to his feet and ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He reached the second floor, went right, checked over his shoulder. The blond man was starting up the stairs behind him, inserting a fresh magazine into his pistol. Their eyes met.
Who sent you? Why did you shoot Tan? And, who is Luca?
No time for answers.
Simon ran down the hall, doors open to either side—sitting room, guest room, guest room. He slammed closed the doors. A distraction. At the end of the hall an exhibition room. Oils of naval battles. A mannequin clothed in a military uniform. Glass display cases. He entered the room and closed the door. No lock. He scooted a low dresser in front of the door, then moved to the windows, their handles and seams frozen with paint. On a side table, small cannonballs were arranged in a pyramid beneath a painting of a sixty-four-gun ship of the line, the San Leandro. He picked up a cannon ball and underhanded it through the window, glass shattering. Behind him a violent blow against the door.
Simon fired at the center of the door, rending a hole in it the size of a basketball. Nothing moved in the hall. He waited, wincing at the ongoing alarm, then moved a step toward the door, pistol outstretched.
One bullet.
He listened for any movement, but his ears were a mess, still ringing and confused from the gunfire, and now the alarm. Had he hit him? The better question was how could he have missed?
A step closer. Eyes trained on the door and the hallway beyond.
Was the man dead? Where were the embassy guards? The man couldn’t have shot them all.
Simon’s phone buzzed. He slid it from his pocket. Unknown Caller, read the screen. “Yeah?”
“Give me what I want. Throw it through the door. Even you shouldn’t be able to miss that.”
“Who’s this?”
“You know who.”
“Why did you kill Tan?”
“The flash drive, please, Mr. Simon Riske, owner of European Automotive Repair and Restoration, Kimber Road, SW18, London. We know everything about you: where you live, what you do…besides chasing around the world hoping in vain to help an old friend. How’s Harry Mason? Does he really think Arsenal is going to win the FA Cup? And poor Lucy Brown, still in hospital. Surrey Medical Clinic is the official name, no? Room 327 of the urgent care ward.”
The words chilled Simon to the marrow. Point taken. But now was not the time to be rattled. He had questions of his own. “The naval attaché, Llado. Was he your man?”
“We have people everywhere. Thailand. England. You name it. All I want is the flash drive with the information Mr. De Bourbon stole and our business is concluded. I’m sorry your friend is dead, but it was his own fault. You know that as well as I.”
“You’re South African?”
“And German, if you’re curious. Sprechen Sie Deutsch, Herr Riske? I understand you speak several languages. A man of the world. Not bad for a kid off the streets of Marseille. Quite the success story. This one, though, is beyond you, my friend. I imagine you are out of ammunition or you would have continued firing. You had me dead to rights. It’s those SIGs. Bit of a hair trigger; tend to fire low. What do you say? Let’s get this taken care of before the police get here. Then we can both walk out of here alive. Komm schon, Kumpel.”
Come on, buddy.
“You’re right,” said Simon. “The SIG does fire low, but then I’m not much of a gun guy. Listen, I’m feeling a little lonely in here. Why don’t you come in and I’ll give you the flash drive, man to man? If you have a minute, we can look at some of these paintings together. I mean, since we’re friends.”
From the broken window, Simon made out the wail of police sirens. Many of them. If he wasn’t mistaken, he heard the thrum of a helicopter hovering overhead as well.
“Please, Simon, I hear them, too. No more time to waste. The flash drive.”
“I just realized I don’t know your name. You have me there.”
“I’m called…Shaka.”
A shadow moved in the hall. A footfall. Simon dove to the ground as gunfire ripped through the door, obliterating it, tearing into the wall behind him. Glass sprayed. Paintings crashed to the floor. The blond man peered through the door, or what was left of it, then put his weight against the base and slid the cabinet backward as if it