The Take(87)

All of which left one question: What game was Neill playing at?

Simon was a card player. There was a saying that went round the poker table. If you couldn’t spot the sucker, you were it. Well, he told himself, he was done being Mr. Neill’s sucker.

“There’s something else,” said Nikki. “I had a call from Commissaire Dumont right before the whole thing happened.”

“Oh?”

“It was about Delacroix. The police found him dead in his apartment this morning. He’d been murdered execution style.”

“So he was the inside man. That explains how she got on to Falconi.”

Nikki nodded. “It would be good if you told Marc what you know, if only to save him some time.”

“I can’t. Not yet.”

“This thing is bigger than us. We could use their help.”

“It’s the same size that it’s always been. Besides, what happens to you if we bring Dumont up to date?”

“Don’t worry about me. That’s twice someone’s tried to kill you in the last twelve hours. Want to try your luck a third time?”

The train slowed as it approached Avignon. Fields of saffron as bright as the sun gave way to low-slung warehouses and a barren industrial zone, then the weathered yellow brick of Provence. Simon looked to the head of the carriage, checking if the security officer was anywhere near. “Give me your phone,” he said.

“Why?”

Simon beckoned with his fingers.

“Absolutely not,” said Nikki.

“I’m not asking.”

“Simon, I need it.”

“We’ll get you a new one.”

Nikki slid the phone from her jeans but still would not hand it over. “You think they’re tracking us?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it if they were listening to every word we’re saying.”

Simon plucked the phone from her hand and tucked it, along with his own, deep into the crease between the seats. He stood and took down her bag from the overhead bin. “Gun?”

Nikki set the bag on her seat and, using her body as a shield, discreetly removed her pistol and holster. At the same time, she took out a lightweight jacket and wrapped the pistol inside.

“Leave the rest here,” said Simon. “You’ll be able to retrieve it later.”

“From the evidence locker?”

“I was thinking Lost and Found.”

The train pulled into the station, a modern, daring work of architecture with vaulting ribs of white steel enclosing the terminal. A dozen police officers were gathered near the front of the train, anxious to board. “I thought they wanted to talk to me in Marseille,” said Simon.

Nikki studied the uniformed men. “It’s just a precaution,” she said unconvincingly.

“So they don’t want to talk to me?”

Nikki didn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought.” Simon grabbed his bags from the overhead rack and led the way to the rear of the train, joining a group of ten passengers waiting to alight. He set his bags down in a compartment holding other large bags, ripping off his name tags and stuffing them into his pocket. It was an expensive decision but necessary. The police would have a field day if they tied him to his “bag of tricks.” Innocent bystanders didn’t travel with a StingRay, a parabolic microphone, and wireless cameras disguised to look like wall screws.

He was sorrier to leave behind his laptop. Though password protected and programmed to wipe the hard drive should a false password be entered twice, the laptop held plenty of sensitive information from past cases, not to mention the contents from Delacroix’s phone downloaded a day earlier.

The train halted. The doors opened and he held on to Nikki’s arm, allowing the other passengers to exit first. The tracks ran parallel to the terminal building. They needed to cross a wide expanse of open space to get inside. “Head down. Get inside as quickly as you can.”

“And then? I’m used to chasing people, not running away from them.”

“Same thing. Either way you have to run faster than the other guy.”

The passengers near them stepped off the train.

It was their turn.

“Stay close.” Simon descended from the train and headed across the platform. The air was hot and dry, smelling of pine and rosemary. It was the scent of the south. Le Midi. Earthy, welcoming, alive with promise. At the other end, the police were boarding, pushing their way past alighting passengers. No one was looking in their direction. Relieved, he drew in a breath.

“Monsieur Riske!” A man’s voice carried across the platform.

“Keep walking,” he said to Nikki.

“Monsieur Riske. Please!”

Behind them, the rail marshal jumped from the train. A policeman was behind him, and both hurried in their direction. The policeman called to a cop behind him, and then it seemed like every policeman who had just boarded the train was getting off it.

“Monsieur Riske, please. We must speak with you.”

Simon did not look in their direction. He had ten steps to the terminal. “Ready?”

“For what?” asked Nikki, looking more angry than scared.

“Run.”

Simon took off toward the door, pushing it open, allowing Nikki to run past him. An escalator carried passengers to the terminal’s main floor, a broad travertine plaza fifty meters long and equally wide filled with shops and kiosks. Timing was with them. At midday, the terminal was a hive of activity, hundreds of men and women crisscrossing the floor.