The Take

by Christopher Reich

  “Deal,” said Coluzzi.

  “Call this number back in an hour and I’ll give you the details.”

  Borodin hung up before Coluzzi could protest.

  Ren slipped the phone into his pocket. He held a fresh cigar in his free hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s celebrate.”

  Chapter 49

  Boris Blatt required four hours to determine where his watch had been stolen. He was not sure if he would ever discover how, or by whom.

  He’d set to work upon his return from Zurich earlier that morning. His plane had landed punctually at nine at City Airport, his car waiting on the tarmac to take him home. The twelve-mile drive to Highgate in the north of London took nearly as long as the five-hundred-mile flight from Switzerland. It wasn’t until ten that he pulled through the iron gates into Parkfield’s grand forecourt. It was the first time Blatt had purchased a property with a name. Frankly, he thought “Parkfield” rather bland and lacking in grandiosity, especially for a ninety-thousand-square-foot Georgian revival set on five acres of grassland that counted as the second-largest private residence in the city. He preferred the name given to the largest private residence. Buckingham Palace.

  Once inside, he took the elevator to the third floor and proceeded to his private office, locking the door behind him. A priori, it was a simple enough matter. The watch had been either taken from his closet, where he kept it in a climate-controlled cherrywood case equipped with a “watch winder” that turned the timepiece this way and that every hour to keep the mechanism charged, or, more improbably, stolen while he was wearing it. Blatt had heard of thieves capable of lifting a watch from a man’s wrist without him noticing. But he’d never heard of a thief so talented he could replace it with another watch—in this case, an exact replica—without him noticing.

  A mathematician by training, Blatt focused his efforts on the first, infinitely more probable possibility. The watch had been stolen and a replica put in its place at his home.

  Blatt’s first order of business was to call his wife and ask if she’d looked at the watch. Her response was a somewhat distracted “No.” He believed her. She had her own collection of watches, and they were worth far more than his. Moreover, she hadn’t set foot in his bedroom either here in London or in any of their other homes—in Bermuda, Manhattan, Bel-Air, Saint-Tropez, or Moscow—in years. He ruled out his wife.

  Next, Blatt summoned his chief houseman, Roderick, who was the only person—besides Blatt himself—allowed free entry into Blatt’s bedroom. On the surface, Roderick was beyond reproach. He was well paid. He had no debts. He didn’t drink, gamble, or keep a mistress on the side. All this Blatt had made it his business to know. It was this record of untarnished integrity that had landed him the job.

  Even so, Blatt made sure his bodyguards were present, and at their most intimidating, when he inquired about the watch, and if they hit the old Englishman a few times, Blatt didn’t notice. No matter how often he was asked, Roderick’s answer remained an earnest, stammering “No.” The same was true when asked if he’d let someone else into the bedroom.

  Blatt thanked him and let him know he believed him entirely. By the look of the sweat running off the older man’s forehead and the sad, defeated manner in which he limped out of the room, the acquittal was none too soon.

  Of course, there was a more reliable way to determine if anyone had ventured inside Blatt’s bedroom.

  Leaving his office, Blatt retraced his steps down the corridor and took the elevator to the second underground floor. Using a special key, he unlocked a steel door and entered Parkfield’s operational headquarters. It was from this warren of offices that all work done on the house was scheduled and supervised. Painting, carpentry, plumbing—all of it. Also housed on the second underground floor was Parkfield’s security.

  A door stood open at the end of the hall. Approaching, Blatt caught sight of the multiplex of eighty monitors showing live feeds from all cameras placed around the property. A dark, gnomish man sat at the console. Seeing Blatt, he shot to his feet.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Anton, have you finished checking my request?”

  “Just now, sir.”

  Blatt perched on the corner of the desk. He’d called Anton the night before, requesting he check the feed from his bedroom to see if anyone, besides himself and Roderick, had trespassed.

  “Well?”

  “No one, sir.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “The computer uses an algorithm to detect activity and stops the recording at those spots. While you were away, it was only Roderick who entered. There’s been no one else.”

  Blatt slapped his hand against his thigh. He was livid. He wanted to shout “Impossible!” but he knew he could not impeach the camera’s record. Without another word, he stormed out of the room and returned upstairs, making a beeline for his desk. Sitting, he pulled out his agenda and pored over the pages. A man of no small importance, Blatt led an active social life and dined out nearly every night. Reviewing his activities, he pinned down the two occasions when he’d worn the Patek Philippe. The first was to a dinner at the Russian embassy, the second to the Sotheby’s auction in Battersea Park.

  He could rule out the dinner with the Russian ambassador. It had been an official gathering, and by official, he meant secret. He alone had attended and had met with the ambassador and the resident chief of the SVR for just under an hour. No one else had been present. He didn’t figure either of the men as world-class thieves.

  It had to be Sotheby’s, then.

  He called up Alastair Quince at once. “Boris Blatt speaking. I have a problem.”

  “If it’s about the car,” said Quince, in his infuriatingly polite voice, “I’m pleased to tell you we’ll have it delivered to your home tomorrow. And if I may say, it is looking more beautiful than—”

  “No, it’s fucking well not about the car,” Blatt shouted, forgetting himself. He paused, feeling distinctly ill at ease at the prospect of telling Quince anything about the watch. “It appears I may have misplaced something the other night at the auction.”

  “What is it? I can put you in touch with Lost and Found immediately. I’m sure they can be of help.”

  “That won’t be necessary. It’s something valuable. If they’d found it already, you would know. I need to see your security cameras from the event.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s out of the question. Only the police are allowed to view footage from the security cameras, and even then they must have a warrant. The law, I’m afraid.”

  “This is a delicate matter that I chose not to report to the police.”

  “Again, I’m sorry, Mr. Blatt. Unless you file a report, there’s nothing I can do.”

  “Twenty thousand.”

  “Excuse me?” said Quince, beyond offended.

  “I’ll give you twenty thousand pounds. Cash.”

  “Are you trying to bribe me?”

  “Twenty thousand to see the tapes or you will regret the day you were ever born. Call it what you will.”

  “Twenty-five thousand and I’ll have the tape ready for you in an hour.”

  Blatt hung up, enraged. He didn’t know whether to have Quince killed or to hire him.

  Chapter 50

  I thought you said she was on a plane at Orly,” said Nikki.

  “Apparently, she didn’t like to fly.”

  Simon stared out the window. The sun was still shining. The countryside every bit as picturesque as it had been before the attack. It was he who’d changed, or rather his place in the world. Instead of the hunter, he’d become the hunted.

  “We need to get off the train,” he said.

  “We stop at Avignon,” said Nikki.

  “How long?”

  “Thirty minutes from now. But the police are waiting to speak to you in Marseille. You need to give them a statement.”

  “It’s not the police I’m worried about.”

  “You think there�
��s someone else?” demanded Nikki. “Another one like her?”

  “I don’t see why not. We’re working as a team.”

  “But she was the only one who came out of Falconi’s apartment.”

  Simon leaned forward and took Nikki’s hand. “Right now we need to consider every possibility. We’re getting off this train as soon as possible.”

  Twenty minutes had passed since the attack. Escorted by the rail marshal, Simon and Nikki had returned to their seats, only to be accosted by nervous travelers inquiring what had happened. He told them the same thing he’d told the marshal. He didn’t know the woman who’d attacked him. The assault had come as a complete and terrible surprise. And over and over again, no, he didn’t think it was terrorism. As far as he was concerned, it was a random act of violence perpetrated by a crazed individual.

  All of this the marshal accepted without question. He was not a policeman but a newly trained security officer, one of thousands who had recently been stationed aboard France’s trains in response to the increase in terrorist activity within the country’s borders. His lack of experience was apparent.

  “And you?” the rail marshal had asked, after examining Simon’s passport. “You are a cop in America? A soldier, perhaps?”

  “No,” Simon had replied, with a lucky survivor’s shaken resolve. He was a businessman. The kick to the woman’s knee was a reflex. Instinct, really. He was lucky to be alive. The rail marshal hadn’t been convinced, but the answer had sufficed for the moment.

  As for the very special pen, Simon had concealed it in his luggage, if only to delay the police in discovering that she was some kind of spy or assassin. He could explain away being an innocent victim. It would be harder if the police discovered the peculiar item she’d used to kill herself. Suicide by jabbing a poison-tipped pen into your neck was not an everyday occurrence.

  Simon lifted a bag of ice from his cheek. “How does it look?”

  Nikki gingerly probed the swollen flesh. “Red but not too bad. You have a hard head.”

  Simon winced. “Not hard enough.”

  “And your stitches?” Nikki asked. “Any tearing?”

  “Seem okay.”

  Her fingers remained on his cheek. “You’ve taken quite a beating this last while.”

  Simon sat back, enjoying her touch more than he cared to admit. “The other guys got worse.”

  “Yes, they did, I suppose. And otherwise? How are you holding up?”

  “Fine,” said Simon. “No worries.” He wanted to give her a smile, a little something to let her know he was okay, but all he could muster was a nod of the head. He looked out the window in case his unease showed. He wasn’t fine at all. His mind was a mess of warring ideas far more bothersome than his bruised cheek. He wasn’t sure who were his friends and who were his enemies, or if he even had any friends in this matter to begin with.

  As he’d discussed with Nikki, he had to assume that Neill knew the Russian woman’s location. If Simon’s store-bought StingRay could track the woman’s phone and link it to her masters in Yasenevo, then Neill—with his access to the world’s most sophisticated surveillance system—should have been able not only to alert him to her presence on the train but also to give him the precise location of her carriage and her seat number.

  The question then was, why had he chosen not to warn him?

  Had Neill wanted Simon killed? Or was it something else? Something subtler. Had he, despite his statements to the contrary, wanted Vassily Borodin and his ilk to know that the Americans were giving chase?

  The answer was moot. Simon must base his decisions solely upon Neill’s actions, and that meant assuming Neill viewed his play in the game as complete. Simon had fulfilled his role. As desired, he’d forced the Russians to give chase. Moreover, he’d provided Neill with a list of phone numbers that likely belonged to Tino Coluzzi, allowing Neill, with help from the NSA, to find Coluzzi himself.

  All of which left one question: What game was Neill playing at?

  Simon was a card player. There was a saying that went round the poker table. If you couldn’t spot the sucker, you were it. Well, he told himself, he was done being Mr. Neill’s sucker.

  “There’s something else,” said Nikki. “I had a call from Commissaire Dumont right before the whole thing happened.”

  “Oh?”

  “It was about Delacroix. The police found him dead in his apartment this morning. He’d been murdered execution style.”

  “So he was the inside man. That explains how she got on to Falconi.”

  Nikki nodded. “It would be good if you told Marc what you know, if only to save him some time.”

  “I can’t. Not yet.”

  “This thing is bigger than us. We could use their help.”

  “It’s the same size that it’s always been. Besides, what happens to you if we bring Dumont up to date?”

  “Don’t worry about me. That’s twice someone’s tried to kill you in the last twelve hours. Want to try your luck a third time?”

  The train slowed as it approached Avignon. Fields of saffron as bright as the sun gave way to low-slung warehouses and a barren industrial zone, then the weathered yellow brick of Provence. Simon looked to the head of the carriage, checking if the security officer was anywhere near. “Give me your phone,” he said.

  “Why?”

  Simon beckoned with his fingers.

  “Absolutely not,” said Nikki.

  “I’m not asking.”

  “Simon, I need it.”

  “We’ll get you a new one.”

  Nikki slid the phone from her jeans but still would not hand it over. “You think they’re tracking us?”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it if they were listening to every word we’re saying.”

  Simon plucked the phone from her hand and tucked it, along with his own, deep into the crease between the seats. He stood and took down her bag from the overhead bin. “Gun?”

  Nikki set the bag on her seat and, using her body as a shield, discreetly removed her pistol and holster. At the same time, she took out a lightweight jacket and wrapped the pistol inside.

  “Leave the rest here,” said Simon. “You’ll be able to retrieve it later.”

  “From the evidence locker?”

  “I was thinking Lost and Found.”

  The train pulled into the station, a modern, daring work of architecture with vaulting ribs of white steel enclosing the terminal. A dozen police officers were gathered near the front of the train, anxious to board. “I thought they wanted to talk to me in Marseille,” said Simon.

  Nikki studied the uniformed men. “It’s just a precaution,” she said unconvincingly.

  “So they don’t want to talk to me?”

  Nikki didn’t answer.

  “That’s what I thought.” Simon grabbed his bags from the overhead rack and led the way to the rear of the train, joining a group of ten passengers waiting to alight. He set his bags down in a compartment holding other large bags, ripping off his name tags and stuffing them into his pocket. It was an expensive decision but necessary. The police would have a field day if they tied him to his “bag of tricks.” Innocent bystanders didn’t travel with a StingRay, a parabolic microphone, and wireless cameras disguised to look like wall screws.

  He was sorrier to leave behind his laptop. Though password protected and programmed to wipe the hard drive should a false password be entered twice, the laptop held plenty of sensitive information from past cases, not to mention the contents from Delacroix’s phone downloaded a day earlier.

  The train halted. The doors opened and he held on to Nikki’s arm, allowing the other passengers to exit first. The tracks ran parallel to the terminal building. They needed to cross a wide expanse of open space to get inside. “Head down. Get inside as quickly as you can.”

  “And then? I’m used to chasing people, not running away from them.”

  “Same thing. Either way you have to run faster than the other guy.”

&nbs
p; The passengers near them stepped off the train.

  It was their turn.

  “Stay close.” Simon descended from the train and headed across the platform. The air was hot and dry, smelling of pine and rosemary. It was the scent of the south. Le Midi. Earthy, welcoming, alive with promise. At the other end, the police were boarding, pushing their way past alighting passengers. No one was looking in their direction. Relieved, he drew in a breath.

  “Monsieur Riske!” A man’s voice carried across the platform.

  “Keep walking,” he said to Nikki.

  “Monsieur Riske. Please!”

  Behind them, the rail marshal jumped from the train. A policeman was behind him, and both hurried in their direction. The policeman called to a cop behind him, and then it seemed like every policeman who had just boarded the train was getting off it.

  “Monsieur Riske, please. We must speak with you.”

  Simon did not look in their direction. He had ten steps to the terminal. “Ready?”

  “For what?” asked Nikki, looking more angry than scared.

  “Run.”

  Simon took off toward the door, pushing it open, allowing Nikki to run past him. An escalator carried passengers to the terminal’s main floor, a broad travertine plaza fifty meters long and equally wide filled with shops and kiosks. Timing was with them. At midday, the terminal was a hive of activity, hundreds of men and women crisscrossing the floor.

  “The stairs,” he said, heading down a staircase parallel to the escalator. Nikki followed close behind. He reached the main floor and slowed long enough to see the rail marshal appear at the top of the stairs. Simon circled behind the staircase and ran to the far side of the terminal, past a bookstore, a café, an electronics store. He came to a supermarket chock-full of shoppers and ran inside.

  “Go to the back,” he said, pausing to peer behind him, catching a slew of uniforms spreading across the terminal, looking this way and that. He watched long enough to know the police had not seen them, then hurried to the back of the store. Nikki waited by the door to a storeroom.

  “Let’s get out of here.” He opened the door and went inside. He looked to his right, then left, then zigzagged his way through crates of produce, soft drinks, and paper products, finally spotting the delivery entrance.