Simon heard the gunshot, the report whistling forever over the dry bluffs.
Rifle. High caliber.
“Nikki!” he shouted. Then louder. “Nikki!”
No reply.
Essentially blind, he struggled to his feet, hands groping the wall. His eyes burned beyond description. Clenching his fists, he forced himself to blink repeatedly. Tears were the only antidote to pepper spray. Tears and more tears. He slammed into something heavy…a dresser? Shards of light guided him to the door through which Coluzzi had escaped.
“Nikki!”
He was outside, hands grasping the doorframe. Slowly, the tears lessened the pain. His vision returned. The sun was too bright. The glare too sharp. He stumbled up the hill, calling her name, worry hardening to despair. Then he saw her.
She lay on her side, eyes open, her breathing shallow but steady. He kneeled beside her. There was blood. Lots of it. “Stay still,” he said. “Let me look.”
“What happened? Where is he?”
“Don’t worry about him.” He opened her blouse. The entry wound was the size of a penny.
“Your eyes,” she said.
“We’re a pair, the two of us.”
“Who?” she whispered. “Was it Neill?”
Simon was not ready to give voice to his suspicions. He was still figuring the angles, what exactly might be motivating him. “Can you move your hands and legs?”
Nikki lifted her feet, then clenched her fists softly, drawing in the fingers one at a time.
With care, he examined the exit wound on her back. The hole was bigger, flesh torn, bone and ligament visible. If there were a place one could choose to be shot, this was it. High and to the right of the torso, directly below the clavicle, causing serious damage to the shoulder and upper back but avoiding major organs. It was a shot to put down a man, not kill him. Just three inches to the center and it would have been over.
He lifted his head and scanned his surroundings. Here, out in the open, with nothing to protect him, he was an easy target. He saw nothing he shouldn’t, discerned no movement. Coluzzi was gone. And also whoever had shot Nikki, be it Barnaby Neill or parties unknown.
It took thirty minutes to get Nikki into the house and her wound dressed and cared for, if binding it with strips of bedsheets counted. During this time, he’d called emergency services and given their address as the bluff above Le Bilboquet. A helicopter was on its way. To help, he’d tied a blue duvet cover to a broomstick and stuck it on the roof, both wind sock and beacon.
“Go,” she said as he sat on the bed beside her. “Get him.”
“In due time,” he said. “In due time.” He ran a hand over her forehead, brushing away her matted hair.
“You didn’t finish telling me about the letter.”
“It said thank you.” And he told her who had written it and to whom it was addressed.
“I guess that’s pretty serious,” she said. “He was the cowboy, right?”
“That’s him.”
“And he’s dead?”
“Long time ago.”
To Nikki, who hadn’t yet been born when the letter was written, it was ancient history.
Simon squeezed her hand. He thought of Coluzzi’s words about the monsignor. It was hard to feel more enmity toward him than he already did. Anger solved nothing. It was the sense of frustration more than anything that bothered him. He pictured Coluzzi in the gray uniform. Where was he going that he needed an armored car?
He grabbed his phone and punched in a number he knew as well as his own. A booming baritone answered. “Who the hell is this?”
“D’Art, it’s Simon.”
“Riske, that you?” asked D’Artagnan Moore. “Why are you calling on a French number?”
“I’ll explain it to you later. Right now I need your help.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
“I was joking. So this is serious. Are you all right?”
“Yes, D’Art, I’m fine. I need to ask you a question. Do you ever work with security companies like Brink’s?”
“Brink’s? Of course we do. Can’t transport a Van Gogh in the back of a Volkswagen. Why do you ask?”
“How about in France? Know anyone there?”
“Not offhand, but a friend of mine runs their European operations. Offices are just across the river at Canary Wharf, as a matter of fact.”
“I need you to find out how many trucks are in service right now in and around Marseille.”
“For Brink’s?”
“For all of them.”
“What is it, six o’clock there? Can’t be too many. Banks are closed. Museums as well.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. Ask if they can drill down on those that are on the road and find out specifically who tasked them and where they are going.”
“All trucks are equipped with individual location monitors these days. We can follow them every inch of the way, no matter where they go.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Anything you’re looking for? Do we need to alert the police?”
“This isn’t anything for the police. At least not yet. We’re looking for a truck that is somewhere it shouldn’t be. Something without a tasking or an assigned driver.”
“A rogue armored car?”
“Something like that.”
“Now you are scaring me.”
“Make that call and get back to me as soon as possible. Oh, and D’Art, I owe you one.”
As Simon ended the call, he heard the helicopter approaching. He touched Nikki’s cheek. “Your ride is here.”
He ran outside and signaled to the chopper, shielding his eyes from the spray of dirt and gravel as it set down. The attendants had Nikki on a stretcher and inside the passenger bay in five minutes. There was no room for Simon.
“Where are you going?” she asked, as the attendant finished strapping her in.
“Not sure.”
Nikki squeezed his hand. “Hey,” she said. “Come here.” Simon came closer. “You never told me how you slipped my cigarette into the box without me seeing.”
“That’s a secret.”
“I won’t tell.”
“Get better and I’ll show you how I did it.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Nikki lifted her head and kissed him. “I know you’re not giving up.”
“We’ll see.”
“When you find those bastards, give them my regards.”
“Count on it.”
Simon stepped away. The helicopter lifted off the stone butte. Its nose dipped and it dove over the cliff toward the blue water, then rose and flew into the setting sun.
He almost didn’t hear the phone ringing. “D’Art?”
“Not much joy, I’m afraid. I called Garda, Securitas, and all the smaller shops. All their trucks are accounted for. Only Brink’s had anything interesting.”
“Go on.”
“One of their trucks that was listed as ‘under repair’ left their lot a little while ago.”
“Here in Marseille?”
“Nineteen Rue de la Paix. Know where that is?”
“Sure I do. Where is the truck now?”
“As of this moment, the truck appears to be on a highway heading northwest.”
“To the airport?”
“Already past it, I’m afraid.”
Simon sighed with frustration. If not the airport to meet Borodin, then where? “That’s a start.”
“Did I say I was finished? Clients like to follow the trucks transporting their valuables. I texted you a link to the truck’s geo-locator. You can follow it yourself. If it’s the right one…”
“It better be.”
“Good luck, then. By the way, someone’s been asking round about you.”
“Client?”
“Never mind who,” said D’Artagnan Moore in a lighter voice. “Call me as soon as you hit town. Right now it sounds as if you have your hands full enough.”
Simon hung up.
He grabbed the assault rifle and retraced his path to the Ferrari. Five minutes later he was on the Gineste heading west. He kept one eye on the road and one on his phone and the blinking dot on the map. The Brink’s truck had left the main highway ten kilometers past the airport and was headed north. Simon studied the map for possible locations. He spotted a name he hadn’t thought of in almost twenty years. Suddenly, it made sense.
Returning his concentration to the road, he gripped the wheel lightly and depressed the accelerator. Ahead, the sun was setting over the sea, a brilliant fireball poised above a field of shimmering blue.
It was Coluzzi behind the wheel of the Brink’s truck.
And Simon knew where he was headed.
Maybe…just maybe.