The Take

“I can’t. Not yet.”

“This thing is bigger than us. We could use their help.”

“It’s the same size that it’s always been. Besides, what happens to you if we bring Dumont up to date?”

“Don’t worry about me. That’s twice someone’s tried to kill you in the last twelve hours. Want to try your luck a third time?”

The train slowed as it approached Avignon. Fields of saffron as bright as the sun gave way to low-slung warehouses and a barren industrial zone, then the weathered yellow brick of Provence. Simon looked to the head of the carriage, checking if the security officer was anywhere near. “Give me your phone,” he said.

“Why?”

Simon beckoned with his fingers.

“Absolutely not,” said Nikki.

“I’m not asking.”

“Simon, I need it.”

“We’ll get you a new one.”

Nikki slid the phone from her jeans but still would not hand it over. “You think they’re tracking us?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it if they were listening to every word we’re saying.”

Simon plucked the phone from her hand and tucked it, along with his own, deep into the crease between the seats. He stood and took down her bag from the overhead bin. “Gun?”

Nikki set the bag on her seat and, using her body as a shield, discreetly removed her pistol and holster. At the same time, she took out a lightweight jacket and wrapped the pistol inside.

“Leave the rest here,” said Simon. “You’ll be able to retrieve it later.”

“From the evidence locker?”

“I was thinking Lost and Found.”

The train pulled into the station, a modern, daring work of architecture with vaulting ribs of white steel enclosing the terminal. A dozen police officers were gathered near the front of the train, anxious to board. “I thought they wanted to talk to me in Marseille,” said Simon.

Nikki studied the uniformed men. “It’s just a precaution,” she said unconvincingly.

“So they don’t want to talk to me?”

Nikki didn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought.” Simon grabbed his bags from the overhead rack and led the way to the rear of the train, joining a group of ten passengers waiting to alight. He set his bags down in a compartment holding other large bags, ripping off his name tags and stuffing them into his pocket. It was an expensive decision but necessary. The police would have a field day if they tied him to his “bag of tricks.” Innocent bystanders didn’t travel with a StingRay, a parabolic microphone, and wireless cameras disguised to look like wall screws.

He was sorrier to leave behind his laptop. Though password protected and programmed to wipe the hard drive should a false password be entered twice, the laptop held plenty of sensitive information from past cases, not to mention the contents from Delacroix’s phone downloaded a day earlier.

The train halted. The doors opened and he held on to Nikki’s arm, allowing the other passengers to exit first. The tracks ran parallel to the terminal building. They needed to cross a wide expanse of open space to get inside. “Head down. Get inside as quickly as you can.”

“And then? I’m used to chasing people, not running away from them.”

“Same thing. Either way you have to run faster than the other guy.”

The passengers near them stepped off the train.

It was their turn.

“Stay close.” Simon descended from the train and headed across the platform. The air was hot and dry, smelling of pine and rosemary. It was the scent of the south. Le Midi. Earthy, welcoming, alive with promise. At the other end, the police were boarding, pushing their way past alighting passengers. No one was looking in their direction. Relieved, he drew in a breath.

“Monsieur Riske!” A man’s voice carried across the platform.

“Keep walking,” he said to Nikki.

“Monsieur Riske. Please!”

Behind them, the rail marshal jumped from the train. A policeman was behind him, and both hurried in their direction. The policeman called to a cop behind him, and then it seemed like every policeman who had just boarded the train was getting off it.

“Monsieur Riske, please. We must speak with you.”

Simon did not look in their direction. He had ten steps to the terminal. “Ready?”

“For what?” asked Nikki, looking more angry than scared.

“Run.”

Simon took off toward the door, pushing it open, allowing Nikki to run past him. An escalator carried passengers to the terminal’s main floor, a broad travertine plaza fifty meters long and equally wide filled with shops and kiosks. Timing was with them. At midday, the terminal was a hive of activity, hundreds of men and women crisscrossing the floor.

“The stairs,” he said, heading down a staircase parallel to the escalator. Nikki followed close behind. He reached the main floor and slowed long enough to see the rail marshal appear at the top of the stairs. Simon circled behind the staircase and ran to the far side of the terminal, past a bookstore, a café, an electronics store. He came to a supermarket chock-full of shoppers and ran inside.

“Go to the back,” he said, pausing to peer behind him, catching a slew of uniforms spreading across the terminal, looking this way and that. He watched long enough to know the police had not seen them, then hurried to the back of the store. Nikki waited by the door to a storeroom.

“Let’s get out of here.” He opened the door and went inside. He looked to his right, then left, then zigzagged his way through crates of produce, soft drinks, and paper products, finally spotting the delivery entrance.

They were outside seconds later, standing in a loading zone at the rear of the station.

“Over there,” she said, pointing to a group of warehouses across from a grass field. “You good?”

“I better be.” Simon took a last look behind him. The door to the storeroom remained closed. He led the way across the parking lot, over a dirt berm, and through the field. A minute later, they had reached the warehouses and were effectively out of sight.

“Now what?” asked Nikki, bent over, hands on her thighs.

Simon peered around the corner as the door to the loading zone burst open, a half-dozen policemen pouring outside. A few looked in their direction. One of the men raised a hand and pointed at Simon. It was the rail marshal.

“Hold on.”

The rail marshal jumped off the platform and began jogging across the field toward them.

“We’ve got company.” Simon ducked back behind the wall and checked his surroundings. All the warehouse’s doors were lowered. There were no vehicles nearby. No visible place to conceal themselves. A few steps away stood a stack of wooden pallets a head taller than him. He grabbed Nikki’s hand and led her to the pallets.

“Get behind there.”

Nikki tried to slip into the gap between the warehouse and the pallets. “Too tight.”

Simon squatted and slid his hands beneath the bottommost pallet. With a grunt, he lifted the stack and moved it a few inches to one side. He repeated the motion on the opposite side, creating a narrow space between wall and pallet. Nikki squeezed into the opening and Simon pushed the pallets as close to the wall as he could. “Stay here.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll figure something out.” He ran to the far corner of the warehouse. It was twenty meters across the road to the next building. Even if he made it before the marshal arrived, he had no place to hide. He searched for a door, a window to break, anything. Close by, the marshal’s radio crackled.

Simon saw a drainpipe and began climbing, praying it remained anchored to the wall.

The marshal reached the warehouse before Simon had made it to the roof. The marshal pulled up directly beneath him, hands on his hips, gathering his breath. Simon froze. Twenty-five feet below him, the marshal turned in a slow circle, reconnoitering the area. For a moment, he looked directly at the pallets, directly at Nikki, then looked away.

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