The Take(49)

“Pardon?” Simon smiled, hoping to keep things light, agreeable. “What happened to ‘You’re the boss’?”

“Save it for someone else. You knew Salvatore Brigantino was dead. He was in Germany last year having some kind of experimental treatment. The word’s all over the street. Commissaire Dumont told me you were sharp, that you had good contacts. How did you miss that?”

“We can rule Brigantino out. Good.”

“You still won’t tell me about your little birdie?”

“And Coluzzi?”

“Yes, Coluzzi. He’s a funny one to be on your list. Why would a lifelong bad guy who did time for bank robbery, attempted murder, and felonious assault want to steal a letter?”

“Good question. Once I find him, I’ll ask him and get back to you.”

“Sure you will.”

“Look, Nikki, I don’t know what’s gotten you so upset.”

“You did. You’re wasting my time. You knew Coluzzi was the one all along. Why did you lie?”

“Did you find him?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s make a deal. You tell me what’s in this famous letter and I’ll tell you if I found Coluzzi.”

“Fair enough.”

“Really? You’ll tell me?” It was Nikki’s turn to be surprised. She stood arms akimbo, ready to deliver her next stinging riposte.

“Promise.”

“All right, then,” she said. “Go ahead.”

“I don’t know,” said Simon.

Nikki threw him a look to say she was done here, turned, and walked in the other direction.

Simon hurried to catch up with her. “Word of honor. I don’t know what’s in that letter. My client in this matter—a man who I have every reason to believe—refused to tell me. He did make it clear, however, that it was important.”

“Sure it is. To save his marriage or his bank account.”

“More than that. A lot of people might be in trouble if the wrong people get it.”

“What kind of people?”

“You. Me. Everyone.”

“That’s rich. I’m scared now, Mr. Riske. Trembling in my boots. Can’t you see?” Nikki narrowed her eyes and laughed sarcastically. “Pass it on to the next rube. I’m out of here.”

Simon grabbed her arm before she could take a step. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe it,” he said.

It was only then that he realized that Neill had gotten to him. That he really did believe he must find the letter and that he was committed to doing everything in his power to make it happen.

Nikki looked hard at him, suspicious as ever. “So tell me why a hood like Tino Coluzzi would ever want something like that.”

“Maybe,” Simon said, “he didn’t mean to steal it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means maybe he got it accidentally. Look, that’s as far as I can go.” He waited for a moment, expecting another rebuke. Nikki remained silent, though her expression was far from convinced. He said, “Your turn.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.” She began walking, her shoulder nearly touching his. “I didn’t pick up anything new about Coluzzi,” she said. “Other than to confirm that he was behind a large theft of pharmaceutical drugs last year. I was able, however, to find out the name of a place where his friends hang out. It’s a bar in the Marais called Le Galleon Rouge.”

“Never heard of it.”

“A dive. I asked around. Apparently it’s popular with that crowd. You want to ask for someone named Giacomo, or Jack. Long hair. Sideburns. Mustache.”

“Jack or Giacomo at the Le Galleon Rouge. It’s a start.”

She looked Simon up and down. “Don’t go dressed like that.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“The commissaire told me about you saving his life. Thank him, not me.”

“He’s exaggerating, but thanks anyway.”

Nikki began walking backward, away from him. “Anything for a friend of the PJ. Oh yeah…” She put a finger to her forehead. “One day you’ll tell me about that.”

“It’s nothing.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said. “By the way, word has it that your friend was looking to get a crew together.”

“Coluzzi?”

Nikki nodded. “Must have been some job, whatever they really wanted to steal.”





Chapter 27



Vassily Borodin stared at the image of the business card Valentina Asanova had sent.

SIMON RISKE

SPECIAL PROTECTIVE SERVICES AND INVESTIGATIONS





9 NEW BOND STREET


LONDON, ENGLAND



The firm’s name meant nothing to him. There were dozens of such firms in every major world capital. Spying was a fully privatized industry.

He put down his phone, ruing the interruption in his work. On his desk a fan of dossiers was scattered, all neatly numbered and labeled. The information inside constituted his proof. Old-fashioned, hard proof in the form of damning papers from banks, corporations, and government ministries.