Simon picked up his bags and started down the platform. Despite the rise of terrorist incidents in Europe, and in France in particular, there were no x-ray machines to scan luggage or carry-on bags. A half-dozen soldiers patrolled the platform, machine guns strapped to their chests. Two plainclothes policemen with German shepherds moved among the passengers as they boarded. Drug dogs, Simon guessed, as Marseille was the country’s largest port on the Mediterranean and the primary conduit for illegal contraband to and from North Africa.
The TGV was a sleek, low-bodied train, the cars painted a warm silvery tone with blue accents. A few stragglers walked ahead of him, hurrying to board the carriages. Through the windows, he noted that the train appeared to be full. For a moment he stopped and looked behind him, checking for an athletic woman with tousled brown hair. As quickly, he turned and continued to the head of the train. He had no right to expect Nikki to join him. She’d done enough already. There was no money in continuing on a wild-goose chase that was potentially dangerous to her career, and quite possibly her health. She’d made the right choice.
Simon picked up his pace, taking a look at his phone. The forecast for Marseille called for sun during the day, with wind picking up in the evening and the possibility of a storm. He remembered the tang in the air when the mistral kicked up, the flecks of flume whirling about, wetting his cheeks—the swirling, unpredictable wind carrying the sea inland. After too many years, he was going home, back to the place that had done its best to destroy him and, when it had failed, had tried even harder to give him a second life.
“Wait!” A woman’s voice echoed off the high ceiling. “Don’t close the gate.”
Simon turned to see Nikki Perez passing through the checkpoint, a carryall in one hand. He put his bags down and raised a hand, signaling to her.
“Traffic,” she said when she reached him.
“What about work?”
“We can talk about that later.”
The two walked briskly up the line of cars. Halfway there, a conductor asked them to climb aboard and continue to their seats once inside the train. Simon opened the door and Nikki climbed the steps. Almost immediately, the train began to move.
“Where’s your seat?” he asked.
“Car fifteen. Seat seventy-one,” said Nikki, checking her ticket. “Second class is the other direction. You?”
“Car three. Seat eighty-four.”
“First class, of course.”
Simon pulled his ticket from a pocket. “And eighty-five,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“I bought two just in case.”
“You knew I’d come?”
“I hoped.”
Nikki snatched the ticket out of his fingers and led the way, passing through car after car, all packed to capacity, luggage stored overhead or in the compartments between trains. Finally, they reached car 3 and identified the last two empty seats as their own. They threw their bags onto the overhead rack and sat down facing each other, a table in between them.
“I didn’t know I was so predictable,” said Nikki, settling into her seat.
“I know you want to get Coluzzi as badly as I do.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“You’re sick of desk duty.”
“Also true.”
“Hard to sit around pushing papers knowing that I might be closing in on him.”
“No other reason?”
Simon thought hard. “Am I missing something?”
“No,” said Nikki, gazing forthrightly at him. “That about covers it.”
“Well?” said Simon.
“Well what?”
“Did you call in Falconi’s murder? Did you tell Marc Dumont that we’re after Coluzzi?”
“You’re the know-it-all. You tell me.”
“Since you’re here, I’ll take that as a no.”
Nikki offered a dismissive smile. “Like you said, I want to get Coluzzi as badly as you. Well, then at least we have a few hours off.”
“Actually,” said Simon, taking out his phone, “work starts now.” He found his earpiece and microphone and plugged them in, then attached a power cord so he wouldn’t drain his battery before arriving.
“What are you doing?”
“Research.”
“About Coluzzi?”
“About the prince.”
Simon looked out the window. The train was passing through the city suburbs, tall concrete housing complexes that even in the cheery morning sun looked grim and unwelcoming. He remembered the rows of government-built apartments up the hill from his mother’s house. The buildings had been nicer than these, at least to look at. Many apartments had had window boxes decorated with colorful flowers year-round. There had been decent playgrounds and a football field, upkeep paid for by the drug lords who governed the turf. Inside, however, the buildings had been decrepit and stank of overflowing sewage, the hallways narrow and dark, the stairwells a no-man’s-land that reeked of urine, vomit, and the ever-present scent of pot. Elevators seldom functioned. He couldn’t get from an apartment to the street without passing a drug deal in progress or a hooker bringing a john to her place or a group of bored, belligerent kids looking for trouble. Police made it a habit to stop a block away. It was as close as they dared to come.
“I grew up out here,” said Nikki.
“Tough neighborhood.”
“There are tougher.”
“You got out. Good on you.”
“And you? How’d you get out? From Les Baums to the Sciences Po. That’s like from Earth to the moon.”
“Long story.”
“We’ve got four hours.”
“Another time.”
“Promise?” she asked, and he could see she was trying to be his friend.
“Maybe one day.” Simon returned to his phone. He was studying the information he’d gotten from Delacroix’s phone detailing Prince Abdul Aziz’s personal data. His email address, credit card numbers, Saudi national identity number, and more. He felt a presence next to him and looked up to find Nikki perched on his armrest.
“What’s that?” she asked, a hand on his shoulder.
Simon told her about his visit with Delacroix and how he’d lifted his phone and swiped the information from his SIM card.
“And so?” she asked. “How do you plan on using it?”
“With any luck I can get the password for his email account. After that, who knows?”
“Do you have any regard for the law whatsoever?”
“I sleep just fine.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“You want to listen in or would you like me to do this somewhere else?”
“I’m off duty. Please continue. One day when I’m a private investigator I may find it useful.”
Simon found the number for the prince’s Internet provider, a prominent Saudi Arabian telecom company. “Here we go,” he said. “Quiet.”
Nikki zipped her mouth closed.
“Good morning,” he said when the customer service representative answered. His Arabic was slow and formal. His vocabulary was limited, but his accent was spot-on. “I have a small problem. I’ve forgotten the password for my account.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. I’m sure we can help you find it without too much trouble. If you go to the sign-in page of your account and click on the ‘Forgot password’ link, you’ll find instructions directing you how to retrieve or reset your password.”
“I’m not at my computer. I’m on a phone and I don’t have Wi-Fi access. I’d like to take care of this as quickly as possible, so when I do have Wi-Fi I can get to my messages.”
“Of course, sir. I will have to ask you a few questions.”
“Fire away.”
“What is your email address?”
Simon read it off.
“Thank you. And what is the name of the account holder?”
Simon gave the prince’s full name.
“Am I speaking with the prince?”
“This is Prince Abdul Aziz.”
The representative began speaking Arabic excitedly. Simon did his best to understand but much escaped him. The gist, however, was clear. The telecom rep was honored, thrilled, gratified, to be helping the prince. Simon laid even odds that the representative knew what the prince’s real job was.
“Please,” said Simon. “I am with some American colleagues. I prefer to speak English.”
“Of course, Your Highness. Please excuse me. I apologize. I—”
“May we continue?”
“Yes, Your Highness. I must still ask you these questions to verify your identity. No disrespect.”
“I understand. You are just doing your job. And may I say you are doing it well.”
“Thank you. Now, may I ask your date of birth?”
“November twelfth, nineteen sixty-seven.”
“And when did you create this account?”