Still, he didn’t move on, but kept in his place as if nailed to the spot, his head scanning the area, nose raised like a cat scenting his prey.
Simon’s fingers grew tired. Between the day’s heat, his nerves, and the run from the terminal, his hands were moist with perspiration. He dropped one hand to his trousers and dried his palm, then did the same with the other.
Below, the marshal’s radio crackled again. A man said, “Jacques? Anything?”
“Still checking.”
Simon had wedged the toe of his shoe between the pipe and wall, the tip of his sole resting on a bracket securing the drainpipe. Now he felt the shoe slipping. He increased his pressure, wedging the shoe more tightly. Suddenly, his foot came free of his loafer. He slipped. His hands clutched the pipe with all his might. Miraculously, the shoe remained in place. He dug his other foot into the space, his ankle turned, his calf screaming. Hugging himself to the pipe, he guided his unshod foot back to the loafer. His toes touched leather. Slowly, he worked his foot into the shoe until he could put pressure on it and stand easier.
By now, it was not only his hands that were sweaty. His entire face was beaded with perspiration. He felt the drops rolling off his forehead, down his cheeks. As he stared at the top of the marshal’s head, he counted the drops falling from his chin and watched powerless as they fell to the ground.
“Well?” asked the voice on the radio.
A hand touched his hair. The marshal gazed upward, but not at Simon.
“Nothing,” he said finally. “They didn’t come this way.”
Simon let go a breath.
The marshal returned the radio to his belt. Instead of returning to the station, he took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and lit up, leaning against the pallets, his shoulders inches from Nikki.
Simon held his position, hands burning with fatigue, growing stiff, unresponsive. He caught Nikki staring at him and he knew she was urging him to hold on. His hands began to slip. He dried them again but to less effect. His shirt was wet on his back, his legs quivering.
The marshal smoked contentedly and then, without warning, threw the butt to the ground with only half the cigarette finished and walked back to the terminal.
Simon slid down the pipe, his legs giving out when he hit the ground, his rear landing firmly on the concrete. After a moment, he stood and freed Nikki, who appeared as wrung out as he felt.
“Well,” she said. “I guess it’s official.”
“What’s that?” He was out of breath, too exhausted to pay much attention.
“I’m a fugitive, too.”
The idea made him laugh. “How does it feel?”
“Not good.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“And so?”
Simon straightened his back, some semblance of his normal self returning. “Wheels.”
“You mean a car?”
“Yes, a car.”
“There must be a rental car office near the station.”
“We’re not going anywhere near the station.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m just getting used to this. I’m sure we can find one downtown. It’s not far.”
“You’re still not getting it, are you?” said Simon. “You need a driver’s license and a credit card to rent a car.”
“What do you suggest? A taxi? It’s a hundred kilometers to Marseille. It will cost a fortune.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that either.”
Nikki stood taller, reading the look in his eye. “You want to steal a car?”
“Borrow it.”
“That’s where I draw the line.”
“You crossed the line in Paris when you didn’t report Falconi’s murder. You crossed it a second time when we ran away from the police. My guess is one of those officers got a look at you. Dumont knows you’re with me. It won’t be long before you’re made. You said it yourself. You’re a fugitive. Welcome to the dark side, Detective Perez.”
Nikki ran a hand through her hair, looking away, screwing up her face in anger or bewilderment. “I am a police officer. I can’t do this.”
“You’re doing this because you are a police officer. Helping me is the best way we can take down Coluzzi.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you get it, Riske? I’m helping you because I like you.” She stepped forward and kissed him on the lips, placing a hand on his buttocks. “Just don’t go thinking so much of yourself.”
“Too late for that.”
Simon grabbed her by the waist and looked into her eyes, seeing the flecks of gold he’d noticed when they’d first met in Marc Dumont’s office. He kissed her softly, enjoying the feel of her lips on his, the warmth of her open mouth. She pushed harder into him and he kept his body rigid, responding to her pressure.
“That was nice,” he said.
Nikki needed a moment to open her eyes fully and come back to herself. “Yes,” she said. “It was.”
They left the warehouse and headed into town. Ten minutes’ walk took them to a leafy residential area with cars parked cheek by jowl on both sides of the street. Simon spotted a black Porsche 911. He slowed, seeing that the door was locked—naturally.
“Don’t even think of it,” said Nikki. “This is what we want.”
She was standing next to an old white Peugeot—four doors, two-liter engine, decent tires, and gravely in need of a wash. In other words, as close to an anonymous vehicle as they were likely to find.
Simon looked around. A few kids were walking down the block a ways in front of them; otherwise, no one else was in sight.
“Gun,” he said.
She slipped her pistol from its holster. He took the muzzle in his hand and touched the butt to the sweet spot on the driver’s side window.
“Wait!” said Nikki.
Simon lowered the pistol to his side. Nikki opened the passenger door. “Unlocked.”
She slid in, leaned over, and unlocked Simon’s door. He climbed in and found the seat adjusted perfectly for his height. He reached below the wheel and yanked out the ignition cables. It had been years since he’d hot-wired a car, but it was like riding a bicycle or kissing a girl. He found the correct wires, peeled off the plastic coatings with his thumbnail, and crossed them.
The engine rattled to life. He touched the gas, and the car shook as if racked by a tubercular fit. “There’s still time to get the Porsche.”
“Drive,” said Nikki.
Five minutes later, they joined the highway. Their train would arrive in Marseille in twenty minutes’ time.
He wondered who would be waiting to greet them.
Chapter 51
It was the moment of truth.
In every operation, there comes a time when one must decide whether to pull the trigger, in metaphorical, and often real, terms. It is the moment after which there is no retreat and the only direction is forward.
Ending the call with the rascal Coluzzi, Vassily Borodin surveyed the bound dossiers arrayed across his desk. Each represented a documented instance of high treason.
The first sheaf bore the title “Kremlin Decree No. 1, 12/31/99.” He opened the cover to read the text as set forth the day the traitor took office. “No corruption charges shall be allowed against outgoing presidents,” it began, before listing in detail all such acts that might qualify as “corruption.”
The decree was also known as the “grand bargain,” the brilliant piece of political chicanery that secured the president his job by granting his predecessor immunity, and then protected himself against all financial misdeeds he might undertake during his own tenure.
For perhaps the thousandth time, Borodin marveled at the man’s audacity. Was there ever a more telling way to begin a regime?
The second dossier, dated 2002, was titled “Nord-Ost.”
The third, dated 2007, discussed the Ivanchuk affair.
The fourth, the invasion of Crimea.