The Take(77)

Simon looked out the window. The train was passing through the city suburbs, tall concrete housing complexes that even in the cheery morning sun looked grim and unwelcoming. He remembered the rows of government-built apartments up the hill from his mother’s house. The buildings had been nicer than these, at least to look at. Many apartments had had window boxes decorated with colorful flowers year-round. There had been decent playgrounds and a football field, upkeep paid for by the drug lords who governed the turf. Inside, however, the buildings had been decrepit and stank of overflowing sewage, the hallways narrow and dark, the stairwells a no-man’s-land that reeked of urine, vomit, and the ever-present scent of pot. Elevators seldom functioned. He couldn’t get from an apartment to the street without passing a drug deal in progress or a hooker bringing a john to her place or a group of bored, belligerent kids looking for trouble. Police made it a habit to stop a block away. It was as close as they dared to come.

“I grew up out here,” said Nikki.

“Tough neighborhood.”

“There are tougher.”

“You got out. Good on you.”

“And you? How’d you get out? From Les Baums to the Sciences Po. That’s like from Earth to the moon.”

“Long story.”

“We’ve got four hours.”

“Another time.”

“Promise?” she asked, and he could see she was trying to be his friend.

“Maybe one day.” Simon returned to his phone. He was studying the information he’d gotten from Delacroix’s phone detailing Prince Abdul Aziz’s personal data. His email address, credit card numbers, Saudi national identity number, and more. He felt a presence next to him and looked up to find Nikki perched on his armrest.

“What’s that?” she asked, a hand on his shoulder.

Simon told her about his visit with Delacroix and how he’d lifted his phone and swiped the information from his SIM card.

“And so?” she asked. “How do you plan on using it?”

“With any luck I can get the password for his email account. After that, who knows?”

“Do you have any regard for the law whatsoever?”

“I sleep just fine.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“You want to listen in or would you like me to do this somewhere else?”

“I’m off duty. Please continue. One day when I’m a private investigator I may find it useful.”

Simon found the number for the prince’s Internet provider, a prominent Saudi Arabian telecom company. “Here we go,” he said. “Quiet.”

Nikki zipped her mouth closed.

“Good morning,” he said when the customer service representative answered. His Arabic was slow and formal. His vocabulary was limited, but his accent was spot-on. “I have a small problem. I’ve forgotten the password for my account.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. I’m sure we can help you find it without too much trouble. If you go to the sign-in page of your account and click on the ‘Forgot password’ link, you’ll find instructions directing you how to retrieve or reset your password.”

“I’m not at my computer. I’m on a phone and I don’t have Wi-Fi access. I’d like to take care of this as quickly as possible, so when I do have Wi-Fi I can get to my messages.”

“Of course, sir. I will have to ask you a few questions.”

“Fire away.”

“What is your email address?”

Simon read it off.

“Thank you. And what is the name of the account holder?”

Simon gave the prince’s full name.

“Am I speaking with the prince?”

“This is Prince Abdul Aziz.”

The representative began speaking Arabic excitedly. Simon did his best to understand but much escaped him. The gist, however, was clear. The telecom rep was honored, thrilled, gratified, to be helping the prince. Simon laid even odds that the representative knew what the prince’s real job was.

“Please,” said Simon. “I am with some American colleagues. I prefer to speak English.”

“Of course, Your Highness. Please excuse me. I apologize. I—”

“May we continue?”

“Yes, Your Highness. I must still ask you these questions to verify your identity. No disrespect.”

“I understand. You are just doing your job. And may I say you are doing it well.”

“Thank you. Now, may I ask your date of birth?”

“November twelfth, nineteen sixty-seven.”

“And when did you create this account?”

Simon gave a throaty harrumph. “Years ago. If I could remember that, surely I could remember my password.”

“No problem, sir. In that case, do you have your national identity number?”

“Now, that I remember.” Simon consulted the sheet listing the prince’s information and read off the number.

“Thank you, sir. We are almost finished.”

“I certainly hope so.” He was tempted to add And if you care about your family, you’ll make sure we are soon.

“What is the billing address on this account?”

Simon ran his eyes over the sheet. Nowhere did he find an address for the prince. “Shit.”