The Take(44)

“Don’t ask,” said the driver, eyeing him in the rearview mirror.

Coluzzi coughed and was disheartened to see flecks of blood on his hand. He laid his head against the window, the stream of air-conditioning bringing him back to life. He remained silent as the car passed the old fort, then descended toward the water. They rounded a corner and the port came into view. The first vessel he saw was the Solange, its sharp navy bow closest to the entry. The car passed through a security gate, drove a short distance, and stopped in front of the gangway.

The smaller man opened the door. “Out.”

Coluzzi dragged himself from the car, holding his ribs to the bemusement of the bodyguards.

“Mr. Ren asked that you wait in the main salon. Help yourself to the buffet and keep out of sight. He will see you after the match.”

“Have a drink,” said the larger man, grabbing Coluzzi by the collar and straightening him up.

“On us,” said the other.

Coluzzi nodded his head weakly, then spun and kneed the larger man in the testicles, hands on his shoulders, pulling him into the blow. The other took a step toward him, one hand going for his gun, then hesitated, his eyes searching the dock. Coluzzi grabbed the gun hand and twisted the wrist, snapping it, then shoved the bodyguard off the dock and into the sea. The man came up sputtering a moment later, swearing oaths at Coluzzi.

The captain rushed down the gangway. “What’s going on?”

Coluzzi straightened his jacket. “These gentlemen offered me a drink. I plan on making it a double.”





Chapter 23



Simon found a table in the shade at the café Les Deux Magots on the Left Bank. A waiter arrived and he ordered a beer and a ham and cheese baguette. He set his laptop on the table, using a flash cable to attach the SIM card reader. Waiting for the files to transfer, he placed a call to the shop. After checking that everything was on schedule, he asked to speak with Lucy.

“She’s not in,” said Harry Mason.

“Sick?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t call. Just didn’t show.” His floor boss was a bluff Irishman who regarded speaking as an exquisite form of torture.

“Did you call to see if she’s all right?”

“What am I…her daddy?”

“Give me her number.”

“Don’t have it.”

“Jane at reception will give it to you.”

“Yeah, all right.”

While he waited, Simon thought how little he knew about Lucy. He’d found her at the bar of the Dorchester hotel. Not quite a pro, but getting ready to test the waters. Beneath the makeup and the overconfidence, she appeared a frightened, desperate girl nearing the end of her rope. He bought her a pint and she spilled her story. Broken home, dad left the country, mom remarried, the new husband hit on Lucy. When she told the husband to fuck off, he lied and said she’d come on to him. Her mother took the husband’s side and that was that. Lucy was on her own at the age of fifteen. For a year she moved from one friend’s to another. School became an afterthought. She worked at entry-level jobs at fast-food joints, hotels, and restaurants. As she grew older and she filled out into a curvy, attractive woman, she began working as a hostess or server at bars and clubs, even though she was years underage. She started to drink and do drugs. Men approached her to “work” for them. She turned them down, but it was getting harder to pass up the money. She’d finally decided to say yes when she met Simon.

He saw enough of himself in her to give a damn. He set her up in a flat, gave her a job that taught her a trade, and made her promise never to touch drugs again. That had been eighteen months ago.

Harry Mason came back on the line and gave Simon her number. “When are you back?”

“Next week. Anything you can’t handle, give me a call.”

“Won’t be necessary.” Mason hung up.

Lucy Brown didn’t answer her phone and her mailbox was full. Simon didn’t like the vibe he was getting. He sent a text requesting that she call him immediately. Ten minutes later his phone hadn’t rung. He wondered if he’d erred in giving her such a large check for her help the other night. There were a lot of ways a twenty-three-year-old girl could go off the rails in London, especially a girl with a dark history like Lucy’s.

Have faith, he told himself. There are plenty of reasons why she might not be answering. He made a mental note to try later in the afternoon.

Lunch arrived. Simon took a bite of the sandwich, then started looking at the contents of Delacroix’s phone. He began with text messages, scrolling through the names of those with whom Delacroix had communicated over the last few days. The first ten were hotel staff, as indicated by the subjects they discussed. The eleventh name was someone named Pascal, who appeared to be his bookie. A perusal of the texts showed that Delacroix was a gambler and owed Pascal over ten thousand euros. Real money.

The twelfth name was “Prince AA.”

Simon counted over fifty texts. The first exchange began upon the prince’s arrival in Paris.

Prince AA: Landed. Confirm pick up.

Delacroix: Cars at airport. Terminal 1.



…and ended minutes before the prince left the hotel.

Prince AA: Coming down. Have cash ready.

Delacroix: Done.