The Take

by Christopher Reich

  Simon smiled. It was the old Tino, always trying to impress, to explain away his failures. “Hard to kill a man face-to-face. Or, in your case, from behind.”

  “Is that what you think? I was scared?” Coluzzi considered this. “Maybe. Maybe not. Word was you didn’t have much problem doing it. Killing Al-Faris, I mean. The Egyptian. Word was that you were his shower boy. You were a pretty kid back then. Long hair, ponytail, those elephant hair bracelets you thought were so cool. Guess he liked them, too. I heard all about it after you were dead. Or whatever. Easy to kill someone when they’re on their knees—”

  “Enough,” said Simon. It was dumb of him, he knew, to be baited. We’re all still boys, aren’t we? He waited for the monsignor to offer some pithy saying to calm him, an old maxim about it being up to him to decide what or who got to him, but nothing came to mind.

  It was then, standing feet from Tino Coluzzi, with the means to kill the man he detested more than any other at his disposal, carte blanche to do as he pleased, that Simon realized he didn’t need the monsignor anymore. His lessons were learned. He was his own man.

  “Something I say bother you?”

  “No,” said Simon. “Nothing you say or do could bother me.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that.” Coluzzi laughed. “So how did you find me?”

  “Jojo. He hadn’t figured you for a snitch either. I’d be careful going back to his place. He’s already mad enough about the hand.”

  “I appreciate you looking out for me.”

  “That’s what we were supposed to do.”

  “I take it this is about the letter.”

  “Correct.”

  “Who are you working for? The American? He never gave me his name.”

  Simon didn’t answer.

  “If it isn’t the Russians,” said Coluzzi, “it must be the other side.”

  Simon shrugged. It never paid to give men like Coluzzi too much information. “Who are you planning on selling it to? Alexei Ren?”

  “Jojo does have a big mouth.”

  “I’m trying to figure out why you’re wearing that uniform. Or is it just for old times’ sake?”

  “Doesn’t matter now. You’ve found me.”

  “I’m still curious.”

  Coluzzi ignored the question. “There was a woman. She killed Luca Falconi. You might want to watch out for her.”

  Simon made out a sliver of hope in Coluzzi’s voice and he knew Coluzzi’d made a deal with the Russians—be it Ren or someone else, Borodin, even—and he was holding out for the chance it might still come to pass. “She’s no longer in the equation.”

  “So it’s just you?”

  “Not exactly.” Simon motioned for Coluzzi to move down the hall. Nikki waited in the living room, where they’d hidden when Coluzzi arrived. “This is Detective Perez from the Paris police. She’s going to arrest you for robbing the prince once you give me the letter.”

  Coluzzi looked her up and down with contempt. “And if I don’t?”

  “I’ll shoot you,” said Nikki. “No difference to me if I bring you in dead or alive.”

  “You?” Coluzzi laughed at her. “I know you, Detective. Aziz François is your bitch. He’s been feeding you a line of crap for years.”

  “He told me about you and your friends at Le Galleon Rouge. I owe him that much.”

  Coluzzi’s face dropped. “Go ahead then, Detective,” he responded in a burst of false bravado. “Shoot.”

  “All right.” Nikki glanced at Simon, then raised the pistol—the Walther he’d taken off Jojo—and fired a round into the wall, an inch above his head. The noise was deafening.

  “Are you crazy?” Coluzzi asked, cowering as bits of plaster and wallpaper rained down on him.

  “Ask Aziz François.” Nikki trained the pistol on him. “I imagine one of your neighbors may have heard that. They might be calling the police even now. And then?” She shrugged.

  “Your play,” said Simon.

  Coluzzi straightened up, drawing a breath to gather his composure. He studied them both for a moment. “I don’t have the letter here.”

  “Of course you don’t,” said Nikki, already fed up.

  But Simon was more optimistic. “It’s at your place outside of town. Your rat hole.”

  For once, Coluzzi couldn’t hide his surprise. “That’s right,” he said.

  “Let’s go, then,” said Simon. “Time’s a-wasting.”

  Chapter 63

  Yes, Victor, only men you can trust…He will put up a fight…Of that you can be sure…We will take him at his residence…Our time has come. Yes, my friend, I couldn’t agree more. It is a new day for the Rodina.”

  Vassily Borodin ended the call to Moscow and stared out the window at the French countryside. Usually a master of self-control, he was finding it increasingly difficult to keep still. He felt like a schoolboy in church. Too many years had passed thinking of this moment. Too much effort expended. He grabbed the armrests with his hands, his knuckles white with tension.

  So close.

  Since leaving, he’d taken the final steps to put his plan into effect. He’d placed calls to like-minded men in positions of authority. At the National Police. The Army. The Air Force. And, of course, the Duma. He’d emailed all of them his last and most complete dossier containing the entirety of the evidence he had collected. He’d reached out to friendly members of the press. He’d even spoken to the few foreign government officials he considered friends.

  The last and most important call was to his friends at the FSB, the Federal Security Service, the country’s most powerful institution.

  The die was cast.

  Tomorrow morning, upon his return to Moscow, letter in hand, all would be different. The arch criminal would be removed from power. He did not expect him to go easily. There would be a confrontation. The man had many friends. He had spread his largesse wisely over the years. But now he must go. The evidence was too strong. Evidence of corruption. Of bribery. Of looting of the nation’s rich patrimony.

  And, finally, there was the letter. The indisputable proof of his villainy. Not only was the president of the Russian Federation a thief. He was a spy.

  And spies, like all traitors to their country, must be put to death.

  The door to the cockpit opened. The captain approached. “Landing in one hour,” he said. “Ten minutes ahead of schedule.”

  Borodin thanked him and the captain returned to his controls.

  One hour.

  Borodin was not sure he could wait so long.

  Chapter 64

  They drove in two cars. Coluzzi in the lead, Nikki in the back seat, her gun aimed squarely at his solar plexus. Simon followed in the Ferrari. It was a ten-minute drive down to the Gineste in Les Calanques national park. They left the highway and navigated a macadam road that petered out into a single-lane dirt track leading across a bluff of red rock dotted with Aleppo pines and patches of coastal scrub, the azure expanse of the Mediterranean before them. There were no houses anywhere. No structures of any kind.

  The track disappeared altogether, but Coluzzi continued another half kilometer, dodging the trees and bushes, before stopping. Simon parked behind him and grabbed the machine gun from the back seat, unwrapping it from a blanket and carrying it in one hand, safety on, finger above the trigger guard. He had no idea what Coluzzi had up his sleeve or why he was wearing the uniform. None of it mattered once he got the letter. Until then, he wasn’t taking any chances.

  “You did a good job,” he said, surveying the area. “I can’t spot it anywhere.”

  “That’s the idea,” said Coluzzi.

  They walked across the bluff, winding through the scrub, then descended a series of rock steps, plates of stone laid atop one another, like playing cards fanned out on a table. The drop between the stone plates grew larger and Simon knew they were nearing one of the Calanques, the inlets cutting into the shoreline like a succession of long, crooked fingers.

  A few more ste
ps and they were standing on the cliff’s edge, the sea a direct drop of a thousand feet. He leaned over and looked down, seeing the clear turquoise water, calm as a pond. To the right, there was a strip of beach and he could see a shack with a thatched roof and a few benches filled with guests.

  “Le Bilboquet,” he said, giving the name of the bar that was in the picture he’d found at Falconi’s.

  “So?”

  “They had a good salade Niçoise.”

  “Still do.”

  Coluzzi turned to his left, and it was then that Simon discovered the shelter built into the surrounding rock. There was a stout wooden roof, sanded with red dust, a peasant’s boarded door, and a terrace running to a vertical precipice. Like a mirage, it was there but not there. Blink twice and it was gone.

  Coluzzi unlocked the door. Nikki followed close behind, her pistol aimed at a spot in the center of his back.

  “Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?” Coluzzi called over his shoulder, as if inviting in his chums. “I’ve got some decent eau-de-vie for you, Ledoux, now that you’ve gone upper class on us.”

  “Let’s get what we came for,” Simon replied. “You can have happy hour at the station.”

  The hideout’s furnishings were nicer than he’d expected. There were carpets over wood floors, an old, flouncy sofa in the living area, a flat-screen TV plugged into a generator, and a few chairs and tables, staples of any second-hand furniture store. Coluzzi asked if he might open the door to the terrace. Simon said, “No.”

  “Where’s the letter?” demanded Nikki.

  “Why in such a hurry?” Coluzzi asked.

  “We want to make sure you get a good night’s sleep,” said Simon. “Jails are such peaceful places.” He had the machine gun in firing position. Coluzzi wasn’t going without a fight.

  “In the bedroom.” Coluzzi turned and took a few paces to the rear of the shelter. “I’ve got a safe under my bed. I need to roll the carpet back.”

  “I’ll give you a hand,” said Simon.

  “That would be nice.”

  Coluzzi stepped into a cramped room with low ceilings, no windows, a single bed pushed up against the wall. Simon handed Nikki the machine gun, and she set it down against the wall outside the room, quick to return to her alert position, gun raised, held with both hands.

  Coluzzi got onto his knees and rolled back a tattered burgundy carpet. Simon kneeled next to him, peeling back the opposite corner. There was a door cut into the floorboards and a silver pull ring to one side.

  “Easy,” said Simon.

  “Of course.” Coluzzi gave the ring a yank and the door came free. He raised it slowly until it stood upright. “Hold it open. It tends to drop on my head.”

  Coluzzi bent lower to open the safe. “Funny, isn’t it? We went to all that trouble to steal half a million euros, knocking off jewelry stores, banks, the big trucks. Cops shooting at us, running like hell, driving like hell. I found a goddamned letter and it’s worth ten million.”

  “Is that what they’re offering?”

  “Cash. On its way.” He looked over his shoulder, hoping.

  “That wasn’t the original deal, though, was it?” said Simon.

  “So you are working for him?”

  “Open the safe, Tino.”

  Coluzzi returned his attention to the safe. “You know, it really isn’t so difficult killing a man face-to-face,” he said. “I didn’t have a choice with you. Take you face-to-face and you would’ve killed me. I’m not stupid. I knew you’d come after me the moment I got put in Les Baums. It was survival, really. I couldn’t have you telling everyone in the yard that I was a snitch. That would have been the end. Goodbye, Tino. That makes me smart, not a coward. Otherwise, it doesn’t bother me. Looking a man in the eye and killing him.” Coluzzi raised his head to look at Simon. “I didn’t have a problem with the priest.”

  “Who?”

  “Your buddy from the hole. Deschutes.”

  “He died from cancer.”

  “Really? That what you think?” Coluzzi smirked. “He was sick when they let him out of the hole, but he wasn’t dead. Of course, you were back on the outside by then. You wouldn’t have known.”

  “Paul Deschutes died from cancer three months after I was released. I asked about him.”

  “Last I checked prisons aren’t as honest as they might be, reporting these kinds of things.”

  “You’re lying. The monsignor never got out of solitary.”

  “Maybe I have him mixed up with someone else. Tall man, long hair he refused to cut. Spooky blue eyes. Oh…and he had great skill in martial arts even in his condition. He would teach some of the younger guys.”

  Simon felt his pulse racing. He’d never questioned how the monsignor had died. “You didn’t?”

  “I couldn’t let him hang around the yard knowing he’d spent all that time with you. The way I see it, I just shortened his suffering.”

  Simon saw the taunting in his eyes, the casual cruelty. He didn’t know if Coluzzi was telling the truth. Maybe. Maybe not. It didn’t matter. Simon had spent years getting as far away as possible from him and those like him. He refused to go back.

  “Open the safe,” said Simon quietly, without rancor.

  Coluzzi waited for a more heated reaction, and when none came he lowered his head and turned the dial a last time. Of course, it was the same combination as the other safe. He opened the door. There at the bottom was a buff-colored envelope.

  “Here,” he said. “Have a look.”

  Concerned, Nikki came closer. Simon said everything was all right. He studied the envelope, then opened it and read the note inside.

  “What does it say?” Nikki asked.

  “It’s not what it says, it’s who said it.” Simon slipped the note back inside the envelope and prepared to hand it to Nikki.

  He did not see Coluzzi dip back into the safe. He noted only a flash of motion from the corner of his eye. Then Coluzzi was raising his hand. Simon glimpsed a small silver canister. He shut his eyes tightly as Coluzzi shot the pepper spray into his face. The pain was immediate and devastating. Simon dropped the letter, his hands reflexively moving to his eyes. At the same time, Coluzzi kicked the door closed, then jumped to his feet and locked it.

  “Simon!” Nikki pounded the door.

  “Shoot him!” Simon fell to his side, the spray searing his eyes, burning, burning. He blinked and the pain worsened. He could see nothing.

  “Lay down,” shouted Nikki.

  A moment passed and she fired three bullets into the lock. The door burst open. She was at his side. “Are you all right?”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s gone. There was a side door.”

  “Get him. I’ll be okay.”

  Chapter 65

  Those are gunshots.”

  Neill lay on his belly on a rock overlooking Coluzzi’s hideout. Next to him, also in a prone position, Makepeace looked through the high-powered scope of a sniper’s rifle.

  “See anything?” Neill asked.

  “Everyone’s inside the house.”

  Neill stifled an expletive, his patience at an end. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand back and watch from a distance. He’d followed Riske and the French policewoman to Coluzzi’s house in Aubagne, losing sight of him time and again to maintain his cover. It had been the hardest decision in his life not to enter and end things there. He’d counted on Riske’s calm, his maturity and devotion to doing his job properly. Ambassador Shea had said of him: “All I know about Riske is that you can count on him to do the right thing. He’s got himself a backbone.”

  Neill had learned that all too well these past twenty-four hours.

  “Sir, I’ve got something. It’s our man.”

  “Riske?”

  “No, the other one.”

  Just then, Coluzzi appeared among the rocks on the far side of the well-hidden structure. He ran awkwardly up the steepest section of the incline, stumbling, clawing at the
ground. He wasn’t terribly fast. Every few steps, he slowed to look over his shoulder.

  A moment later, the female police officer emerged from the house, running after him. Even from this distance, he could see she was holding a pistol. She stopped after a few steps, took careful aim, and fired. The bullet sent up a spray of rock inches from Coluzzi, causing him to veer in another direction.

  “Damn her,” said Neill.

  “What is it, sir?”

  Neill watched the woman scramble up the hillside, nimbler than Coluzzi. She was gaining ground quickly. In no time, she’d have Coluzzi within range.

  “I’ve got a clear shot,” said Makepeace. “I can take him whenever you like.”

  Coluzzi crested the bluff. Now on flatter land, he was able to run more easily. The distance between them lengthened. The woman stopped and raised her gun.

  “Shoot her, not him.”

  Makepeace took his eye from the scope. “Excuse me?”

  “Do as I say.”

  Makepeace turned the rifle away from Tino Coluzzi, toward the woman. He laid his finger on the trigger, barely caressing the smooth metal crescent, and placed her in his sights. He drew a breath, feeling his heart slow, his vision sharpen.

  Ever so gently, he squeezed the trigger.

  He saw the woman fall before he heard the rifle’s report and felt the butt dig into his shoulder. Next to him, Neill had raised his head and was squinting against the glare of the late afternoon sun. The woman lay still, her body twisted beneath her, arms outstretched. Coluzzi slowed, seemingly caught between continuing his flight and seeking refuge where there was no refuge to be had. For a moment, he stopped entirely, staring at the woman, then he turned and ran toward his car.

  “What about him?” asked Makepeace. “He’s the one we want.”

  Barnaby Neill looked back at the house, waiting for Riske to appear. There had been three gunshots. Neither Coluzzi nor Perez had been hit. Had Riske?

  Coluzzi cleared the ridge and disappeared from sight. There was no need to follow him. Taps had been placed on all the numbers Riske had found in Luca Falconi’s apartment. Neill had heard every word Coluzzi had spoken since. He knew precisely where he was going.