The Take(35)

He did this now.

Al-Faris opened his mouth to cry out but could make no sound. Blood erupted from his ruined throat in a panoramic geyser, pulsing with the last powerful beats of his heart. He grasped madly at Simon, but Simon held him in his grip, looking into his eyes as the life dimmed. Al-Faris slid to the floor. In seconds, he was dead.

Simon spat out the razor.

The guard whisked him away. Today he was on the Corsican’s payroll.

Minutes later, Simon stood before Bonfanti. He was given a hit of hashish and a thimbleful of cognac. He was informed that killing the Egyptian satisfied but half of his obligation. The murder of Al-Faris took care of the monetary debt. If Simon had not killed him, Bonfanti would have been required to pay another of his soldiers to do the job. That sum, in Bonfanti’s mind, covered what was due his deceased son had there actually been money in the hold of the Garda armored truck. What remained of his obligation, said Bonfanti, was payment-in-kind for his son’s death. Bonfanti was alone in the world. Simon must also be alone. He would be placed in solitary confinement in a dank subterranean cell known to all as “the hole.” For how long was Bonfanti’s choice.

A day.

A month.

A year.

There was, however, another alternative.

Should Simon tell him who betrayed the crew to the police he would not have to endure “the hole.” Not for a minute. One name and Simon’s debt would be discharged in full. Even more, he could move to the fourth floor to occupy a private room near Bonfanti’s for the duration of his sentence. He would enjoy permanent protection while on the yard. It was his choice.

“And so,” Bonfanti asked, “who betrayed you?”

Simon did not answer. He’d promised himself he would not say. He would keep the name for himself. Revenge would be his and his alone.



“He’s mine,” said Simon, with the vehemence of a wronged man.

The taxi driver looked over his shoulder, startled. “What is it, sir? You are all right?”

Simon shook himself from his haunted reverie. “I’m sorry. Yes, I’m fine.”

The taxi drew to a halt in front of the hotel. “We have arrived. You are at your destination.”

“Yes,” said Simon, still shaky, fighting off the memories. “Thank you.”

But inside him another voice answered. No, it said. Not yet, I haven’t. There’s someplace I still need to go. Someone I need to find.





Chapter 18



Nikki Perez entered headquarters and took the elevator to her office on the second floor. The lieutenant was loitering in the corridor. Before she could turn around, he spotted her.

“Perez, come here,” he shouted, wagging a finger in her direction. “You finish taking statements from the drivers?”

“Three to go.”

The lieutenant was short and chunky and wore white short-sleeved dress shirts all year round. No one called him by his name. “Clock’s running. Get to it.”

“We’re thirteen for thirteen,” said Nikki. “No one’s offered anything useful. Twelve men with machine guns. All wearing black utilities. Combat boots. Faces covered. Plates off the cars. No one said a word except the leader and he spoke only to the prince.”

“And so?”

“It’s like listening to a broken record. I’d be better off spending my time working the streets, talking to my sources, the staff at the hotel. The bad guys had to have had a lookout there.”

“Since when do you dole out assignments?”

“Just an idea, sir.”

“Like the one that got you on administrative duty for ninety days?”

“Better than that.”

“So you say.” The lieutenant stepped close enough that his gut rubbed against her. “I want all the reports on my desk by noon. Including the last three.”

Nikki turned to leave. “Prick,” she said under her breath.

“What was that?” The lieutenant was in her face, eyes bulging.

“By noon. Yes, sir.”

“That’s what I thought you said.”

Nikki continued to her desk. Ten years on the job and still the same nonsense. She’d joined the police a month after passing the “bac”—or baccalaureate—the nationwide examination that determined eligibility for entry into France’s elite universities. With a score in the top two percent, she’d had her choice of the litter: the école Normale Supérieure, ParisTech, Sciences Po, or the Sorbonne. France was very much a hierarchical society. Graduation from any of these universities would have guaranteed her a place in the nation’s ruling classes. But Nikki had never had an interest in joining the technocrats who governed the country from their stately offices on the Boulevard Haussmann, or the corporate warriors with their perfect hair and perfect suits charging across the esplanade of La Défense.

For as long as Nikki could remember, she’d wanted to be a cop. Maybe it was all the Clint Eastwood movies her father used to watch. Dirty Harry, Magnum Force, The Gauntlet. Or maybe it was because she’d always loved guns. Or maybe it was because she enjoyed breaking rules and being naughty just a little too much, and she knew that being a cop was her best shot at keeping that part of her in check. She’d stopped explaining her career choices long ago. It came down to this: She liked carrying a gun and a badge. She liked the feeling she got when she solved a crime. And she liked thinking of herself as someone who gave back more than she took. At the end of the day, she wanted to make a difference.