The Take

He had a rule. Never give out the take too soon. You needed a cooling-off period after a big job. There was always some guy who was unable to contain his excitement, to keep his game face on, who went out and got sloppy drunk and proceeded to brag about his accomplishments. Over time, Coluzzi had weeded out the loudmouths. He trusted his crew with his life. Still, a rule was a rule.

Which brought him to the dilemma at hand. What to do with the six hundred thousand euros on the table? Divide it up among the boys or do something a little different. A little riskier.

He knew what Luca Falconi would say. “Go for it, kid.”

He balled his fist, swearing to get his revenge. The Russians would pay, one way or another.

He kept staring at the money. After a while, he decided that six hundred thousand euros didn’t look like much.

He wondered what twenty million looked like.

Bigger.

Much bigger.





Chapter 35



The lobby of the George V was eerily deserted, a ballroom after the ball, the fragrance from the enormous spray of flowers intoxicating in the still air. A hotelier rose from behind the reception, offering Simon a discreet nod as they entered.

“I don’t suppose it’s a coincidence you’re staying here,” Nikki said as they headed to the elevator.

Simon regarded her without answering.

They rode to the fourth floor, neither speaking. Nikki stood next to him, closer than he would have liked. Her shoulder touched his and he guarded against the flurry of intimacy it roused. It had been an eventful night. Too much adrenaline. Too much pain. Too many heightened emotions. He warned himself that his attraction was merely the aftereffect of a shared danger.

He glanced at her and found her eyes closed. He noted that she had smooth, flawless skin. Her upper lip was full and he studied its boundary, the sharp border where pink turned to cream. Despite himself, he couldn’t look away. He was counting her lashes, laughing at the adolescent streak of blue in her hair. He had an urge to put his arm around her, draw her toward him. He wanted very badly to kiss her.

The elevator stopped. The doors opened. Nikki jolted, eyes fluttering open, and he realized she’d been asleep on her feet.

“Here we are,” he said. “Four twenty-one. To the right.”

He led the way to his room, feeling more tired with each step. He put the keycard in the door, waited for the lock to disengage, and pushed it open with his shoulder. “Come in.”

Nikki slid past him into the room. “So this is how the other half lives.”

“Expense account.”

“Nice client,” she said.

“Deep pockets.”

She turned to look at him. “We’ll come to that.”

The bed was turned down from the night before. She took the chocolate truffle off the pillow and popped it into her mouth, then toured the room, taking off her leather jacket and tossing it onto a chair. She stopped at the window and peeled back the velvet drapes. “Morning already,” she said.

Simon looked at her thinking she suddenly looked soft and vulnerable. He fought back his desire. “Time to go to work.”

He placed the StingRay monitor on the desk, inserted a power cord, then attached a USB cable to his laptop. “It takes a minute,” he said, “for the program to open and transfer the data.”

“Give you time to tell me what’s what.”

“I’ll let you start. You’re the detective.”

“Always playing a game, aren’t you?” Nikki was kneeling by the minibar. “Want anything?”

“Orange juice.”

She grabbed a bottle for him and two minis of Grey Goose. She cracked the orange juice and handed him the bottle before pouring the vodka into a highball glass.

“Little early for a drink,” he said.

“Nightcap,” she said, downing the contents.

“Now who’s playing the game?”

Nikki made a coy face and put down the glass. “All right, then, Mr. Riske. Here’s what I think. You come waltzing into Paris the day after the most publicized robbery in ten years, claiming to be after a secret letter with magical powers. You waste my time asking about three criminals when, in fact, you’re only interested in one, Tino Coluzzi, a childhood friend, no less, who only last week was getting a crew together. Now it turns out you’re staying at the same hotel as the man who was robbed, Prince Abdul Aziz bin Saud. Finally, you’re based out of London, which as far as I know is second home to half the Middle East.” She’d recited her argument matter-of-factly and without rancor, her eyes never leaving him. “So what do I think? I think Prince Abdul Aziz hired you to get his money back and you believe Tino Coluzzi has it.”

Simon turned his chair so it faced her. “Not bad. I’d have come to the same conclusion.”

“But?”

“You’re mistaken.”

“Stop lying. There is no letter. You’re here for the money. Fess up.”

“Okay,” said Simon, admiring her restraint, knowing he’d be going through the roof if someone had yanked his chain as badly as he’d yanked hers. “Enough bullshit. You saved my life. You earned the truth. But it stays between you and me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t tell Marc Dumont.”

“But he has to—”

“Hear me out.” Simon stood, hands lifted in conciliation. “I am here about the robbery, and, yes, that’s why I’m staying at the hotel. I needed to see how things work around here. But I’m not here for the money. I don’t work for Prince Abdul Aziz. There really is a letter. I can only tell you the rest if you promise not to go to your bosses.”

“I can’t do that. Just because I broke some of the rules doesn’t mean I’m disloyal or a bad cop.”

“I’m not asking you to be disloyal and I think you’re a great cop. I’m asking you to be patient.”

Nikki sat down on the bed. “I’m listening.”

“Tino Coluzzi is the man you’re after. The man everyone is after. He’s the one who hijacked the prince’s motorcade.”

“How do you know that?”

Simon sat down beside her. “It’s like this,” he said, and for ten minutes gave her the identical briefing Neill had given him two days before, leaving nothing out. “So that’s it. Neill believes that Coluzzi found the letter, realized its significance, and is sitting on it until he can decide how to use it. It’s my job to get it back before he does.”

“Must be some letter.”

“Must be.”

Nikki considered this. She reclined on the bed, resting on an elbow. “What about you? How did you ever join La Brise when you were just eighteen? Are you American or are you French? And what the hell happened to you? I can’t tell if you got hit by a hand grenade, fell into a tree shredder, or took a swim with a school of piranhas.”

Simon shifted, looking at her directly. “I’m American. My parents divorced early. When my father died, I was sent to live with my mother in Marseille. I wasn’t a welcome addition. I made my way on the streets. I jacked cars for a few years, then moved up the ladder to taking down banks and armored cars. Coluzzi was part of my crew. I did not fall into a tree shredder or swim with a bunch of piranhas. I got caught. I took a couple of bullets because I was too high and too dumb to give up. I did four years in Les Baumettes. And this scar up here, the one you were asking about”—Simon touched his forehead, feeling his blood boil, his vision narrow—“courtesy of Tino Coluzzi.”

Simon drew a breath, shutting out the memories, letting the fury go. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get worked up.”

“It’s okay.” Nikki put her hand on his arm, rubbing it soothingly. She pointed to the laptop. “That thing done yet?”

“Still downloading.”

“Your expense account cover breakfast?”

“Go ahead. Order me oatmeal with sliced bananas and another orange juice.”

“Freshly squeezed, I imagine.”

“Better be for what they’re charging.”

Nikki called room service as Simon studied the monitor. The StingRay was programmed to extract a maximum amount of information from the intercepted calls: the caller’s and responder’s names, addresses, and other personal information associated with the handset, as well as everything stored on each phone’s SIM card—emails, texts, apps, photos, and, finally, a list of the phone’s GPS locations at the time the past thousand calls were made or received.

“What time did you get to the bar last night?” he asked over his shoulder.

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