Delacroix locked the door to his office at precisely five p.m. and left the hotel. It was not his practice to leave promptly at the end of the workday, but he was not feeling like himself. The past few days had been taxing. The hotel had welcomed a larger than usual number of obscenely wealthy clients, and from dusk to dawn he’d been called on to see to their needs. This meant everything from arranging bail for the Indonesian prime minister’s fifteen-year-old daughter after her arrest for shoplifting at Galeries Lafayette to supervising daily surveillance sweeps of a German Internet tycoon’s suite. And, of course, there was the presence of the police, questioning all the staff, and himself, in particular, after the robbery two days earlier.
On top of all this, at some point today he’d mislaid his cellphone and spent a tense hour after lunch combing the hotel for it. By the grace of God, the concierge found it lying on the lobby floor. What rattled him more was that no matter how hard he tried, Delacroix could not remember setting it down anywhere near the concierge.
Still, he knew that neither the phone nor his duties were the root cause of his unease. It was the visit from the American investigator that worried him.
They knew.
Once on the street, he lit a cigarette and threw his jacket over his shoulder. It was a breezy afternoon and the warm, frantic wind lessened his anxiety. He came to the Metro and halted. The thought of taking the subway home held no appeal. He had no desire to spend thirty minutes in a hot, cramped car with his fellow Parisians. He needed to keep moving.
Delacroix threw his cigarette into the gutter. “Riske, Riske, Riske,” he repeated, running over the conversation with the American. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that Riske hadn’t believed him. He took the man’s business card from his pocket and called the number. A woman answered and gave the name of the company.
“I’d like to speak with Simon Riske.”
“He’s away on assignment at the moment. May I have him call you or would you like to speak with another of our professionals?”
“No message. Thank you.”
Delacroix hung up. The firm appeared to be legitimate. He’d accessed their website earlier, too, finding it professional but bland. He told himself he was getting worked up over nothing. There was no reason for Riske to suspect him of tipping off the bad guys. Delacroix cursed his luck. How was he to know Prince Abdul Aziz was carrying something of diplomatic value?
Of course Riske was correct. It was he who’d told Coluzzi about the prince’s route to the airport. He’d never liked the Saudis or, in fact, anyone from the Middle East. It wasn’t prejudice but experience. During the First Gulf War, he’d fought alongside the Saudis’ vaunted Haj Brigade. The Saudi soldiers showed the courage of a mouse and half the heart. They were paper soldiers.
Delacroix lived on the fourth floor of an upscale building on the Rue de Grenelle a block away from Les Invalides. Two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen that needed upgrading. Not much, but he kept it neat and clean, and he had a view of the park nearby. He dropped his keys in the bowl and threw his jacket on the chair. There was a pleasant scent in the air and he imagined a beautiful woman walking beneath his window. The thought made him smile. He took a Heineken from the fridge and walked into the living room. There was a good match on television this evening. He needed a few hours to let his mind relax.
“Monsieur Delacroix?”
An attractive blond woman sat in his favorite leather chair. She wore a black T-shirt beneath a loose-fitting checked shirt, jeans, and men’s work boots. His first thought was What is this gorgeous dyke doing in my apartment? Then he saw the pistol in her hand. A Glock fitted with a suppressor. His smile vanished.
They knew.
He threw the beer at her and bolted for the door.
The bullet struck his right knee. He crashed to the floor, writhing, grasping at his leg.
“Look at me,” said the woman.
Delacroix rolled onto his back. He knew what this was about, why the woman was here.
“Who are you working with?” she asked.
“What are you talking about?”
She raised the pistol.
“Please,” he cried, lifting a hand to shield his face. “I already explained everything to your partner. It was the prince’s idea to take an alternate route to the airport.”
“I don’t have a partner.”
Delacroix grimaced. He was confused. Who was she if she was not the American’s partner? “You don’t work with Riske?”
“Riske? Who is this person?”
“An investigator with an English security firm. His name is Simon Riske.”
“Riske…He is English?”
“American.”
“Of course he is. And what did you tell him?”
“I told him that I had nothing to do with the robbery.”
“Americans believe anything. We are not so gullible. Ponyatno?”
Delacroix closed his eyes tightly. Tonight there would be no escape. “Ponyatno,” he replied in Russian. “I understand.”
The woman circled him, the pistol dangling from her hand. “Who paid you?”
“His name is Coluzzi. Tino Coluzzi. He approached me Friday. He’d been following the prince around the city. He knew the prince carried a great deal of cash. He asked for my help. I agreed to steer the prince his way.”
“He’s a friend?”
“No. I only met him then.”
“Go on.”
“That’s all. I met Coluzzi twice. Friday and Saturday morning. I haven’t seen him since.”
“And this?” The woman had found the twenty thousand euros he’d hidden in the freezer.
“One of his men left it for me at a bar last night. Le Galleon Rouge.”
“Who?”
“I forget…no, no.” Delacroix searched feverishly for the name of the man with long sideburns and a peasant’s mustache he’d met at the bar. “Jack. Giacomo Pizzaloto.”
“Did you see Coluzzi there, too?”
“Coluzzi? No. He wasn’t there. Please take it. Take the money.”
The woman dropped the stack of bills onto the floor. “It’s yours. You earned it. Use it to buy a new knee.”
Delacroix swallowed hard and nodded. Maybe he would live to see another day.
The woman asked: “So you don’t know where Mr. Coluzzi is or how I can reach him?”
“No.”
“No phone? No email?”
“No.”
“And the American who visited you earlier…”
“I didn’t tell him about Coluzzi. I swear.”
“I don’t imagine he was interested in the money.”
“He said the prince was carrying important documents. He wanted them back.”
“Did he mention the letter?”
“What letter?” Delacroix knew at once that it must be what the prince had had in his possession.
“The letter. We are not interested in the money either.”
Delacroix shook his head violently. “I know nothing about a letter,” he insisted.
“Did you read it?”
“I told you! I’ve never heard about a letter.”
The woman crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps until she stood above him. “I’d simply like to know if you have read it.”
“How could I have read something I know nothing about?” he pleaded.
“Yes or no?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“You must believe—”
The pistol coughed. A bullet shattered Delacroix’s other knee. He gasped, pain robbing him of his breath. He looked down and saw blood spreading across the floor. An artery, he thought, memories of his time in combat flooding back. He needed to tie it off quickly.
“I never saw a letter,” he managed. “I promise you.”
“I believe you.”
“You do? Thank God. It’s the truth. I swear. A tourniquet. My leg. Please.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“But…”
The woman placed the pistol to Delacroix’s forehead and shot him.
Valentina surveyed the room, the pool of blood, the corpse. She sucked in the scent of fear mixed with the acrid cordite. She opened a window, allowing in needed fresh air, then turned on the air conditioner. She didn’t want the smell leaking into the hall.
Valentina left the apartment. After she’d walked a block, she placed a call to Moscow. “The thief’s name is Tino Coluzzi,” she said. “A professional.”
“I’ll see if we have anything on him.”
“I believe I can find him.”
“I’m counting on you.”
“There’s something else. Another man is looking for the letter.”
There was a long silence and Valentina wondered if somehow she’d been mistaken to relay the information. “How do you know?” Borodin asked.
“Delacroix talked. An American named Riske came to see him earlier today. Simon Riske. He presented himself as an investigator working for an English firm. I took a photo of his business card.”
Borodin swore under his breath. “Send it over. I’ll see if we have anything on him. No matter what…make sure this man Riske doesn’t get what is ours. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Borodin ended the call.
Valentina put on her sunglasses and walked faster. She had a rival. The thought neither pleased nor displeased her. It was simply another element she must factor into the equation.
For the first time she wondered about the contents of the letter. She decided it didn’t matter. Knowing might only prove a distraction.
To her, the letter was a means to an end. Nothing more.
Find the letter and get her old life back.
She would stop at nothing.