The Take

by Christopher Reich

  It had come to this.

  One call.

  Coluzzi crossed the Place aux Huiles and soon came in sight of the harbor. His heart sank. Panicked, he looked left and right. Nowhere did he see the Solange’s proud navy-blue hull, the sharp bow, the skull and crossbones fluttering from the fantail.

  Ren had lied to him. He had not tried to reach Borodin after all.

  In a daze, Coluzzi crossed to the quai and ran to the Solange’s mooring. In place of the two-hundred-foot superyacht was an eighteen-foot tender, bobbing at the dock. A lone crewman in white shorts and striped sailor’s tunic busied himself wiping down the seats. Coluzzi lowered his head, feeling as if he were the brunt of some cruel practical joke. He thought of the briefcase cached at Le Coual and the letter returned to its hiding place inside it.

  Now what?

  “Mr. Coluzzi?”

  Coluzzi looked up to see the young crewman waving. “What do you want?”

  “Mr. Ren departed at dawn for Entre les Îles.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Come aboard. He asked that I bring you.”

  “To Entre les Îles?”

  “He’s expecting you.”

  “He is?… I mean, of course he is.” Coluzzi hurried to the mooring. With a new spirit, he jumped into the boat. The sailor cast off and started the engines, maneuvering the boat past a line of incoming trawlers. When they’d cleared the breakwater, Fort Saint-Nicolas above their shoulder, he pushed down on the throttle. The bow rose, the wind picked up, and in seconds they were making twenty knots over a shallow chop.

  The boat turned east and skirted the coast, leaving Marseille behind and traversing Les Calanques. After a minute, Coluzzi spotted Le Bilboquet, the beach bar where he’d spent so much time when he’d first arrived from Corsica. His eye moved up the craggy vertical face behind it to the bluff. He looked a few hundred meters to the right, trying hard to find Le Coual among the red rocks. He could not, and this made him feel safer, proud of how well he’d camouflaged his hideout. If he couldn’t see it, no one could.

  The boat turned away from the coast, heading out to sea on a course of south by southeast. The wind picked up. The sea grew rougher. The small boat began to rise and fall dramatically, the bow slapping the water with force. Coluzzi kept a death grip on the handrail. He was a landlubber, pure and simple. His family was from the mountains. Pig farmers, who even at the height of summer rarely visited the beach. The violent bounce, the subtle pitch and roll, provoked the first uneasy stirrings of nausea.

  “Are you okay?” asked the skipper. “You look a little green.”

  “I’m fine,” said Coluzzi, giving a tepid smile and a thumbs-up.

  A smudge of brown appeared on the horizon and, soon after, a collection of white specks.

  “Five minutes,” said the skipper.

  The specks grew into yachts, but the smudge of brown remained flat, barely rising above the horizon. The boat rounded the eastern tip of land and pulled into a broad channel, passing between two long, similarly low islands. The boat slowed. The wind abated. The water was calm and the color of aquamarine, the sandy seafloor visible below. No fewer than a dozen yachts were anchored here and there. The largest among them, occupying pride of place nearest the white sand beach, was the Solange.

  The skipper continued past the motor yacht and pulled alongside a dock extending fifty meters from land. Directly behind the dock, situated on a low bluff overlooking the beach, was a restaurant with thatched roofs and billowing white canopies. The smell of smoked seafood filled the air.

  “Mr. Ren asks that you join him.”

  Coluzzi negotiated his way onto the dock, pausing to steady himself and straighten his jacket before continuing to the beach and climbing the steep flight of steps to the restaurant.

  A bodyguard waited at the top of the stairs. “Phone, please.”

  “I may need it.”

  “Mr. Ren doesn’t allow phones.”

  Coluzzi handed over the burner phone he’d been using since midnight.

  The bodyguard patted him down. He found nothing. “Bon appétit,” he said pleasantly.

  “Merci.” Coluzzi had known well enough to leave his stiletto at home.

  The restaurant’s charm came from its casual, near slapdash ambiance. Four long wooden tables were set end to end, each with ten to twelve rattan chairs along it. A liberal amount of sand had been spread over a poured concrete floor. Canopies overhead snapped like a ship’s sails. Bouquets of flowers decorated the interior pylons.

  Only one table was occupied. Alexei Ren sat at its head, one leg draped over the arm of his chair, a glass of champagne dangling from his hand. His guests numbered eleven or twelve: men, women, and a few children, dressed in linen shirts, shorts, and bathing attire. Sadly, Coluzzi spotted none of the lovelies he’d spent time with the day before. These guests had pale skin, high cheekbones, and dark eyes. Ren’s Russian compatriots, no doubt.

  Coluzzi counted ten empty bottles of Dom Pérignon on the table and at least as many chilling in ice buckets nearby. “Tino!” Ren raised an arm in welcome. “Come. Sit.”

  Coluzzi grabbed a chair from the next table and brought it close. “Hello, Alexei.”

  “What’ll you have? Some DP? Stoli? A beer?”

  “Mineral water is fine.”

  “Come on,” said Ren. “Join us. Today’s your day.”

  “A beer,” Coluzzi said to the waiter, “1664.”

  “There you go,” said Ren. He was smiling much too broadly. No matter how he tried, Coluzzi couldn’t smile back.

  He knew all about Entre les Îles, even if he’d never been. There was a time when the place had been a local hangout, a sleepy lunch spot off the coast where you parked your boat, took a swim, then feasted on langoustines and beer for a decent price. All that had changed twenty years back when the Russians invaded the Riviera. Saint-Tropez had long been a chic destination ruined by rich tourists, but one by one even the most unprepossessing out-of-the-way spots were gobbled up by the surfeit of wealth and greed flooding the South of France. Why charge ten euros for a plate of ten langoustines when you could charge a hundred for just five?

  The waiter brought the beer on a tray. Coluzzi had time to take a sip before Ren was on his feet. “Walk with me.”

  Ren lit a cigar and put an arm around Coluzzi’s shoulder. “I don’t see the money,” he said.

  “We said after you’d arranged the meeting.”

  “You said ‘after.’ I never agreed.”

  “Is there going to be a problem?”

  Ren exhaled a cloud of blue smoke and hugged Coluzzi closer. “I know you’re good for it.”

  “Of course.”

  The Russian led the way out of the restaurant to a shaded area overlooking the windward side of the island. Coluzzi noted that a bodyguard followed and stood ten steps away, his back turned to fend off unwelcome visitors. Ren busied himself relighting his cigar. Coluzzi remained quiet. Nothing betrayed nerves or weakness more than idle chatter.

  “This man…Borodin,” Ren began, assiduously lighting and pulling on his cigar. “He’s damned tough to reach. I mean, how do you go about contacting the head of the Russian spy service?”

  “If I knew,” said Coluzzi, “we wouldn’t be here.”

  “First,” said Ren, “you must know someone close to him. Someone who you trust…and who he trusts.” He opened his eyes wide and shrugged as if this were requesting the impossible. “I’ve been gone from Russia for years. My contacts are no longer what they once were. There was a time when if you asked me to call the head of the SVR, I would reply ‘On his home phone or his cell?’ Alas, those days are gone.”

  Coluzzi nodded, but he felt himself getting nervous. Yesterday Ren had practically boasted he could make the call then and there. Now he sounded as if he were hedging his bets.

  “I’ll ask again, is there going to be a problem?”

  “Look at you,” said Ren. “So worried.” He clenched the cig
ar between his teeth and pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “I didn’t say I had no contacts at all. When you are a billionaire, there are always people eager to be your friend.” He extended the paper toward Coluzzi, only to yank it back when Coluzzi reached for it. “Still,” Ren continued, “it was expensive.”

  Only then did he hand Coluzzi the paper.

  “He’s expecting your call at noon. We have an hour. Hungry?”

  Coluzzi put the paper in his pocket. “I could eat something.”

  Chapter 43

  Car three, seat eighty-four,” said the agent at the security checkpoint. “At the far end of the quai, just behind the locomotive. Have a pleasant journey.”

  Simon picked up his bags and started down the platform. Despite the rise of terrorist incidents in Europe, and in France in particular, there were no x-ray machines to scan luggage or carry-on bags. A half-dozen soldiers patrolled the platform, machine guns strapped to their chests. Two plainclothes policemen with German shepherds moved among the passengers as they boarded. Drug dogs, Simon guessed, as Marseille was the country’s largest port on the Mediterranean and the primary conduit for illegal contraband to and from North Africa.

  The TGV was a sleek, low-bodied train, the cars painted a warm silvery tone with blue accents. A few stragglers walked ahead of him, hurrying to board the carriages. Through the windows, he noted that the train appeared to be full. For a moment he stopped and looked behind him, checking for an athletic woman with tousled brown hair. As quickly, he turned and continued to the head of the train. He had no right to expect Nikki to join him. She’d done enough already. There was no money in continuing on a wild-goose chase that was potentially dangerous to her career, and quite possibly her health. She’d made the right choice.

  Simon picked up his pace, taking a look at his phone. The forecast for Marseille called for sun during the day, with wind picking up in the evening and the possibility of a storm. He remembered the tang in the air when the mistral kicked up, the flecks of flume whirling about, wetting his cheeks—the swirling, unpredictable wind carrying the sea inland. After too many years, he was going home, back to the place that had done its best to destroy him and, when it had failed, had tried even harder to give him a second life.

  “Wait!” A woman’s voice echoed off the high ceiling. “Don’t close the gate.”

  Simon turned to see Nikki Perez passing through the checkpoint, a carryall in one hand. He put his bags down and raised a hand, signaling to her.

  “Traffic,” she said when she reached him.

  “What about work?”

  “We can talk about that later.”

  The two walked briskly up the line of cars. Halfway there, a conductor asked them to climb aboard and continue to their seats once inside the train. Simon opened the door and Nikki climbed the steps. Almost immediately, the train began to move.

  “Where’s your seat?” he asked.

  “Car fifteen. Seat seventy-one,” said Nikki, checking her ticket. “Second class is the other direction. You?”

  “Car three. Seat eighty-four.”

  “First class, of course.”

  Simon pulled his ticket from a pocket. “And eighty-five,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I bought two just in case.”

  “You knew I’d come?”

  “I hoped.”

  Nikki snatched the ticket out of his fingers and led the way, passing through car after car, all packed to capacity, luggage stored overhead or in the compartments between trains. Finally, they reached car 3 and identified the last two empty seats as their own. They threw their bags onto the overhead rack and sat down facing each other, a table in between them.

  “I didn’t know I was so predictable,” said Nikki, settling into her seat.

  “I know you want to get Coluzzi as badly as I do.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “You’re sick of desk duty.”

  “Also true.”

  “Hard to sit around pushing papers knowing that I might be closing in on him.”

  “No other reason?”

  Simon thought hard. “Am I missing something?”

  “No,” said Nikki, gazing forthrightly at him. “That about covers it.”

  “Well?” said Simon.

  “Well what?”

  “Did you call in Falconi’s murder? Did you tell Marc Dumont that we’re after Coluzzi?”

  “You’re the know-it-all. You tell me.”

  “Since you’re here, I’ll take that as a no.”

  Nikki offered a dismissive smile. “Like you said, I want to get Coluzzi as badly as you. Well, then at least we have a few hours off.”

  “Actually,” said Simon, taking out his phone, “work starts now.” He found his earpiece and microphone and plugged them in, then attached a power cord so he wouldn’t drain his battery before arriving.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Research.”

  “About Coluzzi?”

  “About the prince.”

  Simon looked out the window. The train was passing through the city suburbs, tall concrete housing complexes that even in the cheery morning sun looked grim and unwelcoming. He remembered the rows of government-built apartments up the hill from his mother’s house. The buildings had been nicer than these, at least to look at. Many apartments had had window boxes decorated with colorful flowers year-round. There had been decent playgrounds and a football field, upkeep paid for by the drug lords who governed the turf. Inside, however, the buildings had been decrepit and stank of overflowing sewage, the hallways narrow and dark, the stairwells a no-man’s-land that reeked of urine, vomit, and the ever-present scent of pot. Elevators seldom functioned. He couldn’t get from an apartment to the street without passing a drug deal in progress or a hooker bringing a john to her place or a group of bored, belligerent kids looking for trouble. Police made it a habit to stop a block away. It was as close as they dared to come.

  “I grew up out here,” said Nikki.

  “Tough neighborhood.”

  “There are tougher.”

  “You got out. Good on you.”

  “And you? How’d you get out? From Les Baums to the Sciences Po. That’s like from Earth to the moon.”

  “Long story.”

  “We’ve got four hours.”

  “Another time.”

  “Promise?” she asked, and he could see she was trying to be his friend.

  “Maybe one day.” Simon returned to his phone. He was studying the information he’d gotten from Delacroix’s phone detailing Prince Abdul Aziz’s personal data. His email address, credit card numbers, Saudi national identity number, and more. He felt a presence next to him and looked up to find Nikki perched on his armrest.

  “What’s that?” she asked, a hand on his shoulder.

  Simon told her about his visit with Delacroix and how he’d lifted his phone and swiped the information from his SIM card.

  “And so?” she asked. “How do you plan on using it?”

  “With any luck I can get the password for his email account. After that, who knows?”

  “Do you have any regard for the law whatsoever?”

  “I sleep just fine.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “You want to listen in or would you like me to do this somewhere else?”

  “I’m off duty. Please continue. One day when I’m a private investigator I may find it useful.”

  Simon found the number for the prince’s Internet provider, a prominent Saudi Arabian telecom company. “Here we go,” he said. “Quiet.”

  Nikki zipped her mouth closed.

  “Good morning,” he said when the customer service representative answered. His Arabic was slow and formal. His vocabulary was limited, but his accent was spot-on. “I have a small problem. I’ve forgotten the password for my account.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. I’m sure we can help you find it without too much trouble.
If you go to the sign-in page of your account and click on the ‘Forgot password’ link, you’ll find instructions directing you how to retrieve or reset your password.”

  “I’m not at my computer. I’m on a phone and I don’t have Wi-Fi access. I’d like to take care of this as quickly as possible, so when I do have Wi-Fi I can get to my messages.”

  “Of course, sir. I will have to ask you a few questions.”

  “Fire away.”

  “What is your email address?”

  Simon read it off.

  “Thank you. And what is the name of the account holder?”

  Simon gave the prince’s full name.

  “Am I speaking with the prince?”

  “This is Prince Abdul Aziz.”

  The representative began speaking Arabic excitedly. Simon did his best to understand but much escaped him. The gist, however, was clear. The telecom rep was honored, thrilled, gratified, to be helping the prince. Simon laid even odds that the representative knew what the prince’s real job was.

  “Please,” said Simon. “I am with some American colleagues. I prefer to speak English.”

  “Of course, Your Highness. Please excuse me. I apologize. I—”

  “May we continue?”

  “Yes, Your Highness. I must still ask you these questions to verify your identity. No disrespect.”

  “I understand. You are just doing your job. And may I say you are doing it well.”

  “Thank you. Now, may I ask your date of birth?”

  “November twelfth, nineteen sixty-seven.”

  “And when did you create this account?”

  Simon gave a throaty harrumph. “Years ago. If I could remember that, surely I could remember my password.”

  “No problem, sir. In that case, do you have your national identity number?”

  “Now, that I remember.” Simon consulted the sheet listing the prince’s information and read off the number.