The Take

by Christopher Reich

  “We can head him off at the car,” said Makepeace, slipping the rifle strap from his arm, shifting to his side.

  “Keep your eye on the house,” said Neill sharply.

  Makepeace retook his prone position, training the rifle on the hideout.

  A minute passed. No one emerged. Neill breathed easier. It appeared that Coluzzi had made it easy for him. With Riske gone, there was nothing standing in the way between himself and ten million euros. He made a mental note to thank Coluzzi for that before he killed him.

  “See anything?”

  Makepeace pressed his eye to the scope. “No, sir.”

  Neill placed his pistol against the back of his head. “Sure?”

  Chapter 66

  Simon heard the gunshot, the report whistling forever over the dry bluffs.

  Rifle. High caliber.

  “Nikki!” he shouted. Then louder. “Nikki!”

  No reply.

  Essentially blind, he struggled to his feet, hands groping the wall. His eyes burned beyond description. Clenching his fists, he forced himself to blink repeatedly. Tears were the only antidote to pepper spray. Tears and more tears. He slammed into something heavy…a dresser? Shards of light guided him to the door through which Coluzzi had escaped.

  “Nikki!”

  He was outside, hands grasping the doorframe. Slowly, the tears lessened the pain. His vision returned. The sun was too bright. The glare too sharp. He stumbled up the hill, calling her name, worry hardening to despair. Then he saw her.

  She lay on her side, eyes open, her breathing shallow but steady. He kneeled beside her. There was blood. Lots of it. “Stay still,” he said. “Let me look.”

  “What happened? Where is he?”

  “Don’t worry about him.” He opened her blouse. The entry wound was the size of a penny.

  “Your eyes,” she said.

  “We’re a pair, the two of us.”

  “Who?” she whispered. “Was it Neill?”

  Simon was not ready to give voice to his suspicions. He was still figuring the angles, what exactly might be motivating him. “Can you move your hands and legs?”

  Nikki lifted her feet, then clenched her fists softly, drawing in the fingers one at a time.

  With care, he examined the exit wound on her back. The hole was bigger, flesh torn, bone and ligament visible. If there were a place one could choose to be shot, this was it. High and to the right of the torso, directly below the clavicle, causing serious damage to the shoulder and upper back but avoiding major organs. It was a shot to put down a man, not kill him. Just three inches to the center and it would have been over.

  He lifted his head and scanned his surroundings. Here, out in the open, with nothing to protect him, he was an easy target. He saw nothing he shouldn’t, discerned no movement. Coluzzi was gone. And also whoever had shot Nikki, be it Barnaby Neill or parties unknown.

  It took thirty minutes to get Nikki into the house and her wound dressed and cared for, if binding it with strips of bedsheets counted. During this time, he’d called emergency services and given their address as the bluff above Le Bilboquet. A helicopter was on its way. To help, he’d tied a blue duvet cover to a broomstick and stuck it on the roof, both wind sock and beacon.

  “Go,” she said as he sat on the bed beside her. “Get him.”

  “In due time,” he said. “In due time.” He ran a hand over her forehead, brushing away her matted hair.

  “You didn’t finish telling me about the letter.”

  “It said thank you.” And he told her who had written it and to whom it was addressed.

  “I guess that’s pretty serious,” she said. “He was the cowboy, right?”

  “That’s him.”

  “And he’s dead?”

  “Long time ago.”

  To Nikki, who hadn’t yet been born when the letter was written, it was ancient history.

  Simon squeezed her hand. He thought of Coluzzi’s words about the monsignor. It was hard to feel more enmity toward him than he already did. Anger solved nothing. It was the sense of frustration more than anything that bothered him. He pictured Coluzzi in the gray uniform. Where was he going that he needed an armored car?

  He grabbed his phone and punched in a number he knew as well as his own. A booming baritone answered. “Who the hell is this?”

  “D’Art, it’s Simon.”

  “Riske, that you?” asked D’Artagnan Moore. “Why are you calling on a French number?”

  “I’ll explain it to you later. Right now I need your help.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “It is.”

  “I was joking. So this is serious. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, D’Art, I’m fine. I need to ask you a question. Do you ever work with security companies like Brink’s?”

  “Brink’s? Of course we do. Can’t transport a Van Gogh in the back of a Volkswagen. Why do you ask?”

  “How about in France? Know anyone there?”

  “Not offhand, but a friend of mine runs their European operations. Offices are just across the river at Canary Wharf, as a matter of fact.”

  “I need you to find out how many trucks are in service right now in and around Marseille.”

  “For Brink’s?”

  “For all of them.”

  “What is it, six o’clock there? Can’t be too many. Banks are closed. Museums as well.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. Ask if they can drill down on those that are on the road and find out specifically who tasked them and where they are going.”

  “All trucks are equipped with individual location monitors these days. We can follow them every inch of the way, no matter where they go.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Anything you’re looking for? Do we need to alert the police?”

  “This isn’t anything for the police. At least not yet. We’re looking for a truck that is somewhere it shouldn’t be. Something without a tasking or an assigned driver.”

  “A rogue armored car?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Now you are scaring me.”

  “Make that call and get back to me as soon as possible. Oh, and D’Art, I owe you one.”

  As Simon ended the call, he heard the helicopter approaching. He touched Nikki’s cheek. “Your ride is here.”

  He ran outside and signaled to the chopper, shielding his eyes from the spray of dirt and gravel as it set down. The attendants had Nikki on a stretcher and inside the passenger bay in five minutes. There was no room for Simon.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, as the attendant finished strapping her in.

  “Not sure.”

  Nikki squeezed his hand. “Hey,” she said. “Come here.” Simon came closer. “You never told me how you slipped my cigarette into the box without me seeing.”

  “That’s a secret.”

  “I won’t tell.”

  “Get better and I’ll show you how I did it.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Nikki lifted her head and kissed him. “I know you’re not giving up.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “When you find those bastards, give them my regards.”

  “Count on it.”

  Simon stepped away. The helicopter lifted off the stone butte. Its nose dipped and it dove over the cliff toward the blue water, then rose and flew into the setting sun.

  He almost didn’t hear the phone ringing. “D’Art?”

  “Not much joy, I’m afraid. I called Garda, Securitas, and all the smaller shops. All their trucks are accounted for. Only Brink’s had anything interesting.”

  “Go on.”

  “One of their trucks that was listed as ‘under repair’ left their lot a little while ago.”

  “Here in Marseille?”

  “Nineteen Rue de la Paix. Know where that is?”

  “Sure I do. Where is the truck now?”

  “As of this mome
nt, the truck appears to be on a highway heading northwest.”

  “To the airport?”

  “Already past it, I’m afraid.”

  Simon sighed with frustration. If not the airport to meet Borodin, then where? “That’s a start.”

  “Did I say I was finished? Clients like to follow the trucks transporting their valuables. I texted you a link to the truck’s geo-locator. You can follow it yourself. If it’s the right one…”

  “It better be.”

  “Good luck, then. By the way, someone’s been asking round about you.”

  “Client?”

  “Never mind who,” said D’Artagnan Moore in a lighter voice. “Call me as soon as you hit town. Right now it sounds as if you have your hands full enough.”

  Simon hung up.

  He grabbed the assault rifle and retraced his path to the Ferrari. Five minutes later he was on the Gineste heading west. He kept one eye on the road and one on his phone and the blinking dot on the map. The Brink’s truck had left the main highway ten kilometers past the airport and was headed north. Simon studied the map for possible locations. He spotted a name he hadn’t thought of in almost twenty years. Suddenly, it made sense.

  Returning his concentration to the road, he gripped the wheel lightly and depressed the accelerator. Ahead, the sun was setting over the sea, a brilliant fireball poised above a field of shimmering blue.

  It was Coluzzi behind the wheel of the Brink’s truck.

  And Simon knew where he was headed.

  Maybe…just maybe.

  Chapter 67

  Coluzzi had the feeling. The tingling at the tippy-tip of his fingers. The nervous rumble in his tummy. The unexplained desire to smile like an idiot, followed by the ferocious order to keep a straight face. It was the feeling he got when he was about to do a job and he knew it was going to come off.

  And now, as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the Brink’s truck, guiding the heavy vehicle across the tarmac of the Aix-en-Provence aerodrome, he had it once again.

  It was the feeling of fast money.

  Coluzzi sat up straighter, gripping the wheel with both hands.

  The aerodrome occupied a sprawling meadow bordered by a pine forest to the north, the highway to the east, and endless fields of wheat and barley to the south and west. There was one landing strip and a taxiway, nearly as long, running parallel to it. A few dozen private planes were parked near the control tower, all of them tethered to the tarmac. It was not uncommon for winds to reach triple digits.

  A sleek jet sat on the apron at the far end of the runway. Six windows, blue stripe along the fuselage, winglets at the end of each wing. He didn’t need to see the Russian tricolor painted high on its tail to know it was Borodin’s. There wasn’t another jet—private or commercial—at the aerodrome. The engines were spooling, trails of translucent exhaust visible against the backdrop of forest. This pleased Coluzzi. It meant Borodin wanted to make a quick exchange and get the hell out of here. He imagined Borodin had plans for the letter. Coluzzi had plans, too. Ten million euros’ worth.

  He drove past the squadron of aircraft to the north end of the field and stopped when he was at a safe distance from the jet. The aerodrome was shutting down for the night. There was little activity of note. A pair of mechanics in an old jeep bumped along toward the repair shed. A Piper Cub had just landed and was taxiing to its designated spot. The control tower closed at nine. Anyone wanting to land after that did it on his own visual reconnaissance.

  He put the truck in park, leaving the engine running, and called Borodin.

  “You’re late,” said the Russian. “Is everything in order?”

  “Everything is fine,” said Coluzzi. “Here’s how it works. You’ll come alone to my truck with the money. I’ll open the back and you’ll climb inside. After I count the money, I will give you the letter.”

  “Fine,” said Borodin.

  Fine? Coluzzi had expected more resistance, a request for a bodyguard to accompany him, proof he had the letter on his person. Something. He cursed Ledoux for causing him to be tardy. He had no idea when Borodin had arrived or if he’d had the chance to deploy any men. It made sense he wouldn’t come alone or unprotected. Not the director of the SVR.

  “Well?” asked the Russian.

  “I’m waiting.” Coluzzi unbuckled his safety belt. He had the air-conditioning on high, but he was sweating all the same. What he needed was some fresh air, but windows in armored cars didn’t go down. There were only vents in the roof, which he knew about all too well because the first thing you did when you hit a truck was to clog them with towels soaked in ether to encourage the driver to abandon his post. You could block the vents to the cargo bay, too, but you couldn’t count on that to force the guards to open the doors. It was usually necessary to take more proactive measures, namely a well-aimed RPG or a round from a Barrett .50 caliber rifle to blast open the lock.

  The desire of armored car manufacturers to seal off the cargo bay had led them to install a steel bulkhead separating it from the driver’s compartment. So it was that Coluzzi needed to exit the truck. This particular truck had its door on the side, a single panel like the door to an RV, but made from steel two inches thick.

  He scanned the airfield, looking for signs of them lying in wait. The sun was touching the horizon. A soft wind rustled the pines. All was calm. Another look. He saw nothing to give him pause.

  The jet’s forward door opened inward. Stairs unfolded. A lone man descended the steps. He was short and thin, dressed in a dark suit. A runt if there ever was one. Where was the money? Another figure appeared in the doorway and handed down a suitcase. Borodin—at least he thought it was Borodin—took it by the handle and began to walk in his direction. After several steps, he set down the suitcase and stopped. Coluzzi shifted in his seat. What was wrong? Why had Borodin halted? Then the Russian freed the extendable handle and continued in his direction, wheeling the suitcase behind him.

  Coluzzi opened the door and stepped outside into the warm evening air. With relish, he rubbed his hands together.

  Payday.

  Simon had never driven so fast.

  As a boy, even before he was old enough for a license, he would take a car he’d boosted and give it a run through the hills outside the city. Speed limits meant nothing. He drove as fast as his skills allowed. If the car permitted it, he drove faster. The roads were narrow and winding with plenty of hairpin turns and more blind curves than not. Once in the mountains, there were no guardrails to keep you from sliding off the road and plummeting a few hundred meters down a sheer cliff. It went without saying, he preferred to drive at night.

  Still, he had never driven like this, foot plastered to the floor, darting in and out of his lane, dodging oncoming traffic, daring others to hit him. Time and again, he met the blue flash of halogens, the fearful protest of a horn. Time and again, he ducked back into his lane by the skin of his teeth.

  He crested a hill and came up much too quickly on a station wagon. There were three children in the rear. One of them, a boy, grew excited at the sighting of the Dino and began giving him thumbs-ups and other gestures of approbation.

  Simon slipped the car to the left, edging into the oncoming lane. A Mercedes zipped by and another behind it, so close his wing mirror rattled. A patch of empty road beckoned. He downshifted and slid into the oncoming lane. The station wagon matched his acceleration. Simon refused to look at the driver and continued to build speed, the needle touching 160. The station wagon stayed with him. What the hell! There were children in the car. Simon dry-shifted, shoving the car into neutral for a split second while juicing the rpms, then throwing it back into fourth.

  The Dino leapt ahead.

  A truck rounded the bend and was coming at him, closing fast.

  Simon was a nose in front of the station wagon, but still the driver refused to slow. The children’s faces were glued to the window, unaware they were not simply spectators in a battle but unknowing pa
rticipants. The Dino was underpowered by design, built as a more affordable entry into the Ferrari family. It didn’t have a V-12 or even a turbo-charged V-8. Simon was handcuffed by a V-6 that could give him two hundred horses on a good day.

  The truck sounded its horn.

  Simon took a last look at the station wagon. For a moment, his foot moved to the brake, then he bit his lip and downshifted into third, skyrocketing the rpms. The engine howled in pain. The vehicle shot forward. He yanked the wheel to the right and retook his lane as the truck whizzed past him, the sudden and dramatic change in air pressure causing his ears to pop.

  A green traffic sign passed in a blur.

  AIX-EN-PROVENCE 10 KM

  By now, Coluzzi was there.

  Faster.

  Alexei Ren sat in the copilot’s seat of his helicopter, staring at the armored car. He’d landed at the aerodrome an hour earlier, sure to arrive before Borodin. He’d positioned his men strategically, knowing that Borodin would wish to leave as quickly as possible and that he would stay far from the main concourse. He saw them hiding among the private planes, fanned out evenly. There were six in all.

  He was certain that Borodin had his own men positioned around the field, too, probably locals he’d brought for protection. Until now, however, no one besides Borodin had deplaned. Ren must assume the men were hidden on the far side of the field.

  It made no difference.

  All that mattered to Alexei Ren was that Vassily Borodin never again set foot in Moscow.

  “Mr. Coluzzi.”

  “Call me Tino. Please.”

  Borodin looked up at Coluzzi standing in the bay of the armored truck, dressed in the Brink’s uniform, a pistol in his hand. The man was clever. He’d grant him that. He was unsure if his men had a clear shot or if they’d even know this was the man they were after. “The letter is here?”

  “Hand me the suitcase.”

  Borodin hoisted the suitcase into the truck, then followed it inside.