And when another let slip that his girlfriend had absconded with two million pounds sterling from his office vault and run away to Ibiza with a lover half his age, Simon took it upon himself to rectify the situation. In a short time, the money—or most of it—was back in his client’s vault. Sadly, the girlfriend chose not to return.
Word of his uncanny ability to solve even the thorniest of problems spread rapidly. His mastery of language served him well. Besides his native English, he spoke French, Italian, Spanish, Russian, and a bit of Arabic. His clients often wondered if he’d spent time as a policeman or maybe a soldier or, pray tell, a spy—whatever that meant in this day and age. To which Simon had only laughed and said that their problems had not been as difficult to solve as they’d appeared and, really, anyone could have done it.
He had tendered his resignation without warning. Nothing the bank had offered could entice him to remain. He’d left them his private number and an offer to do what he could should a client have a special problem. That had been five years ago.
“Go back to the bank?” Simon downed the scotch and banged the glass onto Moore’s desk. “Pass.”
“Well, then, you have your investments,” said D’Artagnan Moore. “Market’s been doing nicely. You’ve always been a wiz.”
“No complaints.”
“What is it, then?”
Simon looked at Moore, at the dark eyes peering at him from beneath those impossibly tangled eyebrows. It was apparent Moore was sincere in his desire to help. Some things, however, Simon had learned were best kept to oneself. “Nothing,” he said. “Just getting older.”
“Aren’t we all, lad? Aren’t we all?” Moore produced an envelope from his top drawer and slid it across the table. “This should ease the pain. Go a ways toward buying that dyno…no—”
“Dynamometer.”
“Gesundheit.”
Simon slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket. “Nothing else on your desk that needs attention?”
“Not at the moment. Seems that all the cheats, crooks, and con men are away on holiday. Why not join them? Take a vacation. Spain. Portugal. Take a trip home.”
“The States?”
“I hear Cape Cod is lovely. Take a lady friend. Man like you must have a string of them.”
“Sure thing, D’Art,” said Simon. “They’re lined up in front of my flat.” Three months had passed since his last relationship had ended. He was enjoying his status as a single male in a fast-paced, cosmopolitan city. He was in no hurry to change that. “Tell you what. I’ll go if you go. Bachelors’ road trip. Not Cape Cod. Ibiza. Saint-Tropez. You pick the spot.”
Moore roared in delight. “Me in a bathing suit? God save us.”
The two laughed a while longer. Moore stood and escorted him into the hall, a meaty arm laid across Simon’s shoulder. “Relax, lad. I’m sure something will turn up. Until then, enjoy life.”
Chapter 4
Tino Coluzzi drove rapidly through the forest, both hands on the wheel, face crowding the windscreen as he negotiated the single-lane road. It was crow-black. The canopy was so dense it denied the slightest light from the night sky. The track turned to the right and dropped. His stomach fell with it. Something large darted across his path. He braked. A shadow disappeared into the brush. A stag.
After leaving the highway at the village of Buchères, Coluzzi had cut his headlamps. The hills were filled with cabins belonging to hunters and those who’d simply withdrawn from society. He was anxious not to alert anyone about the Chateau Vaucluse’s midnight visitor.
Another turn. The car shuddered as he crossed a barren stream. A dramatic incline and he was free of the forest. Stars appeared above a vista of rolling hills. He could see the chateau squatting on the hilltop a hundred meters ahead. It was a hulking structure with stone walls, narrow windows, and a slate roof. A local baron had built it as his hunting lodge two hundred years earlier. For decades it had sat empty and in disrepair. Coluzzi had picked it up at auction for a song.
He crested the ridge and steered the car into the forecourt, breathing easier as the tires dug into the gravel driveway. He continued through the archway and parked in the garage, certain to immediately lower the door behind him. Retrieving the case containing the money and the prince’s calfskin satchel, he crossed to the main building. Before unlocking the servants’ door, he paused and closed his eyes to listen. All was still. Far away an owl hooted. Then there was nothing but the wind.
Inside, he carried the cases to the kitchen and, with a grunt, threw them onto the island. The nearest house was three kilometers away. Still, he moved from window to window, checking that the shutters were closed. Only then did he turn on the lights.
He stared at the cases for a minute, then descended to the cellar, picked out a decent Burgundy, and returned. He knew to a penny what was in one of the cases. The contents of the second were a mystery.
He poured himself a glass of wine and drank it slowly, pondering his dilemma. Stop now. Do as agreed. Deliver the briefcase to the American, waiting for him even now at a hotel in Fontainebleau. Don’t ask any questions and walk away. His cut was seventy percent. Over four hundred thousand euros. For the next few years, life would be easy.
The right course of action was plain to see.
And yet…why had he come to his chateau?
Coluzzi ran his hand over the smooth calfskin, tapping a manicured fingernail against the polished lock. He was a thief. He could no sooner ignore the prince’s briefcase than he could leave an untended purse on a counter.
Setting down his wine, he went to work. Naturally, the case was locked and his set of picks nowhere at hand. With the help of a paper clip and a nail file, he freed the clasp, careful to leave the escutcheon unblemished. With the same care, he removed the case’s contents. One Saudi diplomatic passport. Several files containing documents written in Arabic, and thus incomprehensible. A printout of an email from a “V. Borodin”—happily in English—with the header “Landing Instructions / Cyprus,” giving the name of an airfield, coordinates, and radio frequencies. An envelope holding the bill from the hotel. Another overflowing with receipts cataloguing purchases made during the prince’s stay. One copy of The Economist. One copy of Paris Match. One oversized business card on the finest stock in the name of “Madame Sophie,” listing a phone number and an address in the 16th arrondissement, and redolent of costly perfume.
And, finally, another three packets of currency totaling thirty thousand euros. He thumbed the bills, considering whether to add them to the grand total to be split among his crew. The answer was a resounding “No.” Finders keepers.
He studied the items on the table. Nothing appeared to be of value, though he was always pleased to learn the name of a high-class madame. There were no jewels, no bearer bonds, no plutonium, no secret formula for a nuclear bomb or for eternal youth. Nothing close to what his criminal mind had labored to imagine since taking the job.
Either the American was mistaken and something was missing or Coluzzi hadn’t found it yet.
Certain it was the latter, he opened the briefcase and ran his fingers along its interior lining. No surgeon had a more delicate and perceptive touch. He found the hidden pouch without difficulty. He retrieved a flashlight from the pantry and shone it inside, running a thumbnail along the top seam. A spring mechanism opened an eight-inch pocket. He removed the manila envelope inside and withdrew the contents.
Five minutes later, he replaced them and returned the envelope to its hiding place.
Coluzzi had been right to recognize the cruelty in the prince’s gaze. The papers he was carrying were correspondence between the FBI and the Saudi Arabian Mabahith, discussing the transfer of a prisoner from U.S. to Saudi detention.
The prince, it seemed, was the chief of his nation’s secret police.
But surely the American knew this already. After all, he was some sort of spy himself. Such information did not warrant employing Coluzzi’s services.