The Take(18)

Simon’s mood darkened. The keeping out of camera view in his workshop. The paranoia about conducting their discussion indoors. He was not a man who liked games. “Goodbye, Mr. Neill.”

He turned around and headed back to the shop. The pallid American was at his side a moment later. “Catch the news last night? The heist in Paris? The Saudi prince who had half a million euros stolen from his motorcade.”

Simon walked faster. “I don’t recall.”

“Witnesses said the thieves only needed a minute to get the job done. I wanted to ask you about it.”

Simon stopped. His shoes felt like he’d been stomping in puddles and his jacket was soaked. But neither the rain nor the damp had anything to do with the sudden blast of cold that had taken him in its grip. “Like I said, I don’t recall.”

Neill fixed him with a damning look. “Is that so? Because I’m curious as to how you would have handled that job.”

“Pardon?”

“In Marseille. Back in the day.”

Neill grasped Simon’s left arm and slid back the jacket. With a titanium grip, he twisted Simon’s forearm so that his tattoo was in full view. It showed an anchor held by a grinning skeleton and surrounded by crashing waves. Intertwined were the words “La Brise de Mer.” The ocean breeze. It was a tattoo given to members of the Corsican mafia that ruled the South of France.

“The thieves who did the job were from your old stomping ground. I know because I put them on to it. Problem is they didn’t just take the money. They took something that belongs to us, and by us, I mean the United States government. Something important. I am asking you to get it back.”





Chapter 9



Here’s how things stand,” said Neill. “I want to be as straightforward as I can, but I can only go so far. Some elements I just can’t reveal.”

The two men sat across from each other at the kitchen table in Simon’s flat. Simon sipped from a mug of tea. Neill had asked for a fernet to calm a “touchy tummy.”

A call to Ambassador Shea had confirmed Neill’s status as a high-ranking officer attached to an unnamed but well-regarded intelligence shop, some ultra-secret cousin of the CIA. Still, Simon was not entirely sure why he’d decided to hear Neill out when his every instinct screamed to run the other way. Was it Neill’s mysterious knowledge of Simon’s long-buried past? Or the flattery of being handpicked to carry out an important assignment on behalf of his nation’s government? Or was it something else still?

“It’s my experience that it’s better to know everything up front,” said Simon. “Even then, there’s always something that pops up to surprise you.”

“I’ll tell you everything you need to do the job. Frankly, there’s only so much you’ll want to know.”

“I’m glad you’re looking out for me.”

Simon wasn’t simply bored, as he’d conveyed to D’Artagnan Moore. The affair with Boris Blatt had stirred up something lurking inside him. A desire for trouble he’d kept tamped down for too many years. Even now, he could feel his fingers slipping the watch off the Russian’s wrist, the rush of superiority that came with breaking the law, the anarchic joy of breaking the rules.

And so, with his darker appetites whetted, his discipline flagging, along came Neill, offering a gold-plated, government-sponsored invitation to revisit his outlaw past.

“A week ago we became aware of a theft from CIA archives in Langley,” Neill said. “Before we could apprehend the thief, he was able to pass what he’d stolen to parties unfriendly to the cause.”

“In this case?”

“Prince Abdul Aziz bin Saud.”

“The target of the heist in Paris?”

“One and the same. What you don’t know is that Prince Abdul is chief of his country’s domestic intelligence agency, the Mabahith. They’re a tough group. Shoot first, ask questions later. Follow?”

Simon nodded and drank his tea. He decided to let Neill speak his piece and ask questions afterward.

“You’re a smart guy,” Neill went on. “I know you’re thinking ‘Saudi Arabia’s our ally. What’s a member of their royal family doing accepting stolen top secret materials, and by doing so, engaging in de facto espionage against the United States?’ And you’re right. But we’re talking the Middle East. Everyone’s got conflicted loyalties. Not a person over there who doesn’t keep two masks in his dresser, if not three. Prince Abdul’s been an America hater since way back. Don’t ask me why. It doesn’t matter. He probably doesn’t remember himself. Anyway, he comes to Washington once a year, makes the rounds, shakes our hands, takes our intel, then goes home and dreams up ways of screwing us. I’m not saying he does a bad job for his own people. He’s actually a crackerjack cop. He’s broken up a dozen rings of extremists in Saudi. You can see how our hands are tied.” Neill paused, drawing a world-weary breath. “But this time he went too far. He got ahold of something we can’t allow him to pass on. Just the fact that he’s become privy to this material is giving everyone back home a nervous tummy.” Neill picked up his glass of fernet and drank down the last drops. “Present company included.”

“Another?” Simon asked as he poured himself more tea.