Delacroix sat straighter, shoulders stiff. A man accused. “The prince mapped his own route to the airport.”
“Without consulting you?”
“No. As I said, the hotel provided for the livery, then it was up to him.”
“So you have no idea why he decided to take this particular route?”
“None. My responsibility for him, his family, and his affairs stopped the moment he left the hotel.”
Simon challenged his gaze. “Even after all these years?”
Delacroix stared back, a current of dislike flashing behind his eyes. He placed his hands on his desk and stood. “If there’s anything else, Mr. Riske.”
But Simon remained firmly seated. “A crime has taken place,” he stated. “Documents relevant to the security of the West are missing. The time for discretion is past.”
“What are you trying to say, Mr. Riske?”
“You and I both know that the criminals had advance knowledge of the prince’s route.”
“And I told the police as much,” replied Delacroix. “Clearly, it was an inside job.”
“So no one approached you?”
“No. And had they, I would have been the first to tell the police.”
Simon waited, eyes fixed on Delacroix. Finally, he stood. “That’s all I need. Thank you.”
“Any time. I’m sorry I could not be of more assistance.”
Simon waited for Delacroix to open the door, as he knew he would. As the Frenchman circled his desk and made his way to the door, Simon stepped forward a moment too soon and collided with him.
“Are you all right?” asked Delacroix, backing away.
“My mistake,” said Simon, ruffled. “Good morning.”
He did not look behind him as he walked down the corridor.
Chapter 20
Simon proceeded directly to the nearest men’s room. Inside, he entered a stall—in this case a compartment unto itself with walls running from floor to ceiling—and closed and locked the door. If a commode had to serve as a workspace, at least he’d chosen a nice one.
Like most European models, Delacroix’s phone ran on a SIM card that housed the phone’s memory—calls, texts, emails, photos, and all apps—and could be transferred between devices, for instance, whenever one upgraded models. He popped the back of the phone and removed the micro SD card and the battery, revealing the SIM card, which was white and rectangular and no larger than his thumbnail. Using a spudger—nothing more than a miniature spatula—he pried the SIM card loose and snapped it into the card reader he held in the palm of his left hand.
Thirty seconds later, the contents of Delacroix’s phone belonged to him.
Simon reassembled Delacroix’s phone and left the men’s room, returning to the lobby. At noon, the large, airy room was bustling, guests and staff moving purposefully in all directions. Delacroix was nowhere in sight. Simon stopped at the concierge’s desk and asked for a table at Le Relais de l’Entrecôte, a few blocks away. As the concierge consulted his computer for the establishment’s phone number and placed the call, Simon allowed Delacroix’s phone to slip from his pant leg to the floor, then used his toe to scoot it close to the counter.
“Monsieur Riske, a table is booked under your name.”
Simon slipped the concierge a ten-euro note. “On second thought, cancel it. Something’s come up. Thank you.”
Simon left the hotel and walked down the street toward the Pont de l’Alma. He had not lifted Delacroix’s phone to learn about the Hotel George V head of security’s activities, though he suspected he was in some way involved. Delacroix was too smart to have left any digital breadcrumbs on his phone—or anywhere else for that matter—that might tie him to Coluzzi.
Simon had borrowed Delacroix’s phone for another reason entirely. He was certain that it contained a great deal of information about Prince Abdul Aziz bin Saud.
If Mr. Neill refused to tell him what exactly the prince had stolen, that was fine.
Simon intended to find out for himself.
