The Take

by Christopher Reich

  He stood and started down the car.

  “Hey,” said Nikki, rising and touching his arm. “What’s wrong? You mad?”

  “Good guess,” said Simon. “You must be a detective.”

  “Simon, what is it?”

  “Look,” he said. “I haven’t put all the pieces together. I’m sorry if I don’t have all the answers yet.”

  “I’m only trying to help.”

  “I need to stretch my legs,” said Simon, hearing the apology in her voice, realizing he’d been rash. “I’m going to hit the dining car.”

  “Wait,” said Nikki, picking up her handbag. “I’ll come with you.”

  Chapter 46

  From her vantage point in the rest area outside Riske’s car—the two-meter-long no-man’s-land between carriages—Valentina watched the American rise from his seat and head her way, followed by the woman she’d guessed to be his companion. Valentina retreated a step, seeking refuge in the bathroom. She tried the handle and found it locked. A brusque male voice registered his protest. In her fatigued state, she nearly shouted for him to hurry up and get out.

  The American was ten steps away, four rows from the door. Turning, she rushed to the adjoining car and traversed its length. The next bathroom was vacant. She entered and locked the door, counting to sixty to allow Riske to pass. In that time, she removed the pen from her pocket, loosened the cap, and cocked its pocket clasp to ninety degrees, charging the nib with poison.

  After a minute, she opened the door cautiously. Her eyes reconnoitered the rest area. The American was gone.

  She walked to the next car in time to observe the woman nearing the far exit. The American opened the door and let her pass in front of him. When they were both out of view, Valentina entered the carriage, moving slower now, aware that the dining car was immediately ahead.

  A steward came through the door, pushing a beverage cart. His colleague held the door for him, offering Valentina a clear view of Riske, back to her, and the woman standing in line in the dining car.

  “Excuse me, madame.”

  Valentina stepped aside as the steward passed. She advanced to the end of the carriage, peeking through the glass, her view blocked by a knot of passengers leaving the dining car. The element of surprise was vital. She couldn’t allow Riske to see her approach, not even for a second. It was imperative no one witness her stabbing him with the pen.

  The onslaught of the poison’s effects was rapid and dramatic. Within seconds, the victim realized that something was horribly wrong. The heartbeat accelerated. Muscles tightened. Eyesight blurred. A terrific pounding pressed on the temple. Body temperature rose three to five degrees. The skin flushed. Perspiration increased. Taken together, the reactions made the victim feel as if his head were about to explode.

  As the poison attacked the central nervous system, the victim became paralyzed. His muscles began to spasm. He could no longer speak. Pain became unbearable. He frothed at the mouth. Often, he vomited copiously.

  In the final stages, the nervous system stopped functioning altogether. The person collapsed. His lungs no longer worked. In the last seconds before death, he suffered the sensation of asphyxiating, his mouth open but unable to draw a breath.

  There was nothing subtle about it.

  Valentina slipped the pen from her pocket, concealing it in her palm as she advanced. She caught a glimpse of Riske’s dark blazer, his neatly trimmed hair, the sharp profile of his nose and jaw. The woman was still at his side, the two deep in conversation. The dining car was more crowded than when she’d passed through earlier. A number of passengers waited near the service counter, and she guessed that the dining steward was behind in filling orders.

  Valentina stepped away from the window. Reluctantly, she decided that it might be necessary to reconsider her course of action. It would do no one any good were she to kill Riske and herself be captured. Her primary goal was Coluzzi, not Riske. She looked at her watch. Two hours remained until they reached Marseille. She needed to act wisely and bide her time. The odds were in her favor that she’d have another chance at Riske.

  Resigned that she must wait, she glanced back into the dining car as a group of five left a table and made their way to the opposite exit. Riske’s companion moved rapidly to the vacant spot, placing her handbag on the table. A moment later, another group of three or four left by the same exit. In seconds, the dining car had gone from packed to empty.

  Valentina gripped the pen in her fingers, eagerly reappraising the situation.

  Two women stood behind Riske, but the passage beside him was free of traffic, providing an open conduit. The American’s back was to her, his face raised to the menu posted behind the counter. His companion was at the far end of the car speaking on the phone, gazing out the window.

  There would never be a better moment.

  Valentina dropped her hand to her side, the pen extended, nib up. Confident that she had made the right decision—the only decision—she pushed open the door and entered the dining car.

  Chapter 47

  Simon leaned closer to Nikki as they stood in line. “What do you want? Coffee? A croissant?”

  “Coffee. Black.”

  “Nothing to eat? We didn’t hang around to get our room service.” He studied the menu posted on the wall. “I’m thinking a ham and cheese baguette and a Coke.”

  “You’re a real gourmet.”

  “I haven’t eaten much since leaving the emergency room. I don’t care what I have as long as it’s filling.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll wait for a bouillabaisse in the Vieux-Port. Cheese toast. A glass of wine.”

  “What happened to Paris’s toughest cop?”

  “I’m tough, not a cretin. I’ve waited this long. It might as well be something good.”

  “You may be waiting a lot longer. We’re hitting the ground running. You haven’t forgotten that we’re not the only ones looking for Coluzzi.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” said Nikki. “Any ideas where he’s at?”

  “A few. We need to poke around here and there, ask some questions.”

  “That didn’t turn out so good the last time.”

  “I’ll be more careful. Besides, I have you to look after me.”

  “So I’m your bodyguard now, is that it?”

  “You’re one for one so far. That’s a pretty good track record in my book.”

  “I’m here for my own reasons. Remember that.”

  “I noticed you’re not wearing your gun.”

  “I’m off duty. Don’t worry. It’s in my bag.”

  “Good to know.”

  “A table’s opening up. I’m going to grab us a place.”

  “Sure you don’t want anything?”

  “Fine,” said Nikki, giving up. “Get me whatever you’re having. I’ll put my lunch plans on hold.”

  She left the line and took a seat at the vacant table. She looked at Riske. He was dressed once again in business mode. Blazer, white shirt, tan trousers. The vulnerability she’d glimpsed the night before, sitting outside the urgent care clinic, was gone, all intimations of mortality along with it. He’d pushed his brush with death out of his mind. Not once had he mentioned Falconi either. It wasn’t an act. He’d seen a lot in his life, certainly more than she. The difference, of course, was that he’d lived it firsthand, while more often than not she was a witness after the fact.

  Her phone rang. She checked the screen and answered at once. “Hello, Commissaire?”

  “Hello, Nikki. How are things going? Did Riske find his man?”

  “Not yet, but I think he’s on the right track.”

  “Good. I hope he didn’t put you out too much.”

  “He can be demanding, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “All the same, I owe you one. How are things over there? I heard it was a nasty one.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Delacroix. I heard it was messy.”

  “Delacroix…from the hotel?”
<
br />   “Who else?” There was a pause, and Nikki realized she’d blundered. “Aren’t you at the crime scene?” continued Dumont. “I know the lieutenant had you on administrative detention, but given the circumstances, I thought he might need you. Word was you had Delacroix pegged as an accomplice.”

  “Actually, I’m feeling sick. I took the day.”

  “Delacroix’s dead. He was found in his apartment an hour ago, killed execution style.”

  “I see,” said Nikki. It was the Russian. Evidently, the PJ wasn’t the only one to mark Delacroix as a suspect. She signaled Riske to come join her. “When?”

  “Last night sometime. When he didn’t show up for work, his colleagues sent someone to his place.”

  “Any leads?”

  “None, but you might want to call the lieutenant.”

  Nikki waved again, but Riske was looking at the dining attendant. “Thank you, Commissaire.”

  “Nikki?”

  “Yes?”

  “Riske is staying at the hotel where Delacroix worked, isn’t he?”

  Nikki began to answer when she saw a blond woman enter the car and advance along the corridor. Something about her manner captured her attention. There was a tautness to her body, a purpose that seemed out of place. She studied the face. It was her.

  “Behind you!” Nikki shouted.

  Simon heard Nikki’s voice, met her eyes, saw the fear in them, the desperation. He spun to his left, his gaze fixed on the woman approaching, passing the queue of customers. He knew her at once, not only because he recognized her from Le Galleon Rouge. He could feel the tension emanating from her, her commitment, her blind will, and though she had yet to look at him, he was certain that he was her target.

  All this he processed in less than a second.

  In that time, she began her attack. He saw the right arm rise from her leg, a slim, black instrument clutched in her hand. He caught the sparkle of gold as she lunged at him. It was a fountain pen, yet she held it as if it were a weapon.

  He stepped back, hugging the wall, and with his left hand arrested her forward motion, fingers curling around her wrist, crushing it. The woman grunted and leaned into him, the hand defying his grip, rising toward his chest, her eyes fixed on him.

  Next to him, a man cried out in alarm, shrinking from the attack.

  Simon turned his shoulder into her and, with his weight behind him, thrust her hand against the wall. She responded with a knee to the groin, missing its mark by an inch. He buckled at the waist and lost his grip on her hand. He felt no real pain, no fear. He was aware only of the fierce pumping of his heart and the adrenaline raging through his veins. In the same motion, he drove a fist into her solar plexus, feeling cartilage give but little more. The woman recoiled, eyes watering, but otherwise was unbowed.

  Simon pushed himself off the wall and stood taller. The two faced each other at a distance of prizefighters. The passengers had scattered any way they could. He heard Nikki’s voice behind him, telling him to run, but he had never run from a fight in his life. He was the fool who ran toward it. Somewhere buried in his psyche he knew he was merely answering the voice that had been calling to him with increasing frequency, telling him that this was his real self. That he couldn’t hide any longer and that everything he’d become was a lie.

  That he belonged on the wrong side of right.

  In that instant all caution left him.

  The woman lunged at him, her motion a blur. He darted to the side, angling his body, catching the outstretched arm and turning the wrist inward, his free hand locking her elbow. The woman struck him in the face repeatedly, knuckles curled, battering his cheek. He maintained his grip, holding her other hand high, then raised his leg and drove his heel into her kneecap, holding nothing back, collapsing the knee on itself, shearing the ligaments, dislocating the joint.

  She screamed and fell to the floor, helpless.

  Simon stood above her. “What’s in the letter?” he asked.

  The woman pushed herself away, eyes blinking, breath firing in ragged bursts. The door behind her opened. A security officer burst into the carriage, weapon drawn. She looked over her shoulder at him, then back at Simon.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  The woman’s eyes went to her hand, to the fountain pen clutched there.

  “Don’t!”

  The woman plunged the pen into her neck, then dropped it onto the floor.

  Nikki approached, bending down to see if she could help.

  “It’s too late,” said Simon, pulling her away.

  The Russian woman’s back arched. Her eyes widened, and widened more. Her mouth opened in a paroxysm of terror. Spittle flowed freely down her chin. A horrible cry came from deep inside her.

  And then all life fled.

  Her body went limp and she collapsed, dead.

  Chapter 48

  Tino Coluzzi tossed two more langoustines onto his plate and sat back in his chair. He wasn’t in the least hungry, yet he forced himself to eat, checking his watch every five minutes. Alexei Ren sat at the head of the table, holding court. The others present were his executives and their families. From what Coluzzi could gather, business was good. He turned his eyes toward the sea. A few more yachts had anchored since his arrival. None were as grand as the Solange, but they were impressive nevertheless, none shorter than a hundred feet, with sleek bows and shaded afterdecks. A few Jet Skis zipped in and out between them. The good life. It was so close he could taste it.

  He caught Ren signaling to him from the head of the table, a nod toward the far end of the restaurant. Coluzzi rose and followed the Russian to a patio overlooking the windward side of the island and the open ocean.

  “Go ahead,” said Ren, giving him his phone. “He’s expecting you.”

  “Now?”

  Ren checked his watch. “It’s nearly one in Moscow. If that’s where he is.”

  “Did you already speak to—”

  “This is your deal. I’m not involved. My friend alerted Borodin that you wished to speak with him about a serious matter. Apparently, he was expecting you.”

  Coluzzi looked at the numbers, then dialed without hesitation. All night he’d rehearsed what he would say to Borodin. Now his mouth was dry and he could no longer remember what he’d decided on.

  The phone rang.

  Ren stood facing him, cigar firmly in the corner of his mouth, arms crossed over his chest. His smile was gone. His eyes stared at him as if he were his worst enemy.

  “Good luck,” he said.

  “Allô.”

  “Borodin?”

  “Director Borodin, if you don’t mind. Am I speaking with Mr. Tino Coluzzi?”

  The voice was calm, measured, not unfriendly, pitched higher than he’d expected, the man’s French nearly perfect.

  “My name isn’t important.”

  “There are no strangers in this business. We’ve been looking for you since yesterday. Now you turn up with Alexei Ren. You are an opportunistic man.”

  “I do what’s necessary.”

  “So it seems.”

  “I have your letter. I guess I don’t need to tell you that.”

  “No, you don’t. Mr. Delacroix was helpful in that regard, as was your friend Mr. Falconi. Or did you think we’d sit back and wait for you to come to us?”

  Coluzzi swallowed, biting back his anger. He didn’t care about Delacroix, other than to be angry he’d paid him up front, but Luca Falconi had been like an uncle. “I didn’t think that.”

  Borodin paused long enough for Coluzzi to digest the information. “What do you wish to do with your prize?”

  “I have a few ideas.”

  “May I ask you a question first?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “How did you come to find it? The news says the robbery was only about the money.”

  “That’s my business.”

  “So it wasn’t a coincidence?”

  “Let’s say that there are others who want the letter as
badly as you.”

  “Have you spoken with them?” Borodin’s voice was suddenly too relaxed, almost nonchalant. Coluzzi realized that he was the more nervous of them.

  “I thought you’d want it, seeing as how the prince was flying to Cyprus to personally deliver it to you.”

  “My, my. You never cease to impress me.”

  “The prince writes too much down. You might want to mention it to him next time you get together.”

  “Mr. Coluzzi, I’m a busy man. You are correct that we would like to take possession of the letter. Sooner rather than later. I’m prepared to offer you fifty thousand euros.”

  “I was thinking of a different number.”

  “Of course you were.”

  “How does twenty million sound?”

  Borodin’s laugh sounded like a seal’s bark. “Did Ren give you that number?”

  “All mine.”

  “Impossible. We have a budget like any other organization. It’s not my decision alone.”

  “I don’t think your budget applies in this matter.”

  “Why not?”

  “This is your play. I know what’s in the letter. I know why you want it. The number is twenty million.”

  “Never.”

  “Then I apologize for wasting your time. I’m a busy man, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another call to make.”

  “Wait!”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Two million euros. Cash. You’ll have it in twelve hours.”

  “Twenty million. Also in cash. And have it here by six.”

  “Five million is the best I can do.”

  “The sun is coming up in Washington, DC. I know just the person to call. He’s probably mad at me for not having given him the letter in the first place, but I suppose he’ll soften up. I’ve kept the Americans waiting long enough.”

  “Ten million and that’s final.”

  “What did you do to Luca Falconi?”

  “Ten million, Mr. Coluzzi. Or you’ll find out yourself what we did to your friend.”

  Coluzzi’s eyes met Ren’s. The Russian nodded.