous talk. But Borodin was at heart
distrustful. It was in his nature to ask “What if?” or, better, “Why not?” Where others sought out the good in people, he was inclined to seek the ill, or at least the duplicitous. He was nothing more than the product of his training.

  Though barely a teenager when the alleged meeting had taken place, he remembered the time well. It was the era of glasnost and perestroika. The West termed the words “opening” and “restructuring.” Borodin preferred “capitulation” and “destruction.”

  The great Soviet ship launched amid blood and tumult in 1918 by Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov Lenin and his band of Bolshevik revolutionaries was sinking. Chaos reigned. It was every man for himself. Even the rats were fleeing the ship.

  Borodin searched for his phone and for the thousandth time—no, the ten thousandth—looked at the picture. There they were, the biggest threats Mother Russia had ever known, all standing within feet of one another. Gorbachev, Reagan, and the worst of the three.

  And so a meeting of this nature was possible. Perhaps more so because no one would have had reason to suspect that anyone would show an interest in such an unimportant man.

  Borodin had put out feelers to get a stronger sense of the rumor’s veracity. Again, he had been careful not to betray an unhealthy interest. If anyone inquired, he could respond with a clear conscience that he was only doing his job. Anything more could quite literally be fatal.

  He had reached out to veterans of the secret world long retired. He had couched his questions elliptically and with purposeful vagueness. Do you remember a time when something unexpectedly went wrong with one of your operations? Did you ever feel as if someone were thwarting your efforts? Perhaps the suspicion that an invisible hand was hindering progress? Or if not hindering it, doing too little to help?

  The answers had trickled in over the course of a year. In no instance had any of the retired officers pointed a finger at who might have been responsible. Certainly, no names had been mentioned. They, too, knew how to be purposefully vague.

  Still, it had been enough.

  By then, Borodin had risen to the rank of colonel. His seniority granted him unfettered access to the SVR’s archives. He needed no one’s permission to examine the case files involved, nor was he required to leave something so damning as a signature that might later attest to his interest. Under no circumstance did he reveal his intentions to even his most trusted colleagues.