The Take(38)

“Again, I can’t answer for the prince, but those are services that can be provided to any client upon request.”

“And if you had provided those services,” Simon went on, “hypothetically…did you have occasion to alert him of any unwanted attention?”

“If we had, the prince would have had nothing to worry about…hypothetically.”

“No undue attention?”

“None that I’m aware of.”

Simon stifled a smile. It was his way of thanking Delacroix, before moving on to a more delicate topic. “What about transport to and from the airport?”

“Ensuring safe passage of our clients upon their arrival or departure is another service the hotel offers. Arrangements are made by the hotel concierge. We use the same livery service for all our clients.”

“Based on your recommendations?”

Delacroix shrugged. “It’s necessary to vet any firm the hotel employs on behalf of its clients.”

“And you’ve been using this particular firm for how long?”

“Many years. We’ve never had a problem.”

Simon rubbed a finger across his chin, eyes narrowed. Then he leaned closer and placed his arms on Delacroix’s desk. “I have a question about the route the prince took to the airport Sunday night.”

“Yes?”

“I lived in Paris years ago. I didn’t have a car, but I got to know my way around. Me, personally, I never would have driven all the way across the city when the entrance to the highway is only a kilometer away. The route taken by the prince left him far more vulnerable to an attack than otherwise.”

“Alas, I was not involved in planning the prince’s route.”

“Really? A moment ago you said you were intimately involved in all his security arrangements. Wouldn’t such arrangements extend to finding the safest route possible to the airport?”

Delacroix sat straighter, shoulders stiff. A man accused. “The prince mapped his own route to the airport.”

“Without consulting you?”

“No. As I said, the hotel provided for the livery, then it was up to him.”

“So you have no idea why he decided to take this particular route?”

“None. My responsibility for him, his family, and his affairs stopped the moment he left the hotel.”

Simon challenged his gaze. “Even after all these years?”

Delacroix stared back, a current of dislike flashing behind his eyes. He placed his hands on his desk and stood. “If there’s anything else, Mr. Riske.”

But Simon remained firmly seated. “A crime has taken place,” he stated. “Documents relevant to the security of the West are missing. The time for discretion is past.”

“What are you trying to say, Mr. Riske?”

“You and I both know that the criminals had advance knowledge of the prince’s route.”

“And I told the police as much,” replied Delacroix. “Clearly, it was an inside job.”

“So no one approached you?”

“No. And had they, I would have been the first to tell the police.”

Simon waited, eyes fixed on Delacroix. Finally, he stood. “That’s all I need. Thank you.”

“Any time. I’m sorry I could not be of more assistance.”

Simon waited for Delacroix to open the door, as he knew he would. As the Frenchman circled his desk and made his way to the door, Simon stepped forward a moment too soon and collided with him.

“Are you all right?” asked Delacroix, backing away.

“My mistake,” said Simon, ruffled. “Good morning.”

He did not look behind him as he walked down the corridor.





Chapter 20



Simon proceeded directly to the nearest men’s room. Inside, he entered a stall—in this case a compartment unto itself with walls running from floor to ceiling—and closed and locked the door. If a commode had to serve as a workspace, at least he’d chosen a nice one.

Like most European models, Delacroix’s phone ran on a SIM card that housed the phone’s memory—calls, texts, emails, photos, and all apps—and could be transferred between devices, for instance, whenever one upgraded models. He popped the back of the phone and removed the micro SD card and the battery, revealing the SIM card, which was white and rectangular and no larger than his thumbnail. Using a spudger—nothing more than a miniature spatula—he pried the SIM card loose and snapped it into the card reader he held in the palm of his left hand.

Thirty seconds later, the contents of Delacroix’s phone belonged to him.

Simon reassembled Delacroix’s phone and left the men’s room, returning to the lobby. At noon, the large, airy room was bustling, guests and staff moving purposefully in all directions. Delacroix was nowhere in sight. Simon stopped at the concierge’s desk and asked for a table at Le Relais de l’Entrec?te, a few blocks away. As the concierge consulted his computer for the establishment’s phone number and placed the call, Simon allowed Delacroix’s phone to slip from his pant leg to the floor, then used his toe to scoot it close to the counter.

“Monsieur Riske, a table is booked under your name.”

Simon slipped the concierge a ten-euro note. “On second thought, cancel it. Something’s come up. Thank you.”