The Take(8)

His chosen field was private banking, catering to the investment needs of wealthy clients. His interest lay in helping people, building relationships, and instilling trust. It wasn’t long before he was guiding clients in all aspects of their financial lives. He advised on art purchases, arranged for appraisals of jewelry, offered the bank’s opinion on how much gold to keep in their vault and how much to keep at home.

And it was in these personal dealings that his special skills first became apparent. When a client suspected his son was falsifying his school’s tuition bills and using the funds to purchase illicit drugs, Simon silently volunteered his help and within a week had the young man enrolled in a rehabilitation facility in Arizona and his dealer locked up in an interrogation room at Scotland Yard.

When another client suspected an employee was selling his company’s proprietary technology to a rival, Simon asked (this time aloud) if he might look into the matter. A month later, the employee was arrested for industrial espionage while the business rival ponied up a generous settlement to avoid a lawsuit.

And when another let slip that his girlfriend had absconded with two million pounds sterling from his office vault and run away to Ibiza with a lover half his age, Simon took it upon himself to rectify the situation. In a short time, the money—or most of it—was back in his client’s vault. Sadly, the girlfriend chose not to return.

Word of his uncanny ability to solve even the thorniest of problems spread rapidly. His mastery of language served him well. Besides his native English, he spoke French, Italian, Spanish, Russian, and a bit of Arabic. His clients often wondered if he’d spent time as a policeman or maybe a soldier or, pray tell, a spy—whatever that meant in this day and age. To which Simon had only laughed and said that their problems had not been as difficult to solve as they’d appeared and, really, anyone could have done it.

He had tendered his resignation without warning. Nothing the bank had offered could entice him to remain. He’d left them his private number and an offer to do what he could should a client have a special problem. That had been five years ago.

“Go back to the bank?” Simon downed the scotch and banged the glass onto Moore’s desk. “Pass.”

“Well, then, you have your investments,” said D’Artagnan Moore. “Market’s been doing nicely. You’ve always been a wiz.”

“No complaints.”

“What is it, then?”

Simon looked at Moore, at the dark eyes peering at him from beneath those impossibly tangled eyebrows. It was apparent Moore was sincere in his desire to help. Some things, however, Simon had learned were best kept to oneself. “Nothing,” he said. “Just getting older.”

“Aren’t we all, lad? Aren’t we all?” Moore produced an envelope from his top drawer and slid it across the table. “This should ease the pain. Go a ways toward buying that dyno…no—”

“Dynamometer.”

“Gesundheit.”

Simon slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket. “Nothing else on your desk that needs attention?”

“Not at the moment. Seems that all the cheats, crooks, and con men are away on holiday. Why not join them? Take a vacation. Spain. Portugal. Take a trip home.”

“The States?”

“I hear Cape Cod is lovely. Take a lady friend. Man like you must have a string of them.”

“Sure thing, D’Art,” said Simon. “They’re lined up in front of my flat.” Three months had passed since his last relationship had ended. He was enjoying his status as a single male in a fast-paced, cosmopolitan city. He was in no hurry to change that. “Tell you what. I’ll go if you go. Bachelors’ road trip. Not Cape Cod. Ibiza. Saint-Tropez. You pick the spot.”

Moore roared in delight. “Me in a bathing suit? God save us.”

The two laughed a while longer. Moore stood and escorted him into the hall, a meaty arm laid across Simon’s shoulder. “Relax, lad. I’m sure something will turn up. Until then, enjoy life.”





Chapter 4



Tino Coluzzi drove rapidly through the forest, both hands on the wheel, face crowding the windscreen as he negotiated the single-lane road. It was crow-black. The canopy was so dense it denied the slightest light from the night sky. The track turned to the right and dropped. His stomach fell with it. Something large darted across his path. He braked. A shadow disappeared into the brush. A stag.

After leaving the highway at the village of Buchères, Coluzzi had cut his headlamps. The hills were filled with cabins belonging to hunters and those who’d simply withdrawn from society. He was anxious not to alert anyone about the Chateau Vaucluse’s midnight visitor.

Another turn. The car shuddered as he crossed a barren stream. A dramatic incline and he was free of the forest. Stars appeared above a vista of rolling hills. He could see the chateau squatting on the hilltop a hundred meters ahead. It was a hulking structure with stone walls, narrow windows, and a slate roof. A local baron had built it as his hunting lodge two hundred years earlier. For decades it had sat empty and in disrepair. Coluzzi had picked it up at auction for a song.

He crested the ridge and steered the car into the forecourt, breathing easier as the tires dug into the gravel driveway. He continued through the archway and parked in the garage, certain to immediately lower the door behind him. Retrieving the case containing the money and the prince’s calfskin satchel, he crossed to the main building. Before unlocking the servants’ door, he paused and closed his eyes to listen. All was still. Far away an owl hooted. Then there was nothing but the wind.