It was nine the next morning when Lucy Brown parted the curtain and stepped into the painting studio. “Someone to see you.”
With rapt attention, Simon guided the scraper in a vertical stripe down the automobile’s hood, the shavings falling away in a curlicue. “Client?”
“Never seen him before.”
“Did he bring his car?”
“Just an umbrella.”
“There,” said Simon, stepping back and surveying his progress. After ten hours, he’d managed to strip the entire hood. Another week and the car would be finished, though he had no intention of completing it himself. Sometimes he had to remind himself that he was the boss. He rolled his neck, wincing as his bones cracked. Only then did he look at Lucy. “Does he have a name?”
“Mr. Neill. He said he was a friend of a friend. Oh, and he’s one of yours.”
“Mine?”
“American.”
“Where is he?”
“In the workshop. He seemed to know his way round.”
“Is he touching any of the cars?”
“No. Hands in his pockets.”
Simon considered this. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute. Give him some tea.”
Lucy nodded. But instead of leaving, she stepped through the curtain and crossed the studio toward him. She was unrecognizable from the night before. The pencil skirt and fitted blouse had been replaced by a gray coverall with the name “Max” sewn on the breast and sensible work boots. Her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail and tucked into a baseball cap. Her only concession to makeup was the streak of grease decorating her cheek.
“What is it?” asked Simon, noting the look on her face.
“You’re not going to see him like that?”
“Like what?”
Lucy pointed to a mirror. Simon turned and caught a glimpse of himself. His coverall was stained with sweat. His face was red from exertion and his hands were blackened by paint shavings. “Were you up all night again?” she asked.
“Me? No. Course not. I got up early. Wanted to get a start on the week.”
Lucy cocked her head. “Is that right?”
Simon put his hands on Lucy’s shoulders, turned her around, and walked her back to the curtain. He wasn’t interested in sharing his losing battle against insomnia with Lucy or anyone else. “Tell Mr. Neill I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Simon returned to his flat. He showered, cleaning his hands and nails with a scrub brush and industrial soap, then dressed in his real work clothes. Navy suit, white open-collar shirt, and loafers shined within an inch of their lives. Exactly fifteen minutes later, he was at his desk. He spun in his chair to study the monitor that broadcast feeds from the security cameras. He quickly spotted his mechanics, but he couldn’t find the visitor. This disturbed him. He’d supervised the placement of the cameras to ensure that every square foot of the shop was covered. A look at the agenda showed no mention of an appointment for an American named “Neill.” It was rare to get walk-in visitors. A second look at the monitor failed once again to find him.
There was a knock at the door. “Come.”
Lucy opened the door. “Mr. Neill to see you.”
Simon rose and came around the desk as the impromptu visitor entered the room.
“Mr. Riske, my name’s Barnaby Neill. I’m a friend of Bill Shea’s.”
The handshake was firm and forthright.
“Ambassador Shea?”
“We go back a long way.”
Lucy remained at the door, studying Neill. At some point in the past few months she’d appointed herself his guardian.
“Thank you, Miss Brown,” said Simon. And when she lingered: “Off you go.”
The door closed. Simon appraised the visitor. Barnaby Neill was lanky, fifty or fifty-five, with receding hair and rings beneath his eyes as black as coal. A worn, reliable face with a nose that had been broken. Married. College ring. Blue blazer. Rep tie. Gray trousers. Scuffed penny loafers. Hamilton wristwatch on a leather strap.
Simon did the math.
East Coast establishment.
Old money.
Friend of the U.S. ambassador to Great Britain.
Spy.
“You’re with?” asked Simon.
“Same family as Ambassador Shea. Different branch.”
Simon nodded to show that he got the picture.
Neill motioned toward the door. “Mind if we take a walk?”
“It’s raining.”
“I prefer the outdoors.”
Of course he did, thought Simon. “Suit yourself. Give me a minute.”
“I’ll be outside.”
On the way to the front door, Simon grabbed an umbrella from the stand. Lucy was hovering nearby, eyes following Neill. “Who’s he, then?”
“Just a guy that wants to talk to me. Why?”
“Reminds me of the undertaker who took care of my brother.”
“You don’t like him?”
“He’s fine, I suppose. I just had a strange feeling when I saw him.”
Simon opened the door. Rain fell in sheets ricocheting off the pavement. He had no desire to leave his office to speak with a spook named Neill. He looked at Lucy and remembered something. “Stay here.” He doubled back to his desk and returned with a sealed envelope. “Your fee for last night.”
Lucy opened the envelope. “A thousand quid,” she said, a hand rising to catch her falling jaw.
“You did a good job. Kept your cool. It was a big help.”
“It’s too much.”
Simon took her by the arms. “Put it in the bank. No spending it on anything you shouldn’t. Promise?”
Lucy met his eyes. “Promise.”
“And remember…not a word.”
Lucy rose onto her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Simon.”
“Get to work on the Dino. I got it started for you last night.” Simon opened the umbrella and ventured into the rain. He looked to his right and left, but his visitor was nowhere to be seen. “Mr. Neill!” he called.
The sidewalk was empty.
Simon started up the road toward Singh’s Café. Ten steps and rain was sluicing onto his shoulder and dribbling down the back of his neck. “Mr. Neill?”
And then, out of nowhere, Neill was at his side.
Simon tried not to appear startled. “Happy?” he asked, bunching his shoulders to fit under the umbrella.
“Necessary precautions.”
The two walked west along Kimber Road. The few pedestrians foolish enough to be out in the rain hurried past them without a glance. Simon kept close to the storefronts as much for the protection any awning might offer as to avoid being inundated by passing vehicles.
“How did you get into the car business?” asked Neill pleasantly. “I understand you were in finance. Royal Bank of Albion, was it?”
“Something like that.” Simon wasn’t about to go into his history. “You mentioned Ambassador Shea.”
“We served in the marines together. Afterward, he went to State. I took a job in a more interesting field.”
“My work for the embassy is strictly of a commercial nature,” said Simon. “Helping out U.S. multinationals, handling contract disputes, gathering evidence to assist in background checks.”
“The word is that you’re resourceful.”
“I’m sure your colleagues have me beat hands down.”
“Sometimes a certain distance is required.”
Simon drew up. He didn’t like the direction in which the conversation was headed. He was a man who dealt in realities, not suppositions. “I’m sorry you had to come all this way, but I think you’ve got the wrong man.”
“I haven’t mentioned the job yet.”
“Let me be clear. I apologize in advance if I’m rude. I don’t work for people like you.”
“Like me? In what way?”
“I prefer clients whose names match what’s on their birth certificates.”
“You might want to restate that.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve done work for at least two U.S. intelligence agencies in the past.”
“You’re misinformed.”
“Maybe some of the clients the embassy referred to you weren’t as honest as I am.”
Simon’s mood darkened. The keeping out of camera view in his workshop. The paranoia about conducting their discussion indoors. He was not a man who liked games. “Goodbye, Mr. Neill.”
He turned around and headed back to the shop. The pallid American was at his side a moment later. “Catch the news last night? The heist in Paris? The Saudi prince who had half a million euros stolen from his motorcade.”
Simon walked faster. “I don’t recall.”
“Witnesses said the thieves only needed a minute to get the job done. I wanted to ask you about it.”
Simon stopped. His shoes felt like he’d been stomping in puddles and his jacket was soaked. But neither the rain nor the damp had anything to do with the sudden blast of cold that had taken him in its grip. “Like I said, I don’t recall.”
Neill fixed him with a damning look. “Is that so? Because I’m curious as to how you would have handled that job.”
“Pardon?”
“In Marseille. Back in the day.”
Neill grasped Simon’s left arm and slid back the jacket. With a titanium grip, he twisted Simon’s forearm so that his tattoo was in full view. It showed an anchor held by a grinning skeleton and surrounded by crashing waves. Intertwined were the words “La Brise de Mer.” The ocean breeze. It was a tattoo given to members of the Corsican mafia that ruled the South of France.
“The thieves who did the job were from your old stomping ground. I know because I put them on to it. Problem is they didn’t just take the money. They took something that belongs to us, and by us, I mean the United States government. Something important. I am asking you to get it back.”