The Take(48)

“Coluzzi? No. He wasn’t there. Please take it. Take the money.”

The woman dropped the stack of bills onto the floor. “It’s yours. You earned it. Use it to buy a new knee.”

Delacroix swallowed hard and nodded. Maybe he would live to see another day.

The woman asked: “So you don’t know where Mr. Coluzzi is or how I can reach him?”

“No.”

“No phone? No email?”

“No.”

“And the American who visited you earlier…”

“I didn’t tell him about Coluzzi. I swear.”

“I don’t imagine he was interested in the money.”

“He said the prince was carrying important documents. He wanted them back.”

“Did he mention the letter?”

“What letter?” Delacroix knew at once that it must be what the prince had had in his possession.

“The letter. We are not interested in the money either.”

Delacroix shook his head violently. “I know nothing about a letter,” he insisted.

“Did you read it?”

“I told you! I’ve never heard about a letter.”

The woman crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps until she stood above him. “I’d simply like to know if you have read it.”

“How could I have read something I know nothing about?” he pleaded.

“Yes or no?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“You must believe—”

The pistol coughed. A bullet shattered Delacroix’s other knee. He gasped, pain robbing him of his breath. He looked down and saw blood spreading across the floor. An artery, he thought, memories of his time in combat flooding back. He needed to tie it off quickly.

“I never saw a letter,” he managed. “I promise you.”

“I believe you.”

“You do? Thank God. It’s the truth. I swear. A tourniquet. My leg. Please.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“But…”

The woman placed the pistol to Delacroix’s forehead and shot him.

Valentina surveyed the room, the pool of blood, the corpse. She sucked in the scent of fear mixed with the acrid cordite. She opened a window, allowing in needed fresh air, then turned on the air conditioner. She didn’t want the smell leaking into the hall.

Valentina left the apartment. After she’d walked a block, she placed a call to Moscow. “The thief’s name is Tino Coluzzi,” she said. “A professional.”

“I’ll see if we have anything on him.”

“I believe I can find him.”

“I’m counting on you.”

“There’s something else. Another man is looking for the letter.”

There was a long silence and Valentina wondered if somehow she’d been mistaken to relay the information. “How do you know?” Borodin asked.

“Delacroix talked. An American named Riske came to see him earlier today. Simon Riske. He presented himself as an investigator working for an English firm. I took a photo of his business card.”

Borodin swore under his breath. “Send it over. I’ll see if we have anything on him. No matter what…make sure this man Riske doesn’t get what is ours. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Borodin ended the call.

Valentina put on her sunglasses and walked faster. She had a rival. The thought neither pleased nor displeased her. It was simply another element she must factor into the equation.

For the first time she wondered about the contents of the letter. She decided it didn’t matter. Knowing might only prove a distraction.

To her, the letter was a means to an end. Nothing more.

Find the letter and get her old life back.

She would stop at nothing.





Chapter 26



Nikki Perez was sitting at a table in the back of Julien’s Café when Simon arrived.

“You’re early,” he said, checking his watch. The place was empty except for an old man reading Le Figaro and the barman.

“My father taught us that five minutes early is on time.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Simon. “It’s warm in here. Let’s walk.”

“Sure,” said Nikki. “You’re the boss.”

Simon eyed her warily, not trusting the nice act.

They left Julien’s and crossed the Pont Saint-Michel toward the Boulevard Saint-Germain. “My favorite part of the city,” he said. “I lived near here when I was at school.”

“In the nineties, right?”

“Very funny. I slipped a sous-chef at a restaurant around the corner a few euros to give me the food they were going to throw out.”

“You mean the rotten food?”

“Almost rotten.”

Nikki wrinkled her nose. “How was it?”

“If you’re twenty-six, broke, and starving, it’s delicious. Fry anything in butter, cover it with enough ketchup or mayonnaise, and it tastes okay. I only got sick twice. Oysters. Haven’t had one since.”

“Nice story,” said Nikki, suddenly all business. “Is any of it true or just part of your general line of charming bullshit?”