The Take Read online

  Tino Coluzzi.

  Now, there was a name he’d never expected to hear again.

  For a moment a rash of near unimaginable anger passed through him.

  He picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found the name of a man he knew in the city capable of getting him whatever he needed, quickly, discreetly, and without question. He thought of Detective Perez and the pistol she wore on her belt. A SIG Sauer identical to it would do nicely.

  As quickly, he put the phone down. Nothing could change the past.

  “The best revenge is to be unlike he who performed the injury.”

  Another of the monsignor’s rules.

  Simon had been hired to retrieve a letter. Nothing more.

  As for Coluzzi?

  If Simon recalled, his weapon of choice was a stiletto. He’d have the blade in his chest before Simon cleared the pistol from its holster.

  He moved his attaché case to the desk and opened it. Inside, packed in foam, were the elements of his surveillance kit: bugs, transmitters, a parabolic microphone, high-def cameras disguised as screws or hidden in lapel pins. A separate, smaller case contained some new gear his technical advisor had sold him. Simon expected good things.

  He finished dressing and took the elevator to the ground floor. A gallery with sofas and chairs and tables ran alongside the atrium around which the hotel was built. He chose an empty seat with an unobstructed view of the lobby. Nearby tables were occupied by flamboyant Germans, taciturn Saudis, and a flock of giggly Asian women, who, by the volume of shopping bags on the floor and couches around them, appeared to have visited every store on the Avenue Montaigne.

  A server arrived, and he ordered a mineral water and a croque monsieur. He relaxed and picked up a copy of the New York Times Global Edition lying on a table. From his position, he was able to observe the hotel staff and the comings and goings of guests. He was wondering how Coluzzi had known in which car the prince carried his money and, more importantly, the precise route he would take to the airport. He was wondering who had told him. Simon knew an inside job when he saw one.

  The sound of a door closing loudly drew his attention to the reception desk, where a compact, officious man emerged from a room behind the counter and spoke to the night manager in a stern manner.

  Hotel security, thought Simon, spotting the man’s earpiece and lapel microphone. An important guest was due for arrival. The alarm had been sounded.

  The server brought Simon’s food. He had time to eat half his sandwich before the VIPs arrived. Doormen poured into the lobby. The night manager positioned himself at the entry. The hotel security man retired to a far corner, appearing to admire a showcase displaying sparkling gold watches.

  A moment later, a Middle Eastern family filed into the lobby—six children, two wives, a sheikh—accompanied by a two-man contingent of private security. The night manager greeted the sheikh and led him to the reception as the bellmen began ferrying in trolleys overflowing with trunks and cases. But Simon’s eyes instinctively stayed on the security man who had approached one of the bodyguards and discreetly led him aside for a more serious discussion.

  The hotel’s chief of security was fit, full of vim, maybe fifty, with a prizefighter’s brow and thick hair gone prematurely gray. He wore a stiff blazer, pressed slacks, and polished leather shoes with thick soles that indicated he spent a good deal of time on his feet. His entire bearing screamed “military.”

  The bodyguard led the hotel security man to the sheikh. There was a handshake, a bow of the head, and a solemn exchange of words before the sheikh returned to his family.

  Simon settled the bill and passed through the lobby onto the street. The sun had set a while earlier. The night was warm and breezy. He strolled to the Champs-Élysées and walked its length to the Place de la Concorde, admiring the obelisk, gazing up the grand boulevard to the Arc de Triomphe before heading back to the hotel.

  As he strolled, he couldn’t erase the unsavory image of the sheikh slipping a neatly folded wad of bills into the hands of the hotel’s chief of security. He wondered if, like the prince, the sheikh also traveled with a million euros in cash.

  Or if, perhaps, the payment was in exchange for helping chart the safest route to the airport.

  Chapter 16

  Jojo’s was in full swing when Coluzzi entered just after ten p.m. All the tables in the main room were occupied, with the overflow leaning on the brass railing and crowding the bar. Music blared as the girls worked the room, most not bothering to cover themselves with anything more than a G-string. He moved through the crowd, ignoring their entreaties, caught up in the smells of sweat, perfume, and lust. He gave the bartender a wave and pointed toward the kitchen, then continued down the hall.

  “You’re back?” Dressed in chef’s whites, Jojo looked up from the grill.

  “Didn’t expect me?”

  “Already put aside my best steak for you.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  Jojo took out a steak from his prep drawer and threw it on the grill, dumped a handful of freshly cut fries into the basket, and dropped it into the fryer. Wiping his forehead with a towel, he returned his attention to Coluzzi. “Find your Russians?”

  “Dead end.”

  “Want to tell me what it’s about?”

  “Actually, I have a question for you.”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “Still have your season tickets?”

  “Thirty years running.”

  “You ever see Alexei Ren?”

  “Now and then. He likes to stand on the sidelines with his players.”

  While the public knew Alexei Ren as a glamorous businessman who attended fashion shows in Paris and threw lavish parties at his home in Saint-Tropez, as well as the owner of the Olympique de Marseille football club, Coluzzi was privy to a darker truth. At one time Alexei Ren had been the king of the Russian mafiya in the South of France.

  “You two friends?”

  “Me? I know him. He used to come in not long after he got out of the gulag in Siberia and was setting up shop. He was a different man then. Absolutely ruthless. On a mission to get back the years he’d lost. The girls were scared of him. He couldn’t get enough.”

  “You ever work together?”

  Jojo flipped the steak, flames shooting from the grill. “That’s right,” he said, testing the meat with his fork. “You wouldn’t know. That was about the time you were doing your stretch for that armored car job.”

  “Know what?”

  “We had a sweet deal running that summer. I had some boys working legit jobs at the spots up and down the Riviera. Sporting Club in Monaco. Hôtel du Cap. Byblos in Saint-Tropez. Moulin de Mougins. Only the best places. The kids were locals. They knew everyone, especially the movers and shakers. When they spotted one of the high and mighty coming into their establishment, they’d give me a call. I’d pass the word to Ren, shoot him their home address, and leave the rest to him. He had a slick crew. Very talented. Get in. Get out. Fast. Fast. Fast. They could smell jewels through three feet of concrete.” Jojo rubbed his fingertips together, grinning at the memory. “Rich pickings, my friend.”

  “I never read about it.”

  “Of course you didn’t. People that rich don’t want their names in the paper. They keep it all hush-hush. The insurance guys talk to the police. The police do a little looking. No one wants to give other thieves the idea there might be more. That was the summer I bought my boat. Good times.”

  Jojo plated the steak, cleared the basket from the fryer, and dumped the contents into a bowl, dusting the fries with a pinch of salt from on high. After a few crisp shakes, he spilled the golden fries onto the plate and slid it in front of Coluzzi. “Hey,” he said in warning as Tino drew it nearer. Jojo spooned a dollop of garlic butter onto the steak, then gave his blessing. “Bon app.”

  Coluzzi took his time eating, careful not to betray his interest in Alexei Ren. He asked for more fries, dousing them with the melted
garlic butter and warm juices. “You know how to cook, Jojo.”

  “Hope it’s not overdone.”

  “Perfect.” Coluzzi put down his knife and fork, then wiped his mouth. “Why didn’t you keep working with Ren? I’d like to be in on a gig like that.”

  “He cleaned up his act. He’s smarter than guys like us. He took that money and invested it. Pretty soon he bought that big computer company and he was off to the races. Now he’s like a superhero. Big family. Lots of kids. Setting up foundations for the poor.” Jojo laughed caustically. “Like everyone forgot what he looked like without his shirt.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The tats. He was vor v zakone. A criminal for life. He didn’t come to France because he wanted to. He was kicked out.”

  “That right?”

  “Hoods like that have their personal history tattooed on every inch of their bodies. He came out on my boat once. It’s something you’ll never forget. Anyway, that’s why you never see him without a long-sleeved shirt and high collar. He doesn’t want anyone remembering.”

  “I thought he was just being careful not to take too much sun.”

  “Thing I liked about him,” said Jojo, “he was fair. The man never tried to short you. He thought about the future. Keeping your friends, friends.”

  Coluzzi pushed the dish away from him. “That right?”

  “You ought to try it sometime.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you pay your partners what you promise.”

  “So it’s true. You were talking behind my back.”

  “And now I’m saying it to your face.”

  The door of the kitchen swung open. Two men Coluzzi recognized entered.

  “Or tell it to Bobby or Claude,” Jojo went on.

  “Yeah,” said Bobby, who was squat and stocky with a neck like a tree trunk and hands as big as cleavers. “Tell us.”

  Claude nodded. He was a “hitter”—a killer for La Brise—slim and oily with long black hair and a yellowish cast to his skin. If he said ten words in a day, it was a lot.

  “What is this?” said Coluzzi. “I asked you earlier if there was a problem. Come on, Jojo. You can’t be serious.”

  “Knowing you, I’m pretty sure you’ve already spent what you owe us. We’ll take payment in a different currency.”

  “I paid you your share.”

  “No,” said Jojo. “You didn’t.”

  Coluzzi saw there was no point in arguing. “So what are you going to do? Bust my legs? Grow up.”

  “For a start,” said Jojo. “Then I’ll let Bobby and Claude get creative on you. Unless, of course, you want to settle up.”

  “How much do you think I owe you?”

  “A hundred grand.”

  “Not likely.”

  “Then it is what it is.”

  Coluzzi shrugged, giving Jojo one last chance. “Come on. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

  “Yeah,” said Bobby. “It does.” He stepped toward Coluzzi, his fat hand going into his jacket for his gun, Claude casually picking up a carving knife, testing it for weight.

  “Hey, hey,” said Coluzzi, standing from his stool, eyes wide, trying to make them think he was pissing his pants, that his time in Paris had softened him up, turned him into a pussy who shied from a fight.

  Bobby cleared his gun, a snub-nosed .38. “You greedy…”

  Coluzzi drew his stiletto from his sheath and slashed it through the air, the tip slicing Bobby’s fleshy neck, releasing a spray of arterial blood. Bobby fired a shot, even as he dropped the pistol and reached for his ruined neck. Claude lunged at him, the carving knife aimed at his belly. Coluzzi had always been the fastest guy around. He jumped to one side, the blade missing him by a long shot. In the same motion, he thrust the stiletto into Claude’s chest, just below the sternum, giving the handle a vicious twist when he felt the blade tear through something heavy and fibrous, probably the lung or the liver. Claude opened his mouth and blood seeped out over his lousy teeth.

  Coluzzi yanked the blade free and turned on Jojo, who just then launched a pounding hammer straight at his head. Coluzzi ducked, the hammer bouncing off the wall and clattering onto the floor. In his other hand, Jojo held his stubby chopping knife. Realizing it wasn’t any kind of weapon, he searched the counter for something he could use, settling on a rolling pin. He came at Coluzzi like a barroom brawler, swinging the rolling pin and jabbing with the knife.

  Coluzzi backed up as much as he could in the cramped area, hemmed in by counters and shelves and the ovens and stoves. He had to be careful. No one cared about Bobby or Claude. They were both Italians, not even real members of La Brise. But Jojo…he was royalty. Should Coluzzi lay a hand on him, do any real damage, there would be hell to pay.

  Coluzzi ducked and dodged the wild blows, shouting for Jojo to calm down. But Jojo liked a fight and there was no doubting the blood in his eye.

  Jojo lurched at him, the knife catching Coluzzi on the forearm—nothing serious, but a cut nonetheless. The rolling pin swooshed angrily at his head, barely missing.

  “Enough,” said Coluzzi, fed up with Jojo’s nonsense. The man was sixty. Didn’t he know when to throw in the towel? Coluzzi waited for his spot, then lunged at Jojo, knocking the knife to one side and slugging him in the jaw.

  It was enough.

  Jojo went down on his knees, half out of it.

  As luck had it, Bobby’s gun was right there, in arm’s reach.

  “Don’t,” said Coluzzi.

  But Jojo was already going for it, probably not even thinking what he was going to do with it or how he might get a shot off. His fingers found the grip, his hand pulling it closer. Coluzzi dropped to a knee and drove his stiletto through the top of Jojo’s hand, impaling it on the cracked linoleum floor.

  Jojo was too stunned to shout. He sat there as if paralyzed, staring at the blade protruding from his hand, shaking with rage.

  Coluzzi tossed a packet of ten thousand euros onto the floor. “There,” he said. “We’re even. Got it?”

  Jojo looked at him, then at the money. “Sure,” he said. “We’re even.”

  “Swear it.”

  “I swear.”

  “And you’ll never pull any kind of bullshit like this again.”

  Jojo nodded.

  “Say it.”

  “I swear.”

  “Okay, then.” Coluzzi pulled the stiletto out of Jojo’s hand. “Jesus,” he said, wiping the blade on a dishtowel. “What a mess.”

  Jojo stood up, shakily, and put his hand under a stream of cold water.

  “And one more thing,” said Coluzzi. “I need your ticket to the game tomorrow.”

  Tuesday

  Chapter 17

  Simon woke at seven. After a shower and a light breakfast ordered from room service (cost: one hundred euros—apologies to Mr. Neill), he walked to the Champs-Élysées and hailed a cab.

  “Porte d’Orléans,” he said.

  Twenty minutes later, the taxi turned onto the Avenue du Général Leclerc in the southern perimeter of Paris. It was a working-class area, the street lined with bakeries, laundries, hair salons, and corner grocery stores.

  It was here thirty-six hours earlier that the prince and his entourage had been robbed.

  Simon stepped out of the car, handing the driver a fifty-euro note and asking that he wait. Slowly, he made his way up the block. He envisioned the line of sedans advancing along the boulevard. Coluzzi would have needed to wait until the last one crossed through the intersection before blocking the lead car. Timing was crucial.

  All over in sixty seconds.

  Simon started the timer on his wristwatch, then retraced his steps, stopping in the middle of the block, looking one way, then the other, playing out the scenario in his mind. The entry to the highway lay three hundred meters ahead, the green placards in sight. The drivers would have spotted them and relaxed. For all intents and purposes, they were home free. So much more the
surprise when Coluzzi’s men appeared from a side street to bar the route. The lead chauffeur would have had no time to warn his colleagues before they were blocked from the rear as well.

  Fifty-eight…fifty-nine…sixty.

  Simon stopped the chronograph. The Corsican had chosen his spot well. There was no question but that he’d known the route in advance. A day, if not more, to allow for him and his accomplices to rehearse.

  “How would you have planned it?” Neill had asked him yesterday morning.

  Simon had his answer. No differently than Coluzzi.

  He made a second tour of the block, more briskly this time, looking for security cameras. Paris wasn’t London. He couldn’t find one.

  He had a last impression before returning to the taxi. Tino Coluzzi had gotten smarter since he’d last seen him. Simon would be wise not to underestimate him. He’d done so once before and it hadn’t turned out well.

  “Back to the hotel,” said Simon.

  He rode the entire way in silence, lost in thought. He was not in Paris. He was in Marseille. In Les Baumettes. Reliving the worst moments of his life.

  They came at him on his third day while he was in the yard. There was nothing hostile in their approach. Five prisoners casually walking his way. They knew his name. They knew what he was in for. They said they wanted nothing more than to introduce themselves. They were his “brothers.” Simon knew better.

  The yard, like the entire prison, was segregated by race and religion. The natives, “les blancs”—comprising​ French, Corsican, and any other Europeans with white skin who had run afoul of French law—had the southern side. The southern side had benches, a handball court, a bocce pit, and, most importantly, abundant shade from the coastal pine trees that grew on the steep hills surrounding the prison. The Muslims, referred to as “les barbus”—the bearded ones—and by far the largest group in the prison, had the east side of the yard, hardly more than a fifty-square-meter patch of concrete. The blacks had what was left, a patch of dirt as hard as rock during the blistering summer, damp and muddy in the winter.