The Take(74)

“Isn’t that a coincidence?” The van came to a halt and Neill gazed out the window at a large nineteenth-century terminus building with a clock tower similar in style to Big Ben. It was the Gare de Lyon.

“Shall we contact Riske and tell him about the Russian?” the technician asked.

Neill didn’t respond. He’d had eyes and ears on Riske since he’d left London. He’d had a man in the lobby of the George V when Riske checked in and another at police headquarters when he’d met Commissaire Dumont. One of his men had followed Riske to Le Galleon Rouge and witnessed the fight outside the bar and, later, Riske’s visit to the ER.

So it was that Neill knew Riske was working closely with Detective Perez. He was more than a little peeved that Riske hadn’t told him, but he wasn’t surprised. Everyone had his own agenda. Nothing was ever just business. It was always personal. But then he’d bet on that all along.

“Sir?”

Neill looked away, mulling his options. He had an agenda as well, and he was no longer sure if it was compatible with Simon Riske’s.

“Can we at least send him the picture of her?”

“Quiet,” said Neill. “Unless you want the man to hear you.”

“Sir?”

Across the street a taxi had pulled up and disgorged a single passenger. He was a trim, dark-haired man dressed in a tailored blazer and slacks. Neill watched as Simon Riske paid the driver and set off at a determined clip toward the terminus.

Riske was his bird dog, not his retriever. His job was to flush the adversary out of the undergrowth, nothing more. So far, he was doing an admirable job. If the phone numbers found at Falconi’s house did, in fact, belong to Coluzzi, Neill wouldn’t need Riske much longer. He’d catch Coluzzi himself.

Neill saw no reason to offer help when help wasn’t needed.

“Mr. Riske is fine on his own,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

Neill put a hand on the driver’s shoulder. “Let’s get to the airport. The plane’s waiting.”



Neill arrived at Orly Airport thirty minutes later.

The van passed through a special security gate and drove across the tarmac to the Gulfstream jet parked anonymously at the far corner of the airfield. Unlike Valentina Asanova, Neill did have a plane at his disposal.

He’d be in Marseille in a little more than ninety minutes. Well ahead of his bird dog.





Chapter 42



Nervous, flighty, and fatigued from a poor night’s sleep, Tino Coluzzi parked his car and walked the three blocks downhill to the port. The sky was a flawless blue. A light breeze scalloped the sea’s surface. Gulls wheeled and turned overhead, crying lustily. The beautiful morning failed to lift the mantle of dread. A Russian assassin had killed Luca Falconi, his best friend. Worse, Falconi had seemingly told her everything he knew about him and about Le Coual. And in case that wasn’t enough, Simon Ledoux, a man he’d thought dead and buried these long years, was not only alive but on his way to find him.

It had come to this.

One call.

Coluzzi crossed the Place aux Huiles and soon came in sight of the harbor. His heart sank. Panicked, he looked left and right. Nowhere did he see the Solange’s proud navy-blue hull, the sharp bow, the skull and crossbones fluttering from the fantail.

Ren had lied to him. He had not tried to reach Borodin after all.

In a daze, Coluzzi crossed to the quai and ran to the Solange’s mooring. In place of the two-hundred-foot superyacht was an eighteen-foot tender, bobbing at the dock. A lone crewman in white shorts and striped sailor’s tunic busied himself wiping down the seats. Coluzzi lowered his head, feeling as if he were the brunt of some cruel practical joke. He thought of the briefcase cached at Le Coual and the letter returned to its hiding place inside it.

Now what?

“Mr. Coluzzi?”

Coluzzi looked up to see the young crewman waving. “What do you want?”

“Mr. Ren departed at dawn for Entre les ?les.”

“I can see that.”

“Come aboard. He asked that I bring you.”

“To Entre les ?les?”

“He’s expecting you.”

“He is?… I mean, of course he is.” Coluzzi hurried to the mooring. With a new spirit, he jumped into the boat. The sailor cast off and started the engines, maneuvering the boat past a line of incoming trawlers. When they’d cleared the breakwater, Fort Saint-Nicolas above their shoulder, he pushed down on the throttle. The bow rose, the wind picked up, and in seconds they were making twenty knots over a shallow chop.

The boat turned east and skirted the coast, leaving Marseille behind and traversing Les Calanques. After a minute, Coluzzi spotted Le Bilboquet, the beach bar where he’d spent so much time when he’d first arrived from Corsica. His eye moved up the craggy vertical face behind it to the bluff. He looked a few hundred meters to the right, trying hard to find Le Coual among the red rocks. He could not, and this made him feel safer, proud of how well he’d camouflaged his hideout. If he couldn’t see it, no one could.

The boat turned away from the coast, heading out to sea on a course of south by southeast. The wind picked up. The sea grew rougher. The small boat began to rise and fall dramatically, the bow slapping the water with force. Coluzzi kept a death grip on the handrail. He was a landlubber, pure and simple. His family was from the mountains. Pig farmers, who even at the height of summer rarely visited the beach. The violent bounce, the subtle pitch and roll, provoked the first uneasy stirrings of nausea.