The Take(81)

“Well?” Nikki asked. “Satisfied?”

“Not the word I’d use.” He checked his phone to see if Neill had sent a message about the Russian assassin’s whereabouts. He wondered if it really was Neill with Reagan all those years ago and, moreover, if there was anything to the look between him and Vladimir Putin. The fact that Putin and Reagan—and Reagan’s handlers, presumably some of whom were CIA—were together had to mean something. Why else would Borodin send the picture to Prince Abdul Aziz?

“What’s bothering you?” Nikki asked.

“Nothing. Just anxious to get to Marseille.”

“Don’t lie. We’re a team now, right?”

“I’m wondering why Neill hasn’t let us know if he’s been able to track down the Russian who killed Falconi.”

“Should he have?”

“My guess is yes. If we could track the number with a device anyone can buy over the counter, I’m fairly certain that a man with his resources could do a damn sight better.”

“You don’t trust him?”

“Let me put it this way: I don’t distrust him,” said Simon, “yet.”

“How did he find you?”

“I’d done some work for people in his line of work before. Background checks. Industrial espionage. Nothing like this. They must have looked into my past. A deep dive. That’s what they do, you know.”

“I have a question,” said Nikki. “If this guy is smart enough to find exactly the right person to go after this letter, how come he put a guy like Coluzzi onto the job to steal it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t think he looked into Coluzzi’s past as deeply as he looked into yours? Did he really expect a career criminal to keep his end of the bargain?” Nikki looked at Simon, eyes mocking him. “He must not be as smart as you think.”

Simon said nothing. He looked out the window again, seeking refuge in the passing countryside. Neill wasn’t one to misjudge a person. If anything, he was smarter than Simon had thought. He looked back at Nikki, meeting her gaze, disliking her for having given voice to his deepest concerns. More and more, he felt like a puppet on a string.

He stood and started down the car.

“Hey,” said Nikki, rising and touching his arm. “What’s wrong? You mad?”

“Good guess,” said Simon. “You must be a detective.”

“Simon, what is it?”

“Look,” he said. “I haven’t put all the pieces together. I’m sorry if I don’t have all the answers yet.”

“I’m only trying to help.”

“I need to stretch my legs,” said Simon, hearing the apology in her voice, realizing he’d been rash. “I’m going to hit the dining car.”

“Wait,” said Nikki, picking up her handbag. “I’ll come with you.”





Chapter 46



From her vantage point in the rest area outside Riske’s car—the two-meter-long no-man’s-land between carriages—Valentina watched the American rise from his seat and head her way, followed by the woman she’d guessed to be his companion. Valentina retreated a step, seeking refuge in the bathroom. She tried the handle and found it locked. A brusque male voice registered his protest. In her fatigued state, she nearly shouted for him to hurry up and get out.

The American was ten steps away, four rows from the door. Turning, she rushed to the adjoining car and traversed its length. The next bathroom was vacant. She entered and locked the door, counting to sixty to allow Riske to pass. In that time, she removed the pen from her pocket, loosened the cap, and cocked its pocket clasp to ninety degrees, charging the nib with poison.

After a minute, she opened the door cautiously. Her eyes reconnoitered the rest area. The American was gone.

She walked to the next car in time to observe the woman nearing the far exit. The American opened the door and let her pass in front of him. When they were both out of view, Valentina entered the carriage, moving slower now, aware that the dining car was immediately ahead.

A steward came through the door, pushing a beverage cart. His colleague held the door for him, offering Valentina a clear view of Riske, back to her, and the woman standing in line in the dining car.

“Excuse me, madame.”

Valentina stepped aside as the steward passed. She advanced to the end of the carriage, peeking through the glass, her view blocked by a knot of passengers leaving the dining car. The element of surprise was vital. She couldn’t allow Riske to see her approach, not even for a second. It was imperative no one witness her stabbing him with the pen.

The onslaught of the poison’s effects was rapid and dramatic. Within seconds, the victim realized that something was horribly wrong. The heartbeat accelerated. Muscles tightened. Eyesight blurred. A terrific pounding pressed on the temple. Body temperature rose three to five degrees. The skin flushed. Perspiration increased. Taken together, the reactions made the victim feel as if his head were about to explode.

As the poison attacked the central nervous system, the victim became paralyzed. His muscles began to spasm. He could no longer speak. Pain became unbearable. He frothed at the mouth. Often, he vomited copiously.

In the final stages, the nervous system stopped functioning altogether. The person collapsed. His lungs no longer worked. In the last seconds before death, he suffered the sensation of asphyxiating, his mouth open but unable to draw a breath.