The lobby of the Hotel George V was an oasis. Marble floors. High ceilings. A large spray of colorful flowers rested on a table placed between the reception desk on one side and the concierge on the other. The door closed behind him and Simon was in another world, a world governed by wealth, elegance, and the scent of blooming florals.
And paid for by Mr. Barnaby Neill and the United States government.
Simon checked in and was shown to his room by an efficient trainee. He tipped her generously, then unpacked, hanging up his suits, placing his shirts in drawers, and arranging his toiletries on a washcloth spread out next to the sink. His orderliness was a mystery. He’d been as messy as any teen. T-shirts belonged on the floor. Shoes were to be left where he’d kicked them off. At no time had he received lectures on cleanliness being next to godliness. His quest for order began the day of his release from prison. He was sure that someone somewhere had an explanation, probably something about a need to control his environment. He didn’t care to hear it.
Maybe he had Tino Coluzzi to thank, thought Simon as he put on a clean shirt and notched his belt. He had a nice idea for a fitting gesture of gratitude. It did not involve a smile, a handshake, or a kind word.
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.