The Take(116)

“That’s a lot.”

“Plenty to keep that shop of yours going. You can buy yourself a car. Buy two, even.”

“This whole thing was your plan, wasn’t it? The letter, Borodin, Coluzzi, the money.”

Neill was growing impatient. “Is this about the girl?”

“She’s alive, in case you’re interested.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I never like it when there’s collateral damage.”

“You’re a real caring soul.”

“What’s done is done. Now let me out of here.”

“I can’t do that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m still figuring that out. I’m a little shaken up, to tell you the truth. My collarbone’s busted and I think my arm is, too. All I know is that I’m not letting you walk away from here with all this money.”

“So it is about the money?” said Neill, desperation growing. “I knew it. You’ve been after it all along.”

“Sit down and take a rest,” said Simon, pushing the door closed. “I’ll be back to you soon.”

“Don’t you…” Neill went for his pistol and fired a round as the door slammed shut. The bullet ricocheted and penetrated the floorboard. The armored truck was built to withstand automatic weapons fire, rocket-propelled grenades, even smaller improvised explosive devices. But all those delivered their charge to the outside of the vehicle. The truck was not designed to guard against a weapon fired inside it. The floorboard was built of standard sheet metal. The nine-millimeter bullet bounced off the reinforced steel door and passed through the quarter-inch metal plate into the gasoline tank, also armored exclusively on its exterior facing side.

The heat of the bullet and the friction it generated as it passed through the metal caused a spark. The gasoline exploded instantaneously, the force of the blast deflected entirely into the cargo bay.

At once, the truck was enveloped in flames.

Simon leapt from the truck and rolled in the grass, extinguishing his clothing. Coluzzi struggled to distance himself from the flames. Simon got to his feet and dragged him a safe distance from the burning truck. Neill’s screams lasted for a minute.

By now, police were streaming in their direction, drawn by the explosion.

Coluzzi pointed to the suitcase, which had landed perfectly upright a stone’s throw away. “Pity to give it to the authorities.”

“What do you suggest?”

Coluzzi looked at Riske and lay back in the grass. He shook his head, disconsolately. “Where did you go wrong?”





Friday





Chapter 69



The Cimetière de Saint-Paul et Saint-Pierre was where the poor, the unwanted, the unloved and unidentified of Marseille were sent to spend eternity, or at least the twenty-five years they were granted until each was dug up, incinerated, and another put in their place. It was the French version of Potter’s Field, and the worse for it. It sat on an untended plot of land a few kilometers outside the city, squeezed between a landfill and a recycling plant.

Rain was coming. He could smell it on the wind. A few drops landed on Simon’s coat as he made his way down row after row, reading the names of those buried here. He found the monsignor’s grave at the far corner of the cemetery, his final resting place marked by a stone cross that had originally been white but after years of neglect had faded to a mottled yellow where the paint had not chipped away altogether.





PAUL DESCHUTES


1931–2004



There were no last words, nothing to offer a hint of a life lived or advice to those still inhabiting the earthly plane.

Simon placed a bouquet of flowers at its base. He was not a religious man, at least not in the formal sense. He didn’t know what prayer he should say. The monsignor wouldn’t mind. Religion was a matter of the heart, he’d taught Simon. Every man was born with God inside him. It was easy enough to find him. All you had to do was ask.

So Simon thanked God for bringing this man into his life and asked that he bless his soul for all that he had given him.

Then he kneeled and, with his good arm, pulled out the tall, untamed grass around the marker so that others could read the monsignor’s name.

“Did you find him?” Nikki was standing at the end of the row, her arm in a sling.

Simon stood, brushing off his hands. “Yes. Thanks again.”

“Wish it were nicer.”

“It’s fine enough,” said Simon, though of course it wasn’t. “He was a tough guy.”

“Like you.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Nikki smiled. “We’re a pair.”

Already, she was getting the color back in her face. The bullet had been a “through and through.” She’d lost a lot of blood and suffered some fairly significant muscular damage, but that was it. Turned out they didn’t keep people in the hospital any longer in France than they did in the UK.

They walked back to the car, shoulder touching shoulder. Frank Mazot held the door, and Nikki slid gingerly into the back seat. Simon walked to the other side and got in. Mazot guided the car through the cemetery gates. In minutes, they were on the downhill run into Marseille.