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.
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.
“The stairs,” he said, heading down a staircase parallel to the escalator. Nikki followed close behind. He reached the main floor and slowed long enough to see the rail marshal appear at the top of the stairs. Simon circled behind the staircase and ran to the far side of the terminal, past a bookstore, a café, an electronics store. He came to a supermarket chock-full of shoppers and ran inside.
“Go to the back,” he said, pausing to peer behind him, catching a slew of uniforms spreading across the terminal, looking this way and that. He watched long enough to know the police had not seen them, then hurried to the back of the store. Nikki waited by the door to a storeroom.
“Let’s get out of here.” He opened the door and went inside. He looked to his right, then left, then zigzagged his way through crates of produce, soft drinks, and paper products, finally spotting the delivery entrance.
They were outside seconds later, standing in a loading zone at the rear of the station.
“Over there,” she said, pointing to a group of warehouses across from a grass field. “You good?”
“I better be.” Simon took a last look behind him. The door to the storeroom remained closed. He led the way across the parking lot, over a dirt berm, and through the field. A minute later, they had reached the warehouses and were effectively out of sight.
“Now what?” asked Nikki, bent over, hands on her thighs.
Simon peered around the corner as the door to the loading zone burst open, a half-dozen policemen pouring outside. A few looked in their direction. One of the men raised a hand and pointed at Simon. It was the rail marshal.
“Hold on.”
The rail marshal jumped off the platform and began jogging across the field toward them.
“We’ve got company.” Simon ducked back behind the wall and checked his surroundings. All the warehouse’s doors were lowered. There were no vehicles nearby. No visible place to conceal themselves. A few steps away stood a stack of wooden pallets a head taller than him. He grabbed Nikki’s hand and led her to the pallets.
“Get behind there.”
Nikki tried to slip into the gap between the warehouse and the pallets. “Too tight.”
Simon squatted and slid his hands beneath the bottommost pallet. With a grunt, he lifted the stack and moved it a few inches to one side. He repeated the motion on the opposite side, creating a narrow space between wall and pallet. Nikki squeezed into the opening and Simon pushed the pallets as close to the wall as he could. “Stay here.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll figure something out.” He ran to the far corner of the warehouse. It was twenty meters across the road to the next building. Even if he made it before the marshal arrived, he had no place to hide. He searched for a door, a window to break, anything. Close by, the marshal’s radio crackled.
Simon saw a drainpipe and began climbing, praying it remained anchored to the wall.
The marshal reached the warehouse before Simon had made it to the roof. The marshal pulled up directly beneath him, hands on his hips, gathering his breath. Simon froze. Twenty-five feet below him, the marshal turned in a slow circle, reconnoitering the area. For a moment, he looked directly at the pallets, directly at Nikki, then looked away.
Still, he didn’t move on, but kept in his place as if nailed to the spot, his head scanning the area, nose raised like a cat scenting his prey.
Simon’s fingers grew tired. Between the day’s heat, his nerves, and the run from the terminal, his hands were moist with perspiration. He dropped one hand to his trousers and dried his palm, then did the same with the other.
Below, the marshal’s radio crackled again. A man said, “Jacques? Anything?”
“Still checking.”
Simon had wedged the toe of his shoe between the pipe and wall, the tip of his sole resting on a bracket securing the drainpipe. Now he felt the shoe slipping. He increased his pressure, wedging the shoe more tightly. Suddenly, his foot came free of his loafer. He slipped. His hands clutched the pipe with all his might. Miraculously, the shoe remained in place. He dug his other foot into the space, his ankle turned, his calf screaming. Hugging himself to the pipe, he guided his unshod foot back to the loafer. His toes touched leather. Slowly, he worked his foot into the shoe until he could put pressure on it and stand easier.
By now, it was not only his hands that were sweaty. His entire face was beaded with perspiration. He felt the drops rolling off his forehead, down his cheeks. As he stared at the top of the marshal’s head, he counted the drops falling from his chin and watched powerless as they fell to the ground.
“Well?” asked the voice on the radio.
A hand touched his hair. The marshal gazed upward, but not at Simon.
“Nothing,” he said finally. “They didn’t come this way.”
Simon let go a breath.
The marshal returned the radio to his belt. Instead of returning to the station, he took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and lit up, leaning against the pallets, his shoulders inches from Nikki.
Simon held his position, hands burning with fatigue, growing stiff, unresponsive. He caught Nikki staring at him and he knew she was urging him to hold on. His hands began to slip. He dried them again but to less effect. His shirt was wet on his back, his legs quivering.
The marshal smoked contentedly and then, without warning, threw the butt to the ground with only half the cigarette finished and walked back to the terminal.
Simon slid down the pipe, his legs giving out when he hit the ground, his rear landing firmly on the concrete. After a moment, he stood and freed Nikki, who appeared as wrung out as he felt.
“Well,” she said. “I guess it’s official.”
“What’s that?” He was out of breath, too exhausted to pay much attention.
“I’m a fugitive, too.”
The idea made him laugh. “How does it feel?”
“Not good.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“And so?”
Simon straightened his back, some semblance of his normal self returning. “Wheels.”
“You mean a car?”
“Yes, a car.”
“There must be a rental car office near the station.”
“We’re not going anywhere near the station.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m just getting used to this. I’m sure we can find one downtown. It’s not far.”
“You’re still not getting it, are you?” said Simon. “You need a driver’s license and a credit card to rent a car.”
“What do you suggest? A taxi? It’s a hundred kilometers to Marseille. It will cost a fortune.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that either.”
Nikki stood taller, reading the look in his eye. “You want to steal a car?”
“Borrow it.”
“That’s where I draw the line.”
“You crossed the line in Paris when you didn’t report Falconi’s murder. You crossed it a second time when we ran away from the police. My guess is one of those officers got a look at you. Dumont knows you’re with me. It won’t be long before you’re made. You said it yourself. You’re a fugitive. Welcome to the dark side, Detective Perez.”
Nikki ran a hand through her hair, looking away, screwing up her face in anger or bewilderment. “I am a police officer. I can’t do this.”
“You’re doing this because you are a police officer. Helping me is the best way we can take down Coluzzi.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you get it, Riske? I’m helping you because I like you.” She stepped forward and kissed him on the lips, placing a hand on his buttocks. “Just don’t go thinking so much of yourself.”
“Too late for that.”
Simon grabbed her by the waist and looked into her eyes, seeing the flecks of gold he’d noticed when they’d first met in Marc Dumont’s office. He kissed her softly, enjoying the feel of her lips on his, the warmth of her open mouth. She pushed harder into him and he kept his body rigid, responding to her pressure.
“That was nice,” he said.
Nikki needed a moment to open her eyes fully and come back to herself. “Yes,” she said. “It was.”
They left the warehouse and headed into town. Ten minutes’ walk took them to a leafy residential area with cars parked cheek by jowl on both sides of the street. Simon spotted a black Porsche 911. He slowed, seeing that the door was locked—naturally.
“Don’t even think of it,” said Nikki. “This is what we want.”
She was standing next to an old white Peugeot—four doors, two-liter engine, decent tires, and gravely in need of a wash. In other words, as close to an anonymous vehicle as they were likely to find.
Simon looked around. A few kids were walking down the block a ways in front of them; otherwise, no one else was in sight.
“Gun,” he said.
She slipped her pistol from its holster. He took the muzzle in his hand and touched the butt to the sweet spot on the driver’s side window.
“Wait!” said Nikki.
Simon lowered the pistol to his side. Nikki opened the passenger door. “Unlocked.”
She slid in, leaned over, and unlocked Simon’s door. He climbed in and found the seat adjusted perfectly for his height. He reached below the wheel and yanked out the ignition cables. It had been years since he’d hot-wired a car, but it was like riding a bicycle or kissing a girl. He found the correct wires, peeled off the plastic coatings with his thumbnail, and crossed them.
The engine rattled to life. He touched the gas, and the car shook as if racked by a tubercular fit. “There’s still time to get the Porsche.”
“Drive,” said Nikki.
Five minutes later, they joined the highway. Their train would arrive in Marseille in twenty minutes’ time.
He wondered who would be waiting to greet them.