The Take(47)

On top of all this, at some point today he’d mislaid his cellphone and spent a tense hour after lunch combing the hotel for it. By the grace of God, the concierge found it lying on the lobby floor. What rattled him more was that no matter how hard he tried, Delacroix could not remember setting it down anywhere near the concierge.

Still, he knew that neither the phone nor his duties were the root cause of his unease. It was the visit from the American investigator that worried him.

They knew.

Once on the street, he lit a cigarette and threw his jacket over his shoulder. It was a breezy afternoon and the warm, frantic wind lessened his anxiety. He came to the Metro and halted. The thought of taking the subway home held no appeal. He had no desire to spend thirty minutes in a hot, cramped car with his fellow Parisians. He needed to keep moving.

Delacroix threw his cigarette into the gutter. “Riske, Riske, Riske,” he repeated, running over the conversation with the American. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that Riske hadn’t believed him. He took the man’s business card from his pocket and called the number. A woman answered and gave the name of the company.

“I’d like to speak with Simon Riske.”

“He’s away on assignment at the moment. May I have him call you or would you like to speak with another of our professionals?”

“No message. Thank you.”

Delacroix hung up. The firm appeared to be legitimate. He’d accessed their website earlier, too, finding it professional but bland. He told himself he was getting worked up over nothing. There was no reason for Riske to suspect him of tipping off the bad guys. Delacroix cursed his luck. How was he to know Prince Abdul Aziz was carrying something of diplomatic value?

Of course Riske was correct. It was he who’d told Coluzzi about the prince’s route to the airport. He’d never liked the Saudis or, in fact, anyone from the Middle East. It wasn’t prejudice but experience. During the First Gulf War, he’d fought alongside the Saudis’ vaunted Haj Brigade. The Saudi soldiers showed the courage of a mouse and half the heart. They were paper soldiers.

Delacroix lived on the fourth floor of an upscale building on the Rue de Grenelle a block away from Les Invalides. Two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen that needed upgrading. Not much, but he kept it neat and clean, and he had a view of the park nearby. He dropped his keys in the bowl and threw his jacket on the chair. There was a pleasant scent in the air and he imagined a beautiful woman walking beneath his window. The thought made him smile. He took a Heineken from the fridge and walked into the living room. There was a good match on television this evening. He needed a few hours to let his mind relax.

“Monsieur Delacroix?”

An attractive blond woman sat in his favorite leather chair. She wore a black T-shirt beneath a loose-fitting checked shirt, jeans, and men’s work boots. His first thought was What is this gorgeous dyke doing in my apartment? Then he saw the pistol in her hand. A Glock fitted with a suppressor. His smile vanished.

They knew.

He threw the beer at her and bolted for the door.

The bullet struck his right knee. He crashed to the floor, writhing, grasping at his leg.

“Look at me,” said the woman.

Delacroix rolled onto his back. He knew what this was about, why the woman was here.

“Who are you working with?” she asked.

“What are you talking about?”

She raised the pistol.

“Please,” he cried, lifting a hand to shield his face. “I already explained everything to your partner. It was the prince’s idea to take an alternate route to the airport.”

“I don’t have a partner.”

Delacroix grimaced. He was confused. Who was she if she was not the American’s partner? “You don’t work with Riske?”

“Riske? Who is this person?”

“An investigator with an English security firm. His name is Simon Riske.”

“Riske…He is English?”

“American.”

“Of course he is. And what did you tell him?”

“I told him that I had nothing to do with the robbery.”

“Americans believe anything. We are not so gullible. Ponyatno?”

Delacroix closed his eyes tightly. Tonight there would be no escape. “Ponyatno,” he replied in Russian. “I understand.”

The woman circled him, the pistol dangling from her hand. “Who paid you?”

“His name is Coluzzi. Tino Coluzzi. He approached me Friday. He’d been following the prince around the city. He knew the prince carried a great deal of cash. He asked for my help. I agreed to steer the prince his way.”

“He’s a friend?”

“No. I only met him then.”

“Go on.”

“That’s all. I met Coluzzi twice. Friday and Saturday morning. I haven’t seen him since.”

“And this?” The woman had found the twenty thousand euros he’d hidden in the freezer.

“One of his men left it for me at a bar last night. Le Galleon Rouge.”

“Who?”

“I forget…no, no.” Delacroix searched feverishly for the name of the man with long sideburns and a peasant’s mustache he’d met at the bar. “Jack. Giacomo Pizzaloto.”

“Did you see Coluzzi there, too?”