The Take(83)

“I see,” said Nikki. It was the Russian. Evidently, the PJ wasn’t the only one to mark Delacroix as a suspect. She signaled Riske to come join her. “When?”

“Last night sometime. When he didn’t show up for work, his colleagues sent someone to his place.”

“Any leads?”

“None, but you might want to call the lieutenant.”

Nikki waved again, but Riske was looking at the dining attendant. “Thank you, Commissaire.”

“Nikki?”

“Yes?”

“Riske is staying at the hotel where Delacroix worked, isn’t he?”

Nikki began to answer when she saw a blond woman enter the car and advance along the corridor. Something about her manner captured her attention. There was a tautness to her body, a purpose that seemed out of place. She studied the face. It was her.

“Behind you!” Nikki shouted.



Simon heard Nikki’s voice, met her eyes, saw the fear in them, the desperation. He spun to his left, his gaze fixed on the woman approaching, passing the queue of customers. He knew her at once, not only because he recognized her from Le Galleon Rouge. He could feel the tension emanating from her, her commitment, her blind will, and though she had yet to look at him, he was certain that he was her target.

All this he processed in less than a second.

In that time, she began her attack. He saw the right arm rise from her leg, a slim, black instrument clutched in her hand. He caught the sparkle of gold as she lunged at him. It was a fountain pen, yet she held it as if it were a weapon.

He stepped back, hugging the wall, and with his left hand arrested her forward motion, fingers curling around her wrist, crushing it. The woman grunted and leaned into him, the hand defying his grip, rising toward his chest, her eyes fixed on him.

Next to him, a man cried out in alarm, shrinking from the attack.

Simon turned his shoulder into her and, with his weight behind him, thrust her hand against the wall. She responded with a knee to the groin, missing its mark by an inch. He buckled at the waist and lost his grip on her hand. He felt no real pain, no fear. He was aware only of the fierce pumping of his heart and the adrenaline raging through his veins. In the same motion, he drove a fist into her solar plexus, feeling cartilage give but little more. The woman recoiled, eyes watering, but otherwise was unbowed.

Simon pushed himself off the wall and stood taller. The two faced each other at a distance of prizefighters. The passengers had scattered any way they could. He heard Nikki’s voice behind him, telling him to run, but he had never run from a fight in his life. He was the fool who ran toward it. Somewhere buried in his psyche he knew he was merely answering the voice that had been calling to him with increasing frequency, telling him that this was his real self. That he couldn’t hide any longer and that everything he’d become was a lie.

That he belonged on the wrong side of right.

In that instant all caution left him.

The woman lunged at him, her motion a blur. He darted to the side, angling his body, catching the outstretched arm and turning the wrist inward, his free hand locking her elbow. The woman struck him in the face repeatedly, knuckles curled, battering his cheek. He maintained his grip, holding her other hand high, then raised his leg and drove his heel into her kneecap, holding nothing back, collapsing the knee on itself, shearing the ligaments, dislocating the joint.

She screamed and fell to the floor, helpless.

Simon stood above her. “What’s in the letter?” he asked.

The woman pushed herself away, eyes blinking, breath firing in ragged bursts. The door behind her opened. A security officer burst into the carriage, weapon drawn. She looked over her shoulder at him, then back at Simon.

“Tell me,” he said.

The woman’s eyes went to her hand, to the fountain pen clutched there.

“Don’t!”

The woman plunged the pen into her neck, then dropped it onto the floor.

Nikki approached, bending down to see if she could help.

“It’s too late,” said Simon, pulling her away.

The Russian woman’s back arched. Her eyes widened, and widened more. Her mouth opened in a paroxysm of terror. Spittle flowed freely down her chin. A horrible cry came from deep inside her.

And then all life fled.

Her body went limp and she collapsed, dead.





Chapter 48



Tino Coluzzi tossed two more langoustines onto his plate and sat back in his chair. He wasn’t in the least hungry, yet he forced himself to eat, checking his watch every five minutes. Alexei Ren sat at the head of the table, holding court. The others present were his executives and their families. From what Coluzzi could gather, business was good. He turned his eyes toward the sea. A few more yachts had anchored since his arrival. None were as grand as the Solange, but they were impressive nevertheless, none shorter than a hundred feet, with sleek bows and shaded afterdecks. A few Jet Skis zipped in and out between them. The good life. It was so close he could taste it.

He caught Ren signaling to him from the head of the table, a nod toward the far end of the restaurant. Coluzzi rose and followed the Russian to a patio overlooking the windward side of the island and the open ocean.

“Go ahead,” said Ren, giving him his phone. “He’s expecting you.”

“Now?”

Ren checked his watch. “It’s nearly one in Moscow. If that’s where he is.”