The Take(86)

“This is a delicate matter that I chose not to report to the police.”

“Again, I’m sorry, Mr. Blatt. Unless you file a report, there’s nothing I can do.”

“Twenty thousand.”

“Excuse me?” said Quince, beyond offended.

“I’ll give you twenty thousand pounds. Cash.”

“Are you trying to bribe me?”

“Twenty thousand to see the tapes or you will regret the day you were ever born. Call it what you will.”

“Twenty-five thousand and I’ll have the tape ready for you in an hour.”

Blatt hung up, enraged. He didn’t know whether to have Quince killed or to hire him.





Chapter 50



I thought you said she was on a plane at Orly,” said Nikki.

“Apparently, she didn’t like to fly.”

Simon stared out the window. The sun was still shining. The countryside every bit as picturesque as it had been before the attack. It was he who’d changed, or rather his place in the world. Instead of the hunter, he’d become the hunted.

“We need to get off the train,” he said.

“We stop at Avignon,” said Nikki.

“How long?”

“Thirty minutes from now. But the police are waiting to speak to you in Marseille. You need to give them a statement.”

“It’s not the police I’m worried about.”

“You think there’s someone else?” demanded Nikki. “Another one like her?”

“I don’t see why not. We’re working as a team.”

“But she was the only one who came out of Falconi’s apartment.”

Simon leaned forward and took Nikki’s hand. “Right now we need to consider every possibility. We’re getting off this train as soon as possible.”

Twenty minutes had passed since the attack. Escorted by the rail marshal, Simon and Nikki had returned to their seats, only to be accosted by nervous travelers inquiring what had happened. He told them the same thing he’d told the marshal. He didn’t know the woman who’d attacked him. The assault had come as a complete and terrible surprise. And over and over again, no, he didn’t think it was terrorism. As far as he was concerned, it was a random act of violence perpetrated by a crazed individual.

All of this the marshal accepted without question. He was not a policeman but a newly trained security officer, one of thousands who had recently been stationed aboard France’s trains in response to the increase in terrorist activity within the country’s borders. His lack of experience was apparent.

“And you?” the rail marshal had asked, after examining Simon’s passport. “You are a cop in America? A soldier, perhaps?”

“No,” Simon had replied, with a lucky survivor’s shaken resolve. He was a businessman. The kick to the woman’s knee was a reflex. Instinct, really. He was lucky to be alive. The rail marshal hadn’t been convinced, but the answer had sufficed for the moment.

As for the very special pen, Simon had concealed it in his luggage, if only to delay the police in discovering that she was some kind of spy or assassin. He could explain away being an innocent victim. It would be harder if the police discovered the peculiar item she’d used to kill herself. Suicide by jabbing a poison-tipped pen into your neck was not an everyday occurrence.

Simon lifted a bag of ice from his cheek. “How does it look?”

Nikki gingerly probed the swollen flesh. “Red but not too bad. You have a hard head.”

Simon winced. “Not hard enough.”

“And your stitches?” Nikki asked. “Any tearing?”

“Seem okay.”

Her fingers remained on his cheek. “You’ve taken quite a beating this last while.”

Simon sat back, enjoying her touch more than he cared to admit. “The other guys got worse.”

“Yes, they did, I suppose. And otherwise? How are you holding up?”

“Fine,” said Simon. “No worries.” He wanted to give her a smile, a little something to let her know he was okay, but all he could muster was a nod of the head. He looked out the window in case his unease showed. He wasn’t fine at all. His mind was a mess of warring ideas far more bothersome than his bruised cheek. He wasn’t sure who were his friends and who were his enemies, or if he even had any friends in this matter to begin with.

As he’d discussed with Nikki, he had to assume that Neill knew the Russian woman’s location. If Simon’s store-bought StingRay could track the woman’s phone and link it to her masters in Yasenevo, then Neill—with his access to the world’s most sophisticated surveillance system—should have been able not only to alert him to her presence on the train but also to give him the precise location of her carriage and her seat number.

The question then was, why had he chosen not to warn him?

Had Neill wanted Simon killed? Or was it something else? Something subtler. Had he, despite his statements to the contrary, wanted Vassily Borodin and his ilk to know that the Americans were giving chase?

The answer was moot. Simon must base his decisions solely upon Neill’s actions, and that meant assuming Neill viewed his play in the game as complete. Simon had fulfilled his role. As desired, he’d forced the Russians to give chase. Moreover, he’d provided Neill with a list of phone numbers that likely belonged to Tino Coluzzi, allowing Neill, with help from the NSA, to find Coluzzi himself.