The Take(79)

She reached the end of the car and looked behind her, double-checking. It was only then that she realized she was holding her breath. She gathered herself and continued across the connecting area. To her left, the door to the restroom opened and a woman stepped out, nearly bumping into her.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Go ahead.”

“After you,” said Valentina.

The woman turned and opened the door to the next car.

It was then that Valentina saw the streak of blue in her hair.





Chapter 45



Simon had exchanged his phone for his laptop.

“We only get one shot at this,” he said. “Next time the prince logs in, he’ll know he’s been hacked. He’ll change the password back, or shut down the account. I’ll copy anything interesting, but we need to move fast.”

Nikki crowded next to him, eyes on the screen as he pulled up the Saudi Arabian website. As instructed, he used the temporary password to log into the prince’s email.

“Here we go.”

The prince’s mailbox appeared on the screen. A notation indicated that there were two hundred seventy new messages. Simon began scanning the headers. Nearly all were written in Arabic.

“Can you read it?” he asked.

“Can’t you?” said Nikki. “You were speaking Arabic a minute ago.”

“The operative word is ‘speaking.’ I picked it up when I was doing my time.”

“Let me,” said Nikki, pulling the laptop closer. “Half the families in my neighborhood were Libyans.”

“I’m thinking the stuff we’re looking for will be in English.”

Nikki scrolled through the new messages as Simon looked on. Most appeared to be from the prince’s family: brothers, sisters, cousins. Lots of names ending in “bin Saud.” He saw nothing related to the prince’s government job. That, Simon figured, would be in a different mailbox.

“What are we looking for?” Nikki asked.

“Anything that can help us learn what’s in the envelope.”

“Why do you care so much? Isn’t it enough that your client told you to get it?”

“If I’m going to lose even one drop of blood for something, I want to know what it is.”

“Any ideas?”

Simon shrugged. “Whatever it is, it has people in Washington and Moscow worried.”

Nikki scrolled down the list, going back one day, then another. A few messages in French popped up. There was one from the manager of the George V thanking him for his visit and offering his sympathy about the robbery. And a similar note from the manager of Cartier.

“Something’s wrong,” said Simon. “Two hundred seventy unread messages.”

Nikki looked up. “So?”

“How often do you check your email?”

“If I’m busy, a few times a day. If I’m not, every other minute.”

“Exactly. The last message the prince opened was from Jean-Jacques Delacroix on Sunday night.”

“Two hours after the robbery,” said Nikki, noting the time stamp.

Simon read the message aloud. “‘Dear Prince Abdul Aziz, I’ve just heard about the terrible affairs of this evening and wanted to inquire as to your and the princess’s well-being, as well as that of your children. Please let me know soonest if there is anything I or the hotel can do on your behalf to be of assistance in this difficult time.’”

“Did he respond?” asked Nikki.

Simon opened the Sent Mail box. “He did.” He read the missive aloud. “We are fine, Jean-Jacques. No one important was harmed. Thank you, my friend.”

“‘No one important,’” said Nikki. “Just the bodyguard. Nice. And then? Anything more?”

“That’s it. Nothing was sent since Sunday night.”

“And no more messages were opened since then either.”

“That’s a long break.”

“Too long.” Nikki looked at Simon. “What do you think?”

“I’m thinking it’s not good for your health to come in contact with that letter.”

Simon worked his way through the messages in reverse chronological order. The prince received nearly one hundred emails a day. Besides the correspondence from his family, there was junk mail from bookstores and department stores, newspapers and magazines, and one from his bank with a receipt for his withdrawal of ten thousand euros from the Bois de Boulogne branch.

Then he saw a name that increased his unease tenfold. The sender was [email protected]. The header read, Handover details. The message, Kalamatos Airfield, Cyprus. Designation: KMTS. Radio frequency: 560 Hz. Sunday. 2300.

“Borodin,” said Simon. “Ring a bell?”

“Something with music?”

“That was Alexander Borodin. Nineteenth-century Russian composer. This is Borodin, V.” He typed the name into his Google search bar. “‘Borodin, Vassily,’” he read aloud from a Wikipedia entry. “‘Director Russian Foreign Intelligence Service.’”

“Now we know who’s angry at us.”

“Cyprus,” said Simon. “A nice neutral location to hand over the letter…after which the prince fell off the map.”