The sign read EUROPEAN AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR AND RESTORATION. It was past eleven and Kimber Road in southwest London was quiet. No lights burned in the reception as Simon continued past his shop and turned into an alley leading to the work entrance. He parked the VW in a lot surrounded by tall fencing and barbed wire. The fence wasn’t for his car. It was for the Ferraris parked next to it—valued at over a million pounds each—waiting to begin restoration.
Inside, he turned on an overhead light and crossed the shop floor. There were six cars being restored at the moment. Five Ferraris and a Lamborghini Miura. He snaked his way through them, taking note where each stood in its renovation. One was nearing final inspection after eighteen months’ labor, paint sparkling, tires gleaming, prettier than the day it had left the factory. Another was well along the way, a new interior installed, covered with protective plastic, its hood open, the engine compartment empty and awaiting its rebuilt motor. Another had only just begun its journey, its doors removed, interior yanked out, paint stripped. A husk of an automobile.
Simon’s team did nearly all the work themselves. They rebuilt the engines, cleaning each and every component, discarding faulty pieces, and machining new parts as needed. They pounded out the chassis, installed new suspension and exhaust, bringing the automobiles up to the most demanding modern standards. Even the painting was done on the premises in a sealed-off workshop adjacent to the main floor. Only the leatherwork—seats, dash, ragtops—was subcontracted to a shop in Sussex. They were mechanics, not tailors.
Reaching the far side of the floor, he unlocked an unmarked door and ran up the stairs to his flat. A second door guarded entry, this one steel, bulletproof, and secured by twin deadbolt locks. He wasn’t paranoid, just “properly security conscious,” as the policeman who’d suggested the new setup termed it after arresting an unwanted midnight guest for attempted murder.
The flat was large and airy, sparsely furnished with sleek, modern pieces; no walls separated living spaces, except the bedroom. Vintage posters advertising the 24 Hours of Le Mans and the Grand Prix de Monaco decorated the walls. There was a picture of Steve McQueen, leaning against his famous Ford Mustang, and another of Carroll Shelby, the legendary American automaker going face-to-face with Enzo Ferrari, his even more legendary Italian counterpart. Lining the wall to his bedroom were seven large black-and-white photographs. Each showed a stone sculpture of a man set into the recess of a tall, formidable rock-and-mortar wall. Each figure was depicted in an uncomfortable, contorted position made to represent one of the seven deadly sins. Pride, envy, wrath, sloth, greed, lust, and gluttony, in no particular order. He wasn’t a fan of the sculptures. In fact, he found them so ugly as to be hard to look at. The pictures were a reminder. Not of his weaknesses or any character defect, but of the grim landmark where the sculptures stood.
In the kitchen, he cracked open a bottle of mineral water and drank half of it down. It was late. He knew he should go to sleep, but the night’s work was fresh in his mind. Time and again, he replayed his actions. The deft approach, shoulder brushing shoulder, one hand tapping the Russian’s forearm, distracting him, the other slipping inside the shirtsleeve, unclasping the deployment buckle, guiding the watch off his wrist. And then—in a motion so fast the naked eye would have been challenged to see it—replacing it with the counterfeit. A dozen tactile sensations, each imprinted on his mind. A precisely choreographed motion completed in the blink of an eye while Boris Blatt himself felt nothing.
Three hours after the fact and two scotches for the better, Simon was still jacked up, dancing on broken glass. With a sigh, he collapsed onto his sofa and turned on the television. Sky News was showing highlights of the day’s football matches. He watched for a few minutes, only half paying attention. He’d lived in London a long while but he’d yet to form an attachment to any particular team. His loyalty would forever lie with Olympique de Marseille, a team playing in the French premier league from the city where he’d gone to live after his father’s death.
Marseille.
Heat. Dust. The scent of the sea. The mistral sweeping off the ocean, swirling through the alleys in the hills above the city where he’d lived. The perpetual buzz of a city on the make, a city where violence crouched hidden beneath the surface, ready to spring at any time. A city on edge.
“Once again, our top story. There has been a daring robbery in the streets of Paris this evening by a band of professional thieves wielding automatic weapons.”
Simon reached for the remote and turned up the volume.
“Initial reports indicate that the team of twelve armed bandits hijacked a convoy of vehicles carrying a Saudi prince and his family to the airport and made off with over five hundred thousand euros.”
Simon scooted to the edge of the couch, studying the images of the boulevard in Paris, listening to one of the livery drivers describe the incident.
“Ils avaient tous des mitrailleuses et portaient des masques. Nous avions tous peur.”
They all carried machine guns and wore masks. We were all afraid.
The camera moved back to the reporter. “It appears the bandits blocked the street and surrounded the trapped vehicles, making off with their take in a short time. Amazingly, no shots were fired. No one was injured.”
When the report ended, Simon realized he hadn’t taken a breath the entire time. First the job at the Sotheby’s auction, now this.
Agitated, he rose and walked to his bedroom. He took off his suit, hung it up with care, taking time to dust the shoulders and lapels with a mohair brush. Finished, he threw his shirt in the hamper and returned his shoes to the rack.
A pull-up bar was bolted to the ceiling at the back of his closet. With a grunt, he grabbed hold of it and did fifteen chin-ups, then hung for a few seconds, feeling his shoulders burn, his biceps strain under his weight, his stomach grow taut. And when he couldn’t hang a second longer, when his fingers began slipping off the bar, he summoned the strength to grip it tighter and knock out five more.
“I can,” he grunted with each repetition. And then: “I will.”
Four words he’d adopted as his creed a lifetime ago.
He dropped, savoring the rush of blood to his arms, the hard-won lightheadedness, the victory, however fleeting, of mind over body.
I can.
I will.
Winded but still antsy, he pulled on a T-shirt and jeans and returned to the living room. He switched the channel to BBC 2, only to be confronted with another report about the robbery in Paris. He shook his head in frustration but listened nonetheless, like a child made to sit through a lecture he’d heard before. He turned off the television the moment it ended.
There would be no sleeping for a while.
He knew of only one salve for what ailed him. Work.
Back in the garage, he hit the lights. A dozen floods lit up the floor as if it were high noon. Already feeling better, he walked to his office. In its prior incarnation, the shop had been a posh nightclub managed by a hood who’d been skimming twenty percent off the top and cooking the books. Simon had been hired by the investors to obtain the real ledgers. He’d traded his success fee for the lease on the building, making sure the deal included the sound system, lock, stock, and barrel.
He opened the audio cabinet and punched in a playlist. The growl of an electric guitar reverberated across the floor. Marc Bolan and T. Rex. The seventies. Rock ’n’ roll at its wildest. Raw. Primal. He cranked the volume, then went onto the floor and surveyed his small Italian dukedom.
The latest arrival was a ’74 Daytona Spider set for full restoration. His father had owned a car identical to this: corsa red, beige leather, wire-spoked rims. He’d called it his “stallion,” after the rampant horse that decorated the badge on the hood.