The Take(39)

Simon left the hotel and walked down the street toward the Pont de l’Alma. He had not lifted Delacroix’s phone to learn about the Hotel George V head of security’s activities, though he suspected he was in some way involved. Delacroix was too smart to have left any digital breadcrumbs on his phone—or anywhere else for that matter—that might tie him to Coluzzi.

Simon had borrowed Delacroix’s phone for another reason entirely. He was certain that it contained a great deal of information about Prince Abdul Aziz bin Saud.

If Mr. Neill refused to tell him what exactly the prince had stolen, that was fine.

Simon intended to find out for himself.



Valentina Asanova stood across the street from the Hotel George V, staring into the window of an exclusive jewelry store. The display showcased a diamond necklace, emerald earrings, and a sapphire ring large enough to sink a ship. She was not a fan of what the French called haute joaillerie. It was just as well. Any one of the items cost more than her monthly salary.

Valentina turned from the store to study the hotel. Since receiving the assignment, she’d read everything she could find about the robbery two days earlier and viewed every newsclip available on the Internet. Director Borodin had provided her a single lead: his belief that Jean-Jacques Delacroix, the hotel’s chief of security, was somehow involved. Otherwise, he’d given her no specific instructions. How she found the man who’d robbed the prince was up to her.

She had dressed appropriately for the mission. No spandex shorts and watch cap today, but a dark skirt, a white blouse, a string of pearls around her neck, a Rolex on her wrist.

Valentina continued up the street, watching hotel guests come and go. She did not pay special attention to the man with close-cropped black hair and a tailored navy suit leaving the hotel, other than to remark on his purposeful gait and fine posture. She liked a man with a spring in his step.

After a moment, Valentina abandoned her casual surveillance and continued up the street toward the Champs-élysées. Like the man in the blue suit, her stride was purposeful and her posture beyond reproach. She mapped out the afternoon ahead. Coffee, a short rest, additional surveillance, then time to go to work.

She’d done her homework. She had little doubt she could convince Monsieur Delacroix to tell her everything he knew.

Valentina put on her sunglasses and lifted her face to the sky.

Alone in a foreign country on a mission for her government and with a mandate to take any and all necessary measures, no questions asked. She’d never been happier.





Chapter 21



Nikki gunned her bike, a Ducati Monster, hugging the tank, eyes glued to the road as she weaved in and out of traffic. Aziz Fran?ois still hadn’t called back. This irked her. Fran?ois was her best informant and one of the city’s biggest drug dealers. He was in hot water.

Ahead, the light turned yellow. At the intersection, cars nosed forward. Nikki feathered the throttle, the bike’s throaty engine urging her forward, daring her to make a move. The light turned red. She punched the gas and rocketed across the intersection, horns blaring to either side. She looked over her shoulder, thinking it was closer than she might have liked, but not caring. Inside her helmet, she smiled. It was the first jolt of excitement she’d had all day.

For as long as she could remember, Nikki had enjoyed going fast. Maybe “enjoyed” wasn’t the right word. She enjoyed a nice quiche Lorraine or a crisp Sancerre. She loved going fast. She lived for the moment when the needle on her speedometer crossed two hundred kilometers an hour and the world got a little fuzzy around the edges and there was only the asphalt beneath her tires and the white line running down the center of the road.

Nikki turned onto the Boulevard Barbès. The neighborhood changed dramatically. There were no more banks and pharmacies and electronics stores. The streets were decorated with colorful awnings, vendors offering kebabs and plantains, stalls full of T-shirts and leather goods. The sidewalks coursed with a dark-hued humanity. This part of the 18th arrondissement was called the Goutte d’Or—the Drop of Gold—and it belonged to the immigrants who’d migrated to France since Napoleon III had begun colonizing West Africa in the nineteenth century. If she weren’t looking at the dome of the Sacré-Coeur, sparkling at the top of the hill, she’d have thought herself in Dakar, not Paris.

She parked the bike two blocks from Aziz’s and locked her helmet in the rear case along with her leather jacket. Taking care, she untucked her T-shirt to cover her firearm. Aziz did his business out of a clothing boutique called Fleur d’Afrique that offered dashikis, swatches of colorful fabrics imported from Senegal, Niger, and Guinea. She stopped across the street and spent a minute observing the noontime foot traffic. A few women dressed in native garb left the store. Nikki crossed the street and continued to the alley running behind the store. Halfway down, she saw a door open and a thin white man in a black leather jacket emerge from Aziz’s back room and jump into the passenger seat of a waiting Mercedes. She grabbed the license and ran a check. The result came back in real time. Nikki shook her head. Aziz was being a bad boy. No wonder he wasn’t answering his phone.

She checked the back door and found it locked, then walked around to the main entrance. She walked past the counter, through the racks of clothing, and passed through a bead curtain. A pall of pot smoke hung in the air. She opened a door marked PRIVATE and stepped into Aziz’s office. A large muscular black man sat behind a desk piled high with folders and loose papers.