“On us,” said the other.
Coluzzi nodded his head weakly, then spun and kneed the larger man in the testicles, hands on his shoulders, pulling him into the blow. The other took a step toward him, one hand going for his gun, then hesitated, his eyes searching the dock. Coluzzi grabbed the gun hand and twisted the wrist, snapping it, then shoved the bodyguard off the dock and into the sea. The man came up sputtering a moment later, swearing oaths at Coluzzi.
The captain rushed down the gangway. “What’s going on?”
Coluzzi straightened his jacket. “These gentlemen offered me a drink. I plan on making it a double.”
Chapter 23
Simon found a table in the shade at the café Les Deux Magots on the Left Bank. A waiter arrived and he ordered a beer and a ham and cheese baguette. He set his laptop on the table, using a flash cable to attach the SIM card reader. Waiting for the files to transfer, he placed a call to the shop. After checking that everything was on schedule, he asked to speak with Lucy.
“She’s not in,” said Harry Mason.
“Sick?”
“Don’t know. Didn’t call. Just didn’t show.” His floor boss was a bluff Irishman who regarded speaking as an exquisite form of torture.
“Did you call to see if she’s all right?”
“What am I…her daddy?”
“Give me her number.”
“Don’t have it.”
“Jane at reception will give it to you.”
“Yeah, all right.”
While he waited, Simon thought how little he knew about Lucy. He’d found her at the bar of the Dorchester hotel. Not quite a pro, but getting ready to test the waters. Beneath the makeup and the overconfidence, she appeared a frightened, desperate girl nearing the end of her rope. He bought her a pint and she spilled her story. Broken home, dad left the country, mom remarried, the new husband hit on Lucy. When she told the husband to fuck off, he lied and said she’d come on to him. Her mother took the husband’s side and that was that. Lucy was on her own at the age of fifteen. For a year she moved from one friend’s to another. School became an afterthought. She worked at entry-level jobs at fast-food joints, hotels, and restaurants. As she grew older and she filled out into a curvy, attractive woman, she began working as a hostess or server at bars and clubs, even though she was years underage. She started to drink and do drugs. Men approached her to “work” for them. She turned them down, but it was getting harder to pass up the money. She’d finally decided to say yes when she met Simon.
He saw enough of himself in her to give a damn. He set her up in a flat, gave her a job that taught her a trade, and made her promise never to touch drugs again. That had been eighteen months ago.
Harry Mason came back on the line and gave Simon her number. “When are you back?”
“Next week. Anything you can’t handle, give me a call.”
“Won’t be necessary.” Mason hung up.
Lucy Brown didn’t answer her phone and her mailbox was full. Simon didn’t like the vibe he was getting. He sent a text requesting that she call him immediately. Ten minutes later his phone hadn’t rung. He wondered if he’d erred in giving her such a large check for her help the other night. There were a lot of ways a twenty-three-year-old girl could go off the rails in London, especially a girl with a dark history like Lucy’s.
Have faith, he told himself. There are plenty of reasons why she might not be answering. He made a mental note to try later in the afternoon.
Lunch arrived. Simon took a bite of the sandwich, then started looking at the contents of Delacroix’s phone. He began with text messages, scrolling through the names of those with whom Delacroix had communicated over the last few days. The first ten were hotel staff, as indicated by the subjects they discussed. The eleventh name was someone named Pascal, who appeared to be his bookie. A perusal of the texts showed that Delacroix was a gambler and owed Pascal over ten thousand euros. Real money.
The twelfth name was “Prince AA.”
Simon counted over fifty texts. The first exchange began upon the prince’s arrival in Paris.
Prince AA: Landed. Confirm pick up.
Delacroix: Cars at airport. Terminal 1.
…and ended minutes before the prince left the hotel.
Prince AA: Coming down. Have cash ready.
Delacroix: Done.
In between was everything from A to Z.
Simon found nothing that indicated Delacroix’s involvement in the robbery—no mention, for example, that it was he who had suggested that the prince alter his route—but plenty of background to hint at the close relationship between the two men. It was evident that Prince Abdul Aziz trusted Delacroix absolutely.
The phone rang. He checked the screen. “Hello there, young lady,” Simon answered pleasantly. “How are things?”
“Fine,” said Lucy Brown.
“Just called the shop. Harry said you were MIA.”
“MIA…what’s that?”
“Missing in action. You sick?”
“You checking up on me?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Fuck off, then. I can take care of myself.”
“You sound like you’re fighting a pretty good hangover.”
“Maybe I am.”
Simon took a breath, wondering how to play this. Like Harry Mason had said, he wasn’t her dad. He was her boss. A concerned boss, but that was as far as it went. “You coming in tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“Look, Simon, it was my friend’s birthday last night. We were out at the pub. It was the first time I’ve been able to buy a round in a long time. It felt good to show off a bit. Anything wrong with that?”
“No, Lucy. There’s nothing wrong with that. But next time, do it over the weekend. And if you’re going to miss work, call in. Harry was worried sick about you.”
“Harry?” asked Lucy. “Bullocks!” And they both laughed. “How’s Paris?”
“Paris is Paris.”
“You promised to take me one day.”
“Just show up for work tomorrow. Goodbye, Lucy.”
Simon finished his sandwich and went back to the laptop. He concentrated on Delacroix’s emails. Again, he found nothing about the robbery. Nowhere was there a mention of a connection to Coluzzi—no emails and no texts. But Simon hadn’t expected to find anything. He figured Delacroix to be a smart operator. He knew better than to leave a digital trail of crumbs.
Simon continued on his hunt, nosing through Delacroix’s apps. He found the treasure buried in one named “Notes,” within a subfile with the prince’s name. The breadth of the information confirmed his impression that Delacroix enjoyed the prince’s full trust, and amplified his disgust at Delacroix’s subsequent betrayal of it. Among the information listed was the prince’s passport number, his date of birth, nine credit card numbers along with corresponding security codes, and multiple phone numbers with telecom companies.
“Something else for you?” asked the waiter.
Simon glanced up from the laptop. “Just the bill.”
His phone rang again. He didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”
“I’ll be at Julien’s in fifteen minutes,” said Nikki Perez. “I can’t stay long.”
“I’ll be there.”
Simon slipped his laptop into his shoulder bag and stood, leaving a fifty-euro note on the table.
It was the waiter’s lucky day.
Chapter 24
So here’s the tough guy.”
Alexei Ren stood in front of Coluzzi, staring down at him. An hour had passed since the match ended. Coluzzi had passed the time doing shots of vodka, hoping they’d kill the pain in his ribs. They hadn’t, and now he was half in the bag. “Have a seat. Your boat.”
“You owe me two security men.”
“Is that what you call them?”
“One has a fractured wrist. The other won’t be walking for a few days.”
“Send me the bill.”
Ren studied him. “You know,” he said, unbuttoning his collar and rolling up his sleeves, “I’m actually glad to see you.”
“Your boys let me know,” said Coluzzi. “Thrilled.”
“You remind me of how things used to be.”