“Riske,” a man called. “Simon Riske!”
The voice was too loud, the words too clearly enunciated, to mistake the accent. Not again, thought Simon.
“Don’t!” said Lucy, grabbing his arm.
“Stay here.” Simon hurried back to the shop floor. There were five large men he didn’t know and one fat man he did.
“You asked me to look you up,” said Boris Blatt. “Here I am.”
One of Blatt’s men held Harry Mason in a headlock with a gun stuck into his side.
“And here I am,” said Simon. “Let Mr. Mason go.”
Blatt barked an order in Russian and the man released Mason.
“Everyone keep calm,” said Simon. “I know why Mr. Blatt is here. You guys can go back to work.”
Blatt carved a path through the sports cars, appraising each in turn. “Nice, but nothing special.”
“No 275s,” said Simon, referring to the automobile Blatt had purchased the Sunday before. “I told you not a dollar over twenty million.”
“What’s five million here or there?” Blatt shrugged, but his sour expression said he wasn’t happy to be reminded of his rash expenditure.
“I don’t suppose you’ve come to see about some work it might need?”
“I suppose not.” Blatt made a show of extending his left arm. He was wearing a Casio G-Shock. “Feel free to take this one.”
Simon spoke earnestly. “I was simply repossessing stolen property.”
“You are saying I stole the watch?” Blatt’s pale face had gone a vivid shade of crimson at the drop of a hat.
“I’m sure it was an honest mistake,” said Simon. “Watches aren’t like cars. Much harder to keep track of past owners.”
“This is true,” said Blatt, mollified. “One never knows where a watch has been. A person buys it. Perhaps he gives it to a friend. Someone else loses it. Over the years, anything can happen.”
“Anything.” Simon nodded obediently. Blatt’s men had formed a circle around him, and he could feel their enmity radiating like heat off a blacktop.
“However,” Blatt continued, rubbing his little gray head, “that does not change the reason for my visit. It seems you owe me five million dollars.”
“I do?”
“We already agree that you took my watch. Its value is given as three million and change. You do the math.”
Simon already had and he didn’t like the result. “And the additional sum?”
“For my time, my efforts to find you, and my forbearance.”
“Quite an hourly rate. I didn’t know you were an attorney.”
“Five million dollars, Mr. Riske.”
One of Blatt’s thugs emerged from the paint studio, manhandling Lucy.
“Ah,” said Blatt, eyes undressing her. “Your lovely assistant.” He nodded at her. “I believe we met the other night.”
To her credit, Lucy held her tongue.
Simon assessed the situation. He was not in what one might call a good bargaining position. He guessed that Lucy was to be their hostage until he ponied up the money or they came to some other agreement. He did not want to imagine what might happen to her once Blatt turned his back. “What do you suggest, Mr. Blatt?”
“Boris, please. We are all friends here.” He smiled theatrically, then approached Simon, one man speaking to another. “I would like you to come work for me.”
“Really?”
“I could use a man with your skills.”
Simon smiled faintly, as if not entirely averse to the proposition. “In what capacity?”
“In whatever capacity I say.”
The smile faded. “And my work here?”
“Oh, the shop will be mine, too,” Blatt went on, speaking the words softly, inches from his face, enjoying himself far too much for Simon’s taste. “Did I forget to mention that?”
Simon looked around the floor. At Harry and Lucy. At his crew of mechanics. At the cars in varied states of restoration and rebuilding. He loved this place. The people. The cars. The lingering scents of oil and grease and the smell of good old-fashioned sweat. The day he turned his shop over to Blatt was the day he…Well, he’d never turn it over to Blatt.
“Would you excuse me a moment?” he said, far too politely.
“Where are you going?”
“To get you your money.”
“You have it here?” asked Blatt.
Simon stared back at the Russian. Blatt nodded to an underling. “Go with him.”
Simon climbed the stairs to his flat. He’d left his bags in the living room. Happily, the French railway had taken his bags from the TGV and stored them in the Marseille Lost and Found. He now pointed to Borodin’s suitcase and instructed the thug to carry it into his bedroom. “Put it there,” he said, indicating his bed.
Simon unlocked the case, allowing the thug to get a look at the money. “I’ve got to use the men’s room,” he said. “Don’t even think of taking any. I know exactly how much there is. Understand? Give me a minute.”
“Just hurry up.”
In fact, Simon needed two minutes to complete his business. When he emerged from the washroom, the thug and his suitcase were gone. Simon put on his angriest face and puffed his cheeks, then ran after him. “Hey!” he shouted as desperately as he knew. “Bring that back. It’s not yours!”
Blatt and his thugs had retreated to the front door. Lucy Brown had been freed and stood next to Harry Mason.
“Where do you think you’re going?” asked Simon, skidding to a halt.
“I’ve decided that you may keep your shop,” said Blatt. “I’m not one for manual labor.”
Simon gathered his breath. “That’s more than we agreed,” he said, pointing at the suitcase.
“May I ask how much is in it? It would save me time.”
“Count it yourself.”
“As you wish.” Blatt buttoned his jacket. “I’ll make it a point to visit more often.”
Simon rushed the man, grabbing one lapel with his good hand. “That’s not yours.”
Two of Blatt’s bodyguards grabbed Simon and tossed him onto the floor. He lay there, beaten and defeated.
“Goodbye, Mr. Riske. Let this be the end of our relationship. Unless, of course, I need some work done on my car.”
Simon waited until Blatt had departed, then jumped to his feet and dusted himself off. After assuring his staff that he was fine and that Blatt hadn’t taken that much money, he returned to his flat. He walked at once to his bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. “‘That’s not yours,’” he repeated, pointing a finger at his reflection. Then angrier: “‘That’s not yours!’” He shook his head with dismay. “Boy, that’s weak. Sad, really.”
He emptied his pockets and set a small black SIM card on the counter. The card held the entire contents of Boris Blatt’s phone—his mail, his texts, his photographs, and all the websites he’d ever visited, including the passwords to his bank accounts. He’d borrowed the phone when Blatt had made his generous offer of employment and returned it when he’d accosted the vile Russian. During his visit to the men’s room, he’d duplicated the SIM card. Amazing what could be done in two minutes these days.
Simon grabbed a beer from the fridge and dropped onto the couch. Holding the little card between his fingers, he placed a call.
“Hello, D’Art. It’s Simon. Remember last week you mentioned your friends at Scotland Yard? Good news. I have a little something that might interest them.”
Acknowledgments
My sincere thanks to my editor, Josh Kendall; Emily Giglierano; Pam Brown; and of course Reagan Arthur, as well as the entire team at Mulholland Books.
At InkWell Management, thanks to my agent, Richard Pine, and his assistant, Eliza Rothstein.
About the Author
Christopher Reich is the New York Times bestselling author of Numbered Account, Rules of Deception, Rules of Vengeance, Rules of Betrayal, The Devil’s Banker, and many other thrillers. His novel The Patr
iots Club won the International Thriller Writers Award for Best Novel in 2006. He lives in Encinitas, California. Visit his website at christopherreich.com and follow him on Twitter @chreichauthor or on Facebook at facebook.com/ChristopherReichAuthor.
Also by Christopher Reich
Numbered Account
The Runner
The First Billion
The Devil’s Banker
The Patriots Club
Rules of Deception
Rules of Vengeance
Rules of Betrayal
The Prince of Risk
Invasion of Privacy
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