The Take

by Christopher Reich

  “See for yourself.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Neill walked to the rear of the truck and put a foot on the bumper, reaching a hand to the roof, and hauling himself up onto the side of the truck. He remained prone, as the first police cars entered the aerodrome. One after another, they made a sharp right turn and drove pell-mell to the far end of the field, where Borodin and Ren had engaged in their version of the shootout at the OK Corral. Finally, the sirens died off. He watched as the officers poured from their cars and surveyed the scene. Not one glanced in his direction.

  He scuttled crab-like to the cargo door. It opened outward and he lowered himself into the rear bay. It was more cramped than he had expected, with a bench and an enclosed container to accept deposits. He noted how stuffy the air was, how stale and sour. The thought of spending an eight-hour day trapped in such unpleasant confines made him claustrophobic. But that was another man’s fate.

  Neill picked up the suitcase, guessing its weight to be close to forty pounds. He saw that there was no combination and that it was unlocked.

  Ten million euros.

  How long had he waited?

  The idea had come to him years before. He had grown tired of this life. He was doing an all-star’s job for a journeyman’s wages. The world was an expensive place and there was money to be had. At some point, between all the cars he’d never drive, the suits he’d never wear, the meals he’d never eat, and the women he’d never screw—out there between Belgrave Square and Rodeo Drive—he decided he wanted a piece. A government salary wasn’t going to cut it. And so he’d set about planning.

  He’d started his career as a Russia hand. He’d been a young man when Reagan had visited Red Square as a guest of Mikhail Gorbachev. He’d been in the room when his superior had suggested making a pass at the young KGB officer shipped in from Dresden, along with a hundred others, to populate Red Square. The First Gulf War broke out barely eighteen months later and he was transferred to the Middle East desk. Off he went to Kuwait and an assignment with the Special Activities Division. Russia was a memory.

  But over the years, he’d heard whispers about “their man” in Moscow. Whatever the Agency was doing, it worked. From 1990 to 2000, Russia went from being the “main enemy,” a vaunted military power and feared rival, to the closest thing to a failed state. The old USSR broke up into a dozen pieces, most of which—not coincidentally—hated one another. What remained of Russia proper was ruled by the greediest bunch of plutocrats since Nero and his violin had plundered Rome. And presiding over this wholesale pillage was “their man in Moscow,” Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin. First as a bagman for the mayor of Moscow, then as an assistant to President Boris Yeltsin (who else could have slipped Yeltsin the bottle of vodka he was forbidden during the fated visit to Washington, DC, when he escaped the White House in his pajamas and was found wandering down Pennsylvania Avenue at three a.m. singing “The Internationale”?), and then as president of Russia himself, a position he had held, on and off, for two decades.

  At some point the Agency lost its man, which was par for the course. Putin accumulated too much power, too much money. He decided to be his own man. No one minded much. Russia needed a strong hand. Worse than a dictator was a weak democracy. The West required a reliable bulwark against the Chinese hordes. It also required an enemy with sharp teeth and a set of claws. Of late, however, he had grown too headstrong. It was decided he needed to be reined in. No one suggested replacing him. God, no. Just a slap on the hand to remind him who was “daddy,” to use the vernacular.

  Vassily Borodin had been marked as a comer for some time. His rise through the ranks of the SVR had been rapid and without pause. He was smart, capable, ruthless, cunning, and very, very ambitious. For the first time in recent memory, Russia had spawned a man capable not only of replacing Vladimir Putin but of returning Mother Russia to some semblance of her former glory. For Vassily Borodin possessed another quality in even rarer supply. He was an honest man.

  And so the letter.

  It had been Neill’s idea. An ingenious means to draw the attention of a man with righteousness in his heart and treachery in his blood. A born usurper. The West had operatives by the dozens inside the Kremlin. The United States had operatives, the United Kingdom, France, Germany, Australia. It was just a matter of having one drop a hint here and there. The rest they left to Borodin.

  The goal was not to depose the sitting president but to weaken him. And at the same time, to remove an unwelcome successor. For there was one hitch that Vassily Borodin could not know.

  The letter was a fake.

  Everything up to this point had been done to make him think otherwise.

  But one of the graphologists in the Kremlin would know better. The error was in Reagan’s signature. A loop that was too big. Or was it a curl that was too tight? Neill couldn’t remember which. Anyway, they would compare it to others and they would know. Goodbye, Borodin.

  The money was Neill’s reward for a job well done.

  He had an urge to open the case, to look at the piles and piles of currency, to wallow in a few moments of wanton greed. Another time.

  He hoisted the case up and out of the truck, sliding it to one side of the door. He began to think ahead. His first order of business would be to kill Coluzzi. From there it was an hour’s drive to the ferry in Marseille. He had just enough time to make the eleven p.m. boat to Ajaccio. He’d be sure to bid Coluzzi’s family a silent hello and thank you. He couldn’t have done it without their son. From Ajaccio, he’d take a plane to Morocco. He had a friendly banker in Marrakech and enough passports to stay hidden for the next fifty years. From there, he would disappear.

  Neill smiled at the thought. He’d done it. He’d pulled it off.

  He needed a boost to pull himself out of the truck and searched the compartment for a platform where he might stand. The bench would do nicely. He put a foot on it and raised a hand to the doorway. When he looked up, Simon Riske was there, staring down at him.

  “Go away,” said Neill. “You’ve done your job.”

  “And yours, too.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You should know. I wanted him. Coluzzi. Now I want something else.”

  “The money? Fine. We can discuss it. First, let’s get out of here. I’m sure we can come to a reasonable agreement.”

  “Not the money.”

  “There’s ten million euros in that case.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “Plenty to keep that shop of yours going. You can buy yourself a car. Buy two, even.”

  “This whole thing was your plan, wasn’t it? The letter, Borodin, Coluzzi, the money.”

  Neill was growing impatient. “Is this about the girl?”

  “She’s alive, in case you’re interested.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I never like it when there’s collateral damage.”

  “You’re a real caring soul.”

  “What’s done is done. Now let me out of here.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m still figuring that out. I’m a little shaken up, to tell you the truth. My collarbone’s busted and I think my arm is, too. All I know is that I’m not letting you walk away from here with all this money.”

  “So it is about the money?” said Neill, desperation growing. “I knew it. You’ve been after it all along.”

  “Sit down and take a rest,” said Simon, pushing the door closed. “I’ll be back to you soon.”

  “Don’t you…” Neill went for his pistol and fired a round as the door slammed shut. The bullet ricocheted and penetrated the floorboard. The armored truck was built to withstand automatic weapons fire, rocket-propelled grenades, even smaller improvised explosive devices. But all those delivered their charge to the outside of the vehicle. The truck was not designed to guard against a weapon fired inside it. The floorboard was built of standard sheet metal. The nine-millimeter bullet bounced off t
he reinforced steel door and passed through the quarter-inch metal plate into the gasoline tank, also armored exclusively on its exterior facing side.

  The heat of the bullet and the friction it generated as it passed through the metal caused a spark. The gasoline exploded instantaneously, the force of the blast deflected entirely into the cargo bay.

  At once, the truck was enveloped in flames.

  Simon leapt from the truck and rolled in the grass, extinguishing his clothing. Coluzzi struggled to distance himself from the flames. Simon got to his feet and dragged him a safe distance from the burning truck. Neill’s screams lasted for a minute.

  By now, police were streaming in their direction, drawn by the explosion.

  Coluzzi pointed to the suitcase, which had landed perfectly upright a stone’s throw away. “Pity to give it to the authorities.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  Coluzzi looked at Riske and lay back in the grass. He shook his head, disconsolately. “Where did you go wrong?”

  Friday

  Chapter 69

  The Cimetière de Saint-Paul et Saint-Pierre was where the poor, the unwanted, the unloved and unidentified of Marseille were sent to spend eternity, or at least the twenty-five years they were granted until each was dug up, incinerated, and another put in their place. It was the French version of Potter’s Field, and the worse for it. It sat on an untended plot of land a few kilometers outside the city, squeezed between a landfill and a recycling plant.

  Rain was coming. He could smell it on the wind. A few drops landed on Simon’s coat as he made his way down row after row, reading the names of those buried here. He found the monsignor’s grave at the far corner of the cemetery, his final resting place marked by a stone cross that had originally been white but after years of neglect had faded to a mottled yellow where the paint had not chipped away altogether.

  PAUL DESCHUTES

  1931–2004

  There were no last words, nothing to offer a hint of a life lived or advice to those still inhabiting the earthly plane.

  Simon placed a bouquet of flowers at its base. He was not a religious man, at least not in the formal sense. He didn’t know what prayer he should say. The monsignor wouldn’t mind. Religion was a matter of the heart, he’d taught Simon. Every man was born with God inside him. It was easy enough to find him. All you had to do was ask.

  So Simon thanked God for bringing this man into his life and asked that he bless his soul for all that he had given him.

  Then he kneeled and, with his good arm, pulled out the tall, untamed grass around the marker so that others could read the monsignor’s name.

  “Did you find him?” Nikki was standing at the end of the row, her arm in a sling.

  Simon stood, brushing off his hands. “Yes. Thanks again.”

  “Wish it were nicer.”

  “It’s fine enough,” said Simon, though of course it wasn’t. “He was a tough guy.”

  “Like you.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  Nikki smiled. “We’re a pair.”

  Already, she was getting the color back in her face. The bullet had been a “through and through.” She’d lost a lot of blood and suffered some fairly significant muscular damage, but that was it. Turned out they didn’t keep people in the hospital any longer in France than they did in the UK.

  They walked back to the car, shoulder touching shoulder. Frank Mazot held the door, and Nikki slid gingerly into the back seat. Simon walked to the other side and got in. Mazot guided the car through the cemetery gates. In minutes, they were on the downhill run into Marseille.

  Nikki took his hand. “I got a call from Marc Dumont.”

  “He’s still talking to you?”

  “I’m officially off administrative duty.”

  “Good news.” Simon cocked his head. “You know something? You never told me what you did to get suspended.”

  “It never came up.”

  “Well?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Simon nudged her with his good shoulder.

  “Crazy glue,” she said, then explained about her work on the Zenstrom case, nailing the gang of credit card thieves and how her boss took all the credit. “I got tired of him bragging. He always had these chapped lips. I went into his office after work one night, broke into his desk, and replaced his stick of Chap Stick with crazy glue, made it look just the same. He came in the next day, hung over like usual, opened his desk drawer, and that was that. He glued his big mouth shut.”

  “Ouch,” said Simon.

  Nikki shrugged, suppressing a grin. “Sometimes a girl has to do what she has to do.”

  “Guess so.”

  “Oh, and about Marc Dumont. He asked me to tell you that the next time you’re in Paris, you should not bother getting in touch.”

  Simon laughed. “And Mr. Coluzzi?”

  “He arrived in Paris this morning and was taken into custody. They pulled in Giacomo, as well. ‘Jack,’ you remember?”

  Simon ran a hand along his stitches. “How could I forget?”

  “Jack’s going to testify against him for a reduced sentence. He’s spilling the beans.”

  “Give Coluzzi a taste of his own medicine. About time.”

  “The prosecutor is asking for twenty years. He’ll be lucky if he gets five. Armed robbery doesn’t count for much these days. Besides, Coluzzi is spinning some story that he was actually working for our intelligence services all along.”

  Simon shook his head. With the right lawyer, Coluzzi could probably get someone to believe it, too. Even so, five years was five years. A long time when you were on the starting end of it. If only they’d send him back to Les Baums. He’d have a word with Dumont to that effect. He looked at Nikki. “So you’re staying in?”

  “Sure,” she said brightly, and it was clear she’d never considered doing otherwise. “I’ll leave the private sector to you. I like being a cop.”

  “You’re a good one.”

  Nikki nodded, not quite convinced. “Getting there. And you? Heading back to London soon?”

  “There’s a flight at four.”

  “Today?”

  “Today. Business.”

  “Of course,” said Nikki, lowering her eyes. “I mean…sure. Good for you. I understand.”

  “Come and visit?”

  “Less than three hours by train, right?”

  “Blink and you’re there,” said Simon.

  Nikki smiled suddenly. “I’ve never been.”

  “To London? You’re kidding me.”

  She said, “No,” and appeared embarrassed by it. “Give me a tour?”

  “I’d like that,” said Simon. He touched her cheek and kissed her.

  “Promise?” she asked.

  “Promise.”

  The car crested a rise, and the old port came into view, protected by Fort Saint-Jean and Fort Saint-Nicolas. A very large yacht was entering the harbor, navy-blue with a sharp, proud bow, dwarfing the boats around it.

  Frank Mazot looked over his shoulder. “Where to?”

  “I’m hungry,” said Simon. “You?”

  Nikki nodded. “I could eat. But not a ham and cheese sandwich.”

  “Who wants ham and cheese?” said Simon. “How ’bout some bouillabaisse. What do you say, Frank?”

  “I know just the place.”

  Epilogue

  London

  Three days later

  Finished yet?” asked Simon.

  Lucy Brown was crouched beside the Dino, blasting a section of the passenger door with her heat gun. She wore her usual ratty gray coverall, her hair tucked inside a baseball cap. “Finished? You’re not serious?”

  “Seven days. That’s plenty of time.”

  “Says who? The boss now that he’s—” Lucy’s smile disappeared the moment she saw him. She pulled off her safety goggles and rushed toward him. “What happened to you?”

  “I swam with some piranhas,” said Simon.r />
  “Did they break your arm?”

  “And collarbone.” He didn’t mention the stitches in his side. “But the other guys got worse.”

  “Well,” said Lucy, looking aghast. “If that’s what happens when you travel to France, count me out. I’d rather go to Brighton.”

  Simon circled the automobile, running a critical hand across the chassis, now and again checking his fingertips for paint speckles. “You did all of this?”

  “I did.”

  He eyed her with suspicion. “By yourself?”

  Lucy placed her hands on her hips. “I did.”

  Simon gave the car a final once-over. “Not bad,” he said, as if he only half meant it.

  “Not bad?” Lucy put down her heat gun and scraper. “It’s immaculate.”

  “That’s one of my words.”

  “Well, is it?”

  Simon nodded grudgingly. “Getting there.”

  Lucy beamed with pride, a victory won. She took off her cap and shook loose her hair, then touched his cast gingerly. “Hurt much?”

  “No.”

  She ran a hand up his arm toward his shoulder. “And this?”

  “Careful,” he said, wincing.

  She ran her fingers over his bruised cheek. “Bring me back a present?”

  “I might have a snow globe for you.”

  “You were in Paris. That’s where all the designers are.”

  “Do you think I brought Harry Mason a present?”

  “He wouldn’t look as nice in a silk camisole as I would.”

  Simon considered this. “You have me there.”

  “Besides, I could be more.”

  “More than what?”

  Lucy smiled, her head tilted toward him. “More than just your favorite mechanic.”

  Simon took her hand and guided it to her side. “Who says you’re my favorite?” he said firmly. “Now, give me the heat gun. You missed a spot.”

  Lucy crossed her arms furiously. “I did not!”

  A commotion in the main shop interrupted them. He heard raised voices. Harry Mason shouted. A toolbox overturned, scattering its contents.