The Take(14)
The six letters read “Yeb vas.”
Fuck off.
Chapter 7
The sign read EUROPEAN AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR AND RESTORATION. It was past eleven and Kimber Road in southwest London was quiet. No lights burned in the reception as Simon continued past his shop and turned into an alley leading to the work entrance. He parked the VW in a lot surrounded by tall fencing and barbed wire. The fence wasn’t for his car. It was for the Ferraris parked next to it—valued at over a million pounds each—waiting to begin restoration.
Inside, he turned on an overhead light and crossed the shop floor. There were six cars being restored at the moment. Five Ferraris and a Lamborghini Miura. He snaked his way through them, taking note where each stood in its renovation. One was nearing final inspection after eighteen months’ labor, paint sparkling, tires gleaming, prettier than the day it had left the factory. Another was well along the way, a new interior installed, covered with protective plastic, its hood open, the engine compartment empty and awaiting its rebuilt motor. Another had only just begun its journey, its doors removed, interior yanked out, paint stripped. A husk of an automobile.
Simon’s team did nearly all the work themselves. They rebuilt the engines, cleaning each and every component, discarding faulty pieces, and machining new parts as needed. They pounded out the chassis, installed new suspension and exhaust, bringing the automobiles up to the most demanding modern standards. Even the painting was done on the premises in a sealed-off workshop adjacent to the main floor. Only the leatherwork—seats, dash, ragtops—was subcontracted to a shop in Sussex. They were mechanics, not tailors.
Reaching the far side of the floor, he unlocked an unmarked door and ran up the stairs to his flat. A second door guarded entry, this one steel, bulletproof, and secured by twin deadbolt locks. He wasn’t paranoid, just “properly security conscious,” as the policeman who’d suggested the new setup termed it after arresting an unwanted midnight guest for attempted murder.
The flat was large and airy, sparsely furnished with sleek, modern pieces; no walls separated living spaces, except the bedroom. Vintage posters advertising the 24 Hours of Le Mans and the Grand Prix de Monaco decorated the walls. There was a picture of Steve McQueen, leaning against his famous Ford Mustang, and another of Carroll Shelby, the legendary American automaker going face-to-face with Enzo Ferrari, his even more legendary Italian counterpart. Lining the wall to his bedroom were seven large black-and-white photographs. Each showed a stone sculpture of a man set into the recess of a tall, formidable rock-and-mortar wall. Each figure was depicted in an uncomfortable, contorted position made to represent one of the seven deadly sins. Pride, envy, wrath, sloth, greed, lust, and gluttony, in no particular order. He wasn’t a fan of the sculptures. In fact, he found them so ugly as to be hard to look at. The pictures were a reminder. Not of his weaknesses or any character defect, but of the grim landmark where the sculptures stood.
In the kitchen, he cracked open a bottle of mineral water and drank half of it down. It was late. He knew he should go to sleep, but the night’s work was fresh in his mind. Time and again, he replayed his actions. The deft approach, shoulder brushing shoulder, one hand tapping the Russian’s forearm, distracting him, the other slipping inside the shirtsleeve, unclasping the deployment buckle, guiding the watch off his wrist. And then—in a motion so fast the naked eye would have been challenged to see it—replacing it with the counterfeit. A dozen tactile sensations, each imprinted on his mind. A precisely choreographed motion completed in the blink of an eye while Boris Blatt himself felt nothing.
Three hours after the fact and two scotches for the better, Simon was still jacked up, dancing on broken glass. With a sigh, he collapsed onto his sofa and turned on the television. Sky News was showing highlights of the day’s football matches. He watched for a few minutes, only half paying attention. He’d lived in London a long while but he’d yet to form an attachment to any particular team. His loyalty would forever lie with Olympique de Marseille, a team playing in the French premier league from the city where he’d gone to live after his father’s death.
Marseille.
Heat. Dust. The scent of the sea. The mistral sweeping off the ocean, swirling through the alleys in the hills above the city where he’d lived. The perpetual buzz of a city on the make, a city where violence crouched hidden beneath the surface, ready to spring at any time. A city on edge.
“Once again, our top story. There has been a daring robbery in the streets of Paris this evening by a band of professional thieves wielding automatic weapons.”
Simon reached for the remote and turned up the volume.
“Initial reports indicate that the team of twelve armed bandits hijacked a convoy of vehicles carrying a Saudi prince and his family to the airport and made off with over five hundred thousand euros.”
Simon scooted to the edge of the couch, studying the images of the boulevard in Paris, listening to one of the livery drivers describe the incident.
“Ils avaient tous des mitrailleuses et portaient des masques. Nous avions tous peur.”
They all carried machine guns and wore masks. We were all afraid.
The camera moved back to the reporter. “It appears the bandits blocked the street and surrounded the trapped vehicles, making off with their take in a short time. Amazingly, no shots were fired. No one was injured.”