The Take

by Christopher Reich

  “Get in.”

  “Really?” said Coluzzi. “Let’s stop this here. I was only talking to Mr. Ren.”

  “That’s the problem.” The larger of the two fired a fist into Coluzzi’s gut. He saw it coming and recoiled, weakening the blow. He fired a jab in return, catching the man’s jaw, buckling his knees. The second man hit Coluzzi in the ribs, knuckles curled, and then again in the sternum, full force. That was that. A moment later, Coluzzi found himself in the back seat, doubled up, breath a hundred miles away. He was only mildly aware of the engine turning over and the car traveling out of a tunnel. When he sat up, he observed that they were traveling down the Avenue du Prado, heading into town, not out of it.

  “Don’t ask,” said the driver, eyeing him in the rearview mirror.

  Coluzzi coughed and was disheartened to see flecks of blood on his hand. He laid his head against the window, the stream of air-conditioning bringing him back to life. He remained silent as the car passed the old fort, then descended toward the water. They rounded a corner and the port came into view. The first vessel he saw was the Solange, its sharp navy bow closest to the entry. The car passed through a security gate, drove a short distance, and stopped in front of the gangway.

  The smaller man opened the door. “Out.”

  Coluzzi dragged himself from the car, holding his ribs to the bemusement of the bodyguards.

  “Mr. Ren asked that you wait in the main salon. Help yourself to the buffet and keep out of sight. He will see you after the match.”

  “Have a drink,” said the larger man, grabbing Coluzzi by the collar and straightening him up.

  “On us,” said the other.

  Coluzzi nodded his head weakly, then spun and kneed the larger man in the testicles, hands on his shoulders, pulling him into the blow. The other took a step toward him, one hand going for his gun, then hesitated, his eyes searching the dock. Coluzzi grabbed the gun hand and twisted the wrist, snapping it, then shoved the bodyguard off the dock and into the sea. The man came up sputtering a moment later, swearing oaths at Coluzzi.

  The captain rushed down the gangway. “What’s going on?”

  Coluzzi straightened his jacket. “These gentlemen offered me a drink. I plan on making it a double.”

  Chapter 23

  Simon found a table in the shade at the café Les Deux Magots on the Left Bank. A waiter arrived and he ordered a beer and a ham and cheese baguette. He set his laptop on the table, using a flash cable to attach the SIM card reader. Waiting for the files to transfer, he placed a call to the shop. After checking that everything was on schedule, he asked to speak with Lucy.

  “She’s not in,” said Harry Mason.

  “Sick?”

  “Don’t know. Didn’t call. Just didn’t show.” His floor boss was a bluff Irishman who regarded speaking as an exquisite form of torture.

  “Did you call to see if she’s all right?”

  “What am I…her daddy?”

  “Give me her number.”

  “Don’t have it.”

  “Jane at reception will give it to you.”

  “Yeah, all right.”

  While he waited, Simon thought how little he knew about Lucy. He’d found her at the bar of the Dorchester hotel. Not quite a pro, but getting ready to test the waters. Beneath the makeup and the overconfidence, she appeared a frightened, desperate girl nearing the end of her rope. He bought her a pint and she spilled her story. Broken home, dad left the country, mom remarried, the new husband hit on Lucy. When she told the husband to fuck off, he lied and said she’d come on to him. Her mother took the husband’s side and that was that. Lucy was on her own at the age of fifteen. For a year she moved from one friend’s to another. School became an afterthought. She worked at entry-level jobs at fast-food joints, hotels, and restaurants. As she grew older and she filled out into a curvy, attractive woman, she began working as a hostess or server at bars and clubs, even though she was years underage. She started to drink and do drugs. Men approached her to “work” for them. She turned them down, but it was getting harder to pass up the money. She’d finally decided to say yes when she met Simon.

  He saw enough of himself in her to give a damn. He set her up in a flat, gave her a job that taught her a trade, and made her promise never to touch drugs again. That had been eighteen months ago.

  Harry Mason came back on the line and gave Simon her number. “When are you back?”

  “Next week. Anything you can’t handle, give me a call.”

  “Won’t be necessary.” Mason hung up.

  Lucy Brown didn’t answer her phone and her mailbox was full. Simon didn’t like the vibe he was getting. He sent a text requesting that she call him immediately. Ten minutes later his phone hadn’t rung. He wondered if he’d erred in giving her such a large check for her help the other night. There were a lot of ways a twenty-three-year-old girl could go off the rails in London, especially a girl with a dark history like Lucy’s.

  Have faith, he told himself. There are plenty of reasons why she might not be answering. He made a mental note to try later in the afternoon.

  Lunch arrived. Simon took a bite of the sandwich, then started looking at the contents of Delacroix’s phone. He began with text messages, scrolling through the names of those with whom Delacroix had communicated over the last few days. The first ten were hotel staff, as indicated by the subjects they discussed. The eleventh name was someone named Pascal, who appeared to be his bookie. A perusal of the texts showed that Delacroix was a gambler and owed Pascal over ten thousand euros. Real money.

  The twelfth name was “Prince AA.”

  Simon counted over fifty texts. The first exchange began upon the prince’s arrival in Paris.

  Prince AA: Landed. Confirm pick up.

  Delacroix: Cars at airport. Terminal 1.

  …and ended minutes before the prince left the hotel.

  Prince AA: Coming down. Have cash ready.

  Delacroix: Done.

  In between was everything from A to Z.

  Simon found nothing that indicated Delacroix’s involvement in the robbery—no mention, for example, that it was he who had suggested that the prince alter his route—but plenty of background to hint at the close relationship between the two men. It was evident that Prince Abdul Aziz trusted Delacroix absolutely.

  The phone rang. He checked the screen. “Hello there, young lady,” Simon answered pleasantly. “How are things?”

  “Fine,” said Lucy Brown.

  “Just called the shop. Harry said you were MIA.”

  “MIA…what’s that?”

  “Missing in action. You sick?”

  “You checking up on me?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “Fuck off, then. I can take care of myself.”

  “You sound like you’re fighting a pretty good hangover.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  Simon took a breath, wondering how to play this. Like Harry Mason had said, he wasn’t her dad. He was her boss. A concerned boss, but that was as far as it went. “You coming in tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Look, Simon, it was my friend’s birthday last night. We were out at the pub. It was the first time I’ve been able to buy a round in a long time. It felt good to show off a bit. Anything wrong with that?”

  “No, Lucy. There’s nothing wrong with that. But next time, do it over the weekend. And if you’re going to miss work, call in. Harry was worried sick about you.”

  “Harry?” asked Lucy. “Bullocks!” And they both laughed. “How’s Paris?”

  “Paris is Paris.”

  “You promised to take me one day.”

  “Just show up for work tomorrow. Goodbye, Lucy.”

  Simon finished his sandwich and went back to the laptop. He concentrated on Delacroix’s emails. Again, he found nothing about the robbery. Nowhere was there a mention of a connection to Coluzzi—no emails and no texts. But Simon hadn’t ex
pected to find anything. He figured Delacroix to be a smart operator. He knew better than to leave a digital trail of crumbs.

  Simon continued on his hunt, nosing through Delacroix’s apps. He found the treasure buried in one named “Notes,” within a subfile with the prince’s name. The breadth of the information confirmed his impression that Delacroix enjoyed the prince’s full trust, and amplified his disgust at Delacroix’s subsequent betrayal of it. Among the information listed was the prince’s passport number, his date of birth, nine credit card numbers along with corresponding security codes, and multiple phone numbers with telecom companies.

  “Something else for you?” asked the waiter.

  Simon glanced up from the laptop. “Just the bill.”

  His phone rang again. He didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “I’ll be at Julien’s in fifteen minutes,” said Nikki Perez. “I can’t stay long.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Simon slipped his laptop into his shoulder bag and stood, leaving a fifty-euro note on the table.

  It was the waiter’s lucky day.

  Chapter 24

  So here’s the tough guy.”

  Alexei Ren stood in front of Coluzzi, staring down at him. An hour had passed since the match ended. Coluzzi had passed the time doing shots of vodka, hoping they’d kill the pain in his ribs. They hadn’t, and now he was half in the bag. “Have a seat. Your boat.”

  “You owe me two security men.”

  “Is that what you call them?”

  “One has a fractured wrist. The other won’t be walking for a few days.”

  “Send me the bill.”

  Ren studied him. “You know,” he said, unbuttoning his collar and rolling up his sleeves, “I’m actually glad to see you.”

  “Your boys let me know,” said Coluzzi. “Thrilled.”

  “You remind me of how things used to be.”

  “That right?”

  “When things were a little tougher and a man had to know how to look out for himself.” Ren picked up the vodka. “Can I pour you another?”

  “Better not,” said Coluzzi. “Just in case you want to let me know how glad you are to see me again.”

  Ren poured himself a shot and Coluzzi saw that Jojo hadn’t been lying. Ren’s arms and chest were covered with a latticework of inked art.

  “Nastrovje,” said Ren, raising his glass and downing the vodka. “Did you see the game? Almost had them, but they were too strong in the end.”

  “You need a new fullback.”

  “We need two, but we can’t afford them at the moment. It’s a principle of mine that all my businesses pay for themselves.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Only way,” said Ren, falling into a low-backed chair. “Otherwise you find yourself throwing good money after bad.”

  He poured them both another shot. “I admit it was a surprise hearing from a friend of Jojo’s. We go back quite some time. If you’d been a bit more discreet, I wouldn’t have had to make my boys teach you a lesson.”

  “Sure you would have.”

  Ren shrugged. “Old habits. I don’t pal around with your type these days. Just the way it is.”

  “My mistake.”

  Ren looked at him for a long moment, the blue, emotionless eyes boring into him. Suddenly, he smiled and slapped Coluzzi on the knee. “And so, my friend. What’s your guess? Just how badly does Mr. Borodin want that letter?”

  “He flew to Cyprus to pick it up. You decide.”

  “No, you. Go on.”

  “I’m no expert on world affairs. To be honest, I’ve never left France. The only people I trust are my family. The people I work with. But Borodin…he didn’t use his own people to bring him the letter. He wanted to keep it a secret. He can’t trust his own guys.”

  “You’re talking about Russia, my friend. A country built on distrust from the ground up. People are born with two sets of eyes—one to see ahead, the other behind to protect against being stabbed in the back.”

  “That may be,” said Coluzzi. “But Borodin didn’t obtain the letter to protect his boss. He got it to bring him down.”

  “One letter?” Ren scoffed. “Never!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Anyone can deny one letter. He will claim it’s a forgery. A plant by the CIA. Who knows? Maybe it is. Either way, one letter isn’t enough. There’s got to be more.”

  “Maybe,” said Coluzzi. “But the letter is the capper. Borodin may have other information, but without the letter it doesn’t mean much.”

  Ren poured another shot and swirled the vodka in his glass. “That part is true, my friend. You’re smarter than a back-country peasant.”

  Coluzzi inclined his head politely, vowing to kill the arrogant Russian. He’d use his stiletto. Ren wouldn’t feel it entering his rib cage until it was too late.

  “I can reach Vassily Borodin,” said Ren. “It will not be cheap, however.”

  Coluzzi remained impassive. Ren was a man who wore two hats. He’d seen the public version at the stadium. The polished, successful businessman who never missed his team’s games. Now he was seeing the private version. Not hardly as polished, and every bit as ruthless as Jojo had warned him.

  “How much?” he asked finally.

  “How much did you steal from the prince?” asked Ren.

  It was impossible to lie. A newsman had gotten to a hotel cashier who had divulged the amount the prince kept in the safe. “Six hundred thousand and change.”

  “Exactly?”

  “Six hundred twenty-two thousand.”

  “Think of it as your buy-in to the game. In return, you keep all that Borodin agrees to pay.”

  “I was thinking more of a shared arrangement.”

  “Oh?”

  “You make contact with Borodin, help with the negotiations. We split what he pays.”

  “An interesting proposition, except for one fact.” Ren put down his glass. “Without me, you have no chance of getting one ruble for your letter. Do you really think he will negotiate with you? A common hoodlum? He’s the chief of the second most powerful intelligence agency in the world.”

  “I think he will talk to whoever has the letter. Me, you, or a hooker from Jojo’s.”

  Ren threw his head back and laughed. “Maybe you are right after all, Tino. Maybe so. Anyhow, my offer stands. Take it or leave it. I don’t want a kopek from the men who placed me in prison for five years, stole all that I had, then exiled me from my homeland. You, however, are a different story.”

  “I’ve had to pay my associates. There were expenses. There is nothing close to six hundred thousand euros left.”

  “Let’s say five hundred thousand, then. That’s a nice round number. I’m not a greedy man. I’ll make the call as soon as you hand over the money.”

  “You’ll get the money once the meeting is set. I’ll do my own talking, if you don’t mind.”

  “Fair enough,” said Ren, as if he’d expected the demand all along. “And, Tino, I will need to look at the letter. I have no doubt that it’s real, but face facts. You’re a small-timer who steals a crumb here, a crumb there, and you’re asking me—Alexei Ren—to use my contacts to reach out to the highest levels of a foreign government.”

  “I’ll arrange it.”

  Ren extended a hand. His forearm was covered with grotesque drawings of skulls and snakes and onion domes and daggers dripping with blood. “Partners must trust each other,” he said. “Believe me, I want this deal to happen far more than you.”

  Coluzzi doubted that, but he shook his hand nonetheless. “How much should we ask?”

  “Ten million euros,” said Ren. “Bastards at the SVR have deep pockets. Let’s make Vassily Alexandrovich sweat a little.”

  Coluzzi suspected Ren had his own designs on the money. He would have to be like a Russian himself, with a set of eyes to look ahead and another to look behind. Like it or not, there was no other way of contacting Borodin.


  “Twenty,” said Coluzzi.

  Ren squeezed his hand. “Even better…partner.”

  Chapter 25

  Delacroix locked the door to his office at precisely five p.m. and left the hotel. It was not his practice to leave promptly at the end of the workday, but he was not feeling like himself. The past few days had been taxing. The hotel had welcomed a larger than usual number of obscenely wealthy clients, and from dusk to dawn he’d been called on to see to their needs. This meant everything from arranging bail for the Indonesian prime minister’s fifteen-year-old daughter after her arrest for shoplifting at Galeries Lafayette to supervising daily surveillance sweeps of a German Internet tycoon’s suite. And, of course, there was the presence of the police, questioning all the staff, and himself, in particular, after the robbery two days earlier.

  On top of all this, at some point today he’d mislaid his cellphone and spent a tense hour after lunch combing the hotel for it. By the grace of God, the concierge found it lying on the lobby floor. What rattled him more was that no matter how hard he tried, Delacroix could not remember setting it down anywhere near the concierge.

  Still, he knew that neither the phone nor his duties were the root cause of his unease. It was the visit from the American investigator that worried him.

  They knew.

  Once on the street, he lit a cigarette and threw his jacket over his shoulder. It was a breezy afternoon and the warm, frantic wind lessened his anxiety. He came to the Metro and halted. The thought of taking the subway home held no appeal. He had no desire to spend thirty minutes in a hot, cramped car with his fellow Parisians. He needed to keep moving.

  Delacroix threw his cigarette into the gutter. “Riske, Riske, Riske,” he repeated, running over the conversation with the American. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that Riske hadn’t believed him. He took the man’s business card from his pocket and called the number. A woman answered and gave the name of the company.