“Also true.”
“Hard to sit around pushing papers knowing that I might be closing in on him.”
“No other reason?”
Simon thought hard. “Am I missing something?”
“No,” said Nikki, gazing forthrightly at him. “That about covers it.”
“Well?” said Simon.
“Well what?”
“Did you call in Falconi’s murder? Did you tell Marc Dumont that we’re after Coluzzi?”
“You’re the know-it-all. You tell me.”
“Since you’re here, I’ll take that as a no.”
Nikki offered a dismissive smile. “Like you said, I want to get Coluzzi as badly as you. Well, then at least we have a few hours off.”
“Actually,” said Simon, taking out his phone, “work starts now.” He found his earpiece and microphone and plugged them in, then attached a power cord so he wouldn’t drain his battery before arriving.
“What are you doing?”
“Research.”
“About Coluzzi?”
“About the prince.”
Simon looked out the window. The train was passing through the city suburbs, tall concrete housing complexes that even in the cheery morning sun looked grim and unwelcoming. He remembered the rows of government-built apartments up the hill from his mother’s house. The buildings had been nicer than these, at least to look at. Many apartments had had window boxes decorated with colorful flowers year-round. There had been decent playgrounds and a football field, upkeep paid for by the drug lords who governed the turf. Inside, however, the buildings had been decrepit and stank of overflowing sewage, the hallways narrow and dark, the stairwells a no-man’s-land that reeked of urine, vomit, and the ever-present scent of pot. Elevators seldom functioned. He couldn’t get from an apartment to the street without passing a drug deal in progress or a hooker bringing a john to her place or a group of bored, belligerent kids looking for trouble. Police made it a habit to stop a block away. It was as close as they dared to come.
“I grew up out here,” said Nikki.
“Tough neighborhood.”
“There are tougher.”
“You got out. Good on you.”
“And you? How’d you get out? From Les Baums to the Sciences Po. That’s like from Earth to the moon.”
“Long story.”
“We’ve got four hours.”
“Another time.”
“Promise?” she asked, and he could see she was trying to be his friend.
“Maybe one day.” Simon returned to his phone. He was studying the information he’d gotten from Delacroix’s phone detailing Prince Abdul Aziz’s personal data. His email address, credit card numbers, Saudi national identity number, and more. He felt a presence next to him and looked up to find Nikki perched on his armrest.
“What’s that?” she asked, a hand on his shoulder.
Simon told her about his visit with Delacroix and how he’d lifted his phone and swiped the information from his SIM card.
“And so?” she asked. “How do you plan on using it?”
