The Take(76)

“I’ll ask again, is there going to be a problem?”

“Look at you,” said Ren. “So worried.” He clenched the cigar between his teeth and pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “I didn’t say I had no contacts at all. When you are a billionaire, there are always people eager to be your friend.” He extended the paper toward Coluzzi, only to yank it back when Coluzzi reached for it. “Still,” Ren continued, “it was expensive.”

Only then did he hand Coluzzi the paper.

“He’s expecting your call at noon. We have an hour. Hungry?”

Coluzzi put the paper in his pocket. “I could eat something.”





Chapter 43



Car three, seat eighty-four,” said the agent at the security checkpoint. “At the far end of the quai, just behind the locomotive. Have a pleasant journey.”

Simon picked up his bags and started down the platform. Despite the rise of terrorist incidents in Europe, and in France in particular, there were no x-ray machines to scan luggage or carry-on bags. A half-dozen soldiers patrolled the platform, machine guns strapped to their chests. Two plainclothes policemen with German shepherds moved among the passengers as they boarded. Drug dogs, Simon guessed, as Marseille was the country’s largest port on the Mediterranean and the primary conduit for illegal contraband to and from North Africa.

The TGV was a sleek, low-bodied train, the cars painted a warm silvery tone with blue accents. A few stragglers walked ahead of him, hurrying to board the carriages. Through the windows, he noted that the train appeared to be full. For a moment he stopped and looked behind him, checking for an athletic woman with tousled brown hair. As quickly, he turned and continued to the head of the train. He had no right to expect Nikki to join him. She’d done enough already. There was no money in continuing on a wild-goose chase that was potentially dangerous to her career, and quite possibly her health. She’d made the right choice.

Simon picked up his pace, taking a look at his phone. The forecast for Marseille called for sun during the day, with wind picking up in the evening and the possibility of a storm. He remembered the tang in the air when the mistral kicked up, the flecks of flume whirling about, wetting his cheeks—the swirling, unpredictable wind carrying the sea inland. After too many years, he was going home, back to the place that had done its best to destroy him and, when it had failed, had tried even harder to give him a second life.

“Wait!” A woman’s voice echoed off the high ceiling. “Don’t close the gate.”

Simon turned to see Nikki Perez passing through the checkpoint, a carryall in one hand. He put his bags down and raised a hand, signaling to her.

“Traffic,” she said when she reached him.

“What about work?”

“We can talk about that later.”

The two walked briskly up the line of cars. Halfway there, a conductor asked them to climb aboard and continue to their seats once inside the train. Simon opened the door and Nikki climbed the steps. Almost immediately, the train began to move.

“Where’s your seat?” he asked.

“Car fifteen. Seat seventy-one,” said Nikki, checking her ticket. “Second class is the other direction. You?”

“Car three. Seat eighty-four.”

“First class, of course.”

Simon pulled his ticket from a pocket. “And eighty-five,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“I bought two just in case.”

“You knew I’d come?”

“I hoped.”

Nikki snatched the ticket out of his fingers and led the way, passing through car after car, all packed to capacity, luggage stored overhead or in the compartments between trains. Finally, they reached car 3 and identified the last two empty seats as their own. They threw their bags onto the overhead rack and sat down facing each other, a table in between them.

“I didn’t know I was so predictable,” said Nikki, settling into her seat.

“I know you want to get Coluzzi as badly as I do.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“You’re sick of desk duty.”

“Also true.”

“Hard to sit around pushing papers knowing that I might be closing in on him.”

“No other reason?”

Simon thought hard. “Am I missing something?”

“No,” said Nikki, gazing forthrightly at him. “That about covers it.”

“Well?” said Simon.

“Well what?”

“Did you call in Falconi’s murder? Did you tell Marc Dumont that we’re after Coluzzi?”

“You’re the know-it-all. You tell me.”

“Since you’re here, I’ll take that as a no.”

Nikki offered a dismissive smile. “Like you said, I want to get Coluzzi as badly as you. Well, then at least we have a few hours off.”

“Actually,” said Simon, taking out his phone, “work starts now.” He found his earpiece and microphone and plugged them in, then attached a power cord so he wouldn’t drain his battery before arriving.

“What are you doing?”

“Research.”

“About Coluzzi?”

“About the prince.”