The Take

by Christopher Reich

  It was the headquarters of the DGSE.

  Nikki closed the file and slid it back in the box.

  Now she knew who had given Tino Coluzzi’s name to Mr. Neill.

  Nikki returned the box to its place on the shelf, then forwarded pictures of all the pertinent documents regarding Coluzzi’s work as a confidential informant to Simon. Satisfied she’d completed the first request, she consulted the notes she’d made in Mazot’s office and ventured to the opposite corner of the archives. The light was dimmer in this part of the basement, the air mustier, and she felt as if she were walking deeper and deeper into a forgotten grotto. The box holding the information she sought was easy enough to find, located on a shelf she could reach without difficulty. Thankfully, the files were alphabetized correctly and she found the name quickly. The file itself was surprisingly thin, containing a single arrest report and a court declaration noting that the defendant had pleaded guilty and waived his right to a trial.

  She leafed through the pages that followed, her eye trained to spot one piece of information. She found it on the last page. An addendum to a prisoner’s death notice written in longhand at the bottom of the sheet, practically an afterthought. One sentence, but it was enough.

  She replaced the box, then hurried upstairs. Frank Mazot was waiting in his office. With him were four men, all of them his superiors if dress and age were any indication.

  “How did it go?” Mazot asked.

  “Fine,” said Nikki, aware that all eyes were on her.

  “Get everything you need?”

  “I did, actually. Thank you.” She looked from man to man, meeting their gazes, and realizing with a sinking feeling that they were here for her. “Am I interrupting?”

  “We received a call from Paris. From your lieutenant. He was curious as to what you were doing here when you’d been posted to desk duty on administrative assignment.”

  “I thought I explained.”

  “Detective Perez,” interjected one of the men in a no-nonsense voice, “Frank told us why you’re here. While we applaud your eagerness to help bring the investigation in Paris to a successful conclusion, our colleagues are concerned about your methods. They feel you may be assisting someone who isn’t working within the purview of French law enforcement.”

  Nikki looked at the man. Sixty, gray hair, fit, with a fighter’s jaw and cold blue eyes. Suit far above a policeman’s pay grade. “You are?”

  “Martin Duvivier. Office of Defense Intelligence.”

  Colonel M. Duvivier, formerly of the DGSE.

  “I see,” said Nikki.

  “If you don’t mind, Detective Perez,” said Duvivier, with far too much deference, “we would like you to stay here until you can talk with one of our colleagues.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Nikki replied, in an equally unctuous tone, “I can come back as soon as he arrives.”

  “But he’s on his way over right now,” said Duvivier.

  Nikki looked from face to face, meeting one stone gaze after another. She landed on Mazot. “Are you preventing me from leaving?”

  “Please, Nikki,” said Mazot. “Do as they say.”

  Nikki looked back at Duvivier. “Who is it that we’re waiting on?”

  “A friend of French law enforcement.”

  Nikki stared at the floor, concealing a bitter smile. That’s exactly what Dumont had called Simon Riske. “A friend?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I want a name.”

  “Mr. Neill. An American. He’s with the CIA.”

  Chapter 58

  Alexei Ren climbed the fantail stairs to the landing pad and gazed north. Two hours after the Solange had raised anchor and left Entre les Îles, she was making twenty knots on a course due east, cruising past the Port de Toulon. Numerous warships crowded the harbor. Several destroyers were anchored nearby, sailors moving purposefully about the deck. He’d given the Solange over to his top executives for the week. Tonight’s port of call was Saint-Tropez, with a gala dinner arranged at the Hôtel Byblos. The voyage would continue onward to Villefranche-sur-Mer, Monaco, and San Remo, across the Italian frontier. Ren, however, would not be joining them. A pressing matter demanded his attention.

  Ren lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and searched the sky. He’d exchanged his linen shorts and long-sleeved shirt for a pair of dark work pants and a black T-shirt. For once, he didn’t care if his body art was on full view. In fact, he preferred it. Today he was no longer Alexei Ren, business tycoon, philanthropist, and owner of the Olympique de Marseille football club. He was prisoner 887776, an unfairly convicted political refugee seeking his long-overdue revenge.

  He heard the helicopter before he spotted it. He narrowed his eyes, and there it was, flying low over the water, nose dipped, an Aérospatiale Écureuil, built to carry five passengers and pilot with a top speed of two hundred knots.

  What better symbol of his success than this sleek aircraft descending out of the sky like Apollo’s chariot. Twenty years had passed since he’d arrived in France, a savagely ambitious man without a kopek in his pockets, the wounds from his last prison yard fight yet to heal. For the first while, he relied on his criminal skills to earn a living, but his time in the gulag had reformed him. He was determined to seek another, less fraught path. Once a profligate drinker and spender, he reined in his baser appetites and saved his ill-gotten gains. It was his goal to become a businessman, and if not a pillar of the community, then at least a law-abiding one. He kept his eyes open for the right opportunity, and when it came along, he acted. In this case, it was an investment of one hundred thousand euros in a fledgling software company operated by the son of his bookkeeper. The company flourished. Ren took his profit, bided his time, and when another promising venture presented itself, he acted once again.

  In five years, his net worth reached ten million euros. Five years after that, it was one hundred million.

  In time, he found a woman to marry. He raised a family. He purchased a mansion on the coast, vacation properties in exotic destinations, and of course the Solange, helicopter included. In short, he had it all. Success, the admiration of his peers, a healthy, loving family, and a level of wealth he’d never dreamed of. And all of it—or nearly all—earned from old-fashioned, honest labor. If he’d known that a life on the right side of the law could be so profitable, he would never have picked up a gun all those years ago.

  The chopper came in to land, the rotor wash forcing him to step back, the wind playing havoc with his long hair. Ren waved in greeting. The pilot was another Russian who had escaped the frosty, unwelcoming climes of Moscow for the unfettered opportunities and sunshine to be had in the South of France.

  The skids touched down. The boat swayed ever so gently.

  Yet there, at that very moment, standing on the deck of his one-hundred-million-euro yacht, waiting to board his very own helicopter, the sun on his face, his prospects bright, his future secure by any reasonable definition, Ren was determined to embark on a course of action that risked it all.

  But why? demanded a sober, somewhat incredulous voice from his newly polished soul.

  Ren’s phone buzzed in his pocket, saving him from answering. “Yes?” he said.

  “The boys will be at your office in an hour,” said a man speaking his mother tongue.

  “Are they ready?”

  “Ready for what? To take on the entire fucking Russian army?”

  “Not the entire army,” said Ren. “Just one man.”

  With that, he ended the call and climbed into the helicopter. Any lingering doubts about what he should or should not do vanished as the helicopter rose into the air and its nose turned toward land.

  It was all very simple, he thought, enjoying the sweep of ocean below him, the exhilarating pulse of rushing into the breach, of once more saying “What the hell?”

  A man cannot escape his past.

  The best he can hope for is to outrun it for a while.

  Chapter 5
9

  Simon turned the corner onto a narrow street and pulled the car to the curb. Drawing a breath, he stared at the row of three-story villas, all of them painted a curdled shade of yellow, all of them in the same miserable condition. A satellite dish was mounted on every roof. Wires ran here and there, telephone wires, electricity wires, who knew what all. Refuse littered the gutter, mostly spent cans of beer, crushed packets of cigarettes, candy wrappers. It was the laziness that had always angered him most, the communal lassitude, as if no one cared about their own neighborhood’s general state of decrepitude. Not once had he ever seen someone stoop to pick up a piece of trash, himself included.

  His eyes landed on a villa halfway down the street. To look at, it was no different from the other buildings around it. All the same, he wished that the door had a fresh coat of paint and that the second-floor window was not cracked and that bedding was not hung out to dry from the floor above it.

  He wasn’t sure why a sense of responsibility clung to him after so long. His mother had died years ago. He’d lost track of his stepbrothers before that. His memories of the place were uniformly bleak. Maybe people were indebted to those who’d done them harm, as well as good.

  Just then, the door to the villa opened and a woman, perhaps thirty, stepped out. She was petite and bent at the waist, dressed in the fashion of the Maghreb: headscarf, billowing dress, sandals. Three children followed in short order, none older than five or six. The family walked in his direction, the woman staring openly at Simon and the fancy sports car, as out of place here as a cow on Mars.

  Simon started the car and drove away, past his old home. In his mind, he was processing the documents Nikki had sent him from the police archives. He’d known all along that Coluzzi was the informant. Still, there was knowing and there was knowing. Seeing Tino Coluzzi’s name typed on the official police forms had taken him back to the day in prison when he’d spurned Il Padrone’s offer of a safe cell in favor of solitary confinement and the dark, savory opportunity to gain revenge himself.

  Memories of those days overtook him. A reckless spirit seized him. He punched the accelerator and raced down the hill, propelled by the untamed, violent zest of his youth. It came to him that he’d felt this way before, here on these same streets. Then, as now, he was on his way to doing something improper, something to benefit himself at the expense of others, something that might hurt others.

  It was September and the sirocco was blowing.

  It was the day he was going to rob an armored car with Tino Coluzzi.

  The door to Le Nightclub was locked. Simon banged his fist several times against it. Finally he heard the lock turn and a man ask in a raspy, choked voice, “Who the hell’s there?”

  “An old friend,” said Simon.

  The door opened. Jojo Matta, dark as a chestnut, a little less hair, and a lot more wrinkles, looked at him. “Yeah?”

  Simon stared back, saying nothing. Then a light came on in Jojo’s eyes and he rushed to slam the door. Simon stopped it with his foot and threw his shoulder against it, sending Jojo toppling onto the floor. “Hello, Jojo.”

  “You’re dead.”

  Simon closed the door and locked it. “Who told you that?”

  “You ratted out our crew. Tino took care of you back in prison.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Not just him. Everyone in the yard saw you.”

  “Yeah, well, guess he messed up.”

  Simon put out a hand and hauled Jojo to his feet. Simon told him to turn around, and when he did, Simon frisked him, finding a Walther nine millimeter in his ankle holster. “Mind if I hold this while we talk?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Let’s have a seat.”

  Jojo led the way into the main lounge. Simon walked behind the bar and turned on the music. He couldn’t count the number of nights he’d tended bar in the place and, when necessary, kept the peace. “I see things haven’t changed much.”

  “Customers don’t come here for the décor.”

  “That’s for damned sure.” Simon made himself an espresso. “What happened to your hand?”

  Jojo held up his bandaged mitt. “This? Cooking injury. Knife slipped.”

  “You? You’re a pro. Must have been some knife.”

  Jojo shrugged, not even trying to hide the fact that he was lying. “Simon Ledoux. In the flesh after all these years. What are you here for?”

  “Where’s Tino?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You know everything,” said Simon. “Coluzzi’s in town. I figure this is the first stop he’d make.”

  “’Cause you did?”

  “Something like that.”

  Jojo perked up. “Where you been all these years?”

  “Here and there. I’m not in the game anymore.”

  Jojo gave him a dubious look. “Then why do you want Tino?”

  “He has something that belongs to me.”

  “Sounds like him.”

  “You know that thing in Paris? That was him.”

  “Oh?” Jojo didn’t look surprised. Clearly, he’d considered the possibility himself. “You a cop?”

  Simon shook his head. “Coluzzi stole something besides the money that I need to get back.”

  “That sonuvabitch. I asked him if he was behind that. That was our M.O. all over again. He said I was crazy.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Came in here asking if I knew any Russians.”

  “Russians? That’s odd. Do you?”

  “One. Alexei Ren.”

  “And?”

  “He wanted my seats to the game so he could meet him.”

  “Did he?”

  “Don’t know. We didn’t part on the best of terms. We had an argument about some things in the past. That job in Paris wasn’t all that he was bullshitting me about.”

  “Your hand?”

  Jojo frowned. “He’s always been good with a blade.”

  “Know where he is?”

  “If he’s not at his place, he’s probably shacked up in that rat hole of his down the coast.”

  “You ever been?”

  Jojo shook his head. “Luca Falconi helped him build it. He said he liked the place because it was near his favorite bar. That one on the beach. Le Bilboquet.”

  Simon remembered the picture of Coluzzi and Falconi in front of the beach bar. He’d left it in his briefcase. “Thanks, Jojo. And by the way, it wasn’t me who ratted out our guys. It was Tino.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Who’s the one took three bullets that day? Who’s the one got sentenced to six years at Les Baums?”

  “Tino went to Perpignan.”

  “For two months.”

  “So you say.”

  Simon smiled to himself. No one liked to admit they’d been betrayed or taken advantage of, for fear it made them look stupid or somehow deserving of it. This went double for crooks. He took out his cellphone and brought up the photos of the documents showing that Coluzzi was a confidential informant for the Marseille police.

  “These for real?”

  “Do they look real?” Simon took back the phone. “Where’s Tino been living these last few years?”

  “Last place he had was over in Aubagne.”

  Simon finished his espresso and stood. “Looking good, Jojo.”

  “You too, Ledoux. Decide to get back into the game, let me know. Plenty of work.”

  “Sure thing, Jojo.”

  Simon started for the back door.

  “Hey, what about my piece?” called Jojo.

  Simon answered without turning. “I’m going to hang on to it for a while. You mind?”

  Chapter 60

  The door to the interrogation room closed, and Nikki listened as a key turned and the tumbler slammed home. The room was a three-meter-by-three-meter square with a linoleum floor, a table decorated with cigarette burns, and two plastic chairs. This was not voluntary. She was not doing Frank Mazot or
any of his colleagues a favor. She was being held against her will. Upon entering, Mazot had politely confiscated her phone and not so politely relieved her of her weapon. The only thing separating her from official status as a prisoner was an arrest report similar to those she’d spent the last hour studying.

  She sat down, clasped her hands on the table, and gazed out the windows at the squad room where a dozen cops sat at their desks trying hard not to pay attention to her. Mazot and Duvivier stood near the hall, deep in conversation, venturing a glance in her direction every once in a while. She stayed where she was, smiling vaguely, wondering if Simon was on his way to pick her up.

  Her career was officially over. She wouldn’t be fired, at least not right away. Short of committing capital murder or joining the ranks of ISIS, it was nearly impossible to be fired from a government job in France. But there were worse fates. A transfer from anti-gang to traffic enforcement with a demotion and decrease in pay thrown in. Or a move to the drug brigade, her days spent patrolling the grim housing estates on the outskirts of the city, harassing pimps and dealers. Or worst, a two-year suspension to be served in the “crazy room,” where you sat nine hours a day doing nothing but reading the newspaper and watching television.

  Any way she looked at it, her fish was fried.

  Contemplating her future, Nikki fidgeted in her chair, her nail digging into the palm of her hand. Simon had been right. Neill had been keeping track of them all along. She didn’t know what Neill was playing at, but whatever it was, she didn’t like it. She was on Simon’s side. Her only chance at salvaging her career lay in bringing in Tino Coluzzi along with evidence proving that he was behind the hijacking in Paris. To make that happen, she needed to get out of here.

  After a while she stood and walked casually to the door. She knew it was locked, but she tried it all the same. She continued her circuit, aware of the eyes on her. There were several avenues of escape. She could launch a chair through the window, hop the sill into the squad room, and make a run for it. Or she could use one of the chairs to break off the door handle and similarly try her luck dodging through the desks to the hall, then down the stairs. Or…