The Take(105)

“Enough,” said Simon. It was dumb of him, he knew, to be baited. We’re all still boys, aren’t we? He waited for the monsignor to offer some pithy saying to calm him, an old maxim about it being up to him to decide what or who got to him, but nothing came to mind.

It was then, standing feet from Tino Coluzzi, with the means to kill the man he detested more than any other at his disposal, carte blanche to do as he pleased, that Simon realized he didn’t need the monsignor anymore. His lessons were learned. He was his own man.

“Something I say bother you?”

“No,” said Simon. “Nothing you say or do could bother me.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that.” Coluzzi laughed. “So how did you find me?”

“Jojo. He hadn’t figured you for a snitch either. I’d be careful going back to his place. He’s already mad enough about the hand.”

“I appreciate you looking out for me.”

“That’s what we were supposed to do.”

“I take it this is about the letter.”

“Correct.”

“Who are you working for? The American? He never gave me his name.”

Simon didn’t answer.

“If it isn’t the Russians,” said Coluzzi, “it must be the other side.”

Simon shrugged. It never paid to give men like Coluzzi too much information. “Who are you planning on selling it to? Alexei Ren?”

“Jojo does have a big mouth.”

“I’m trying to figure out why you’re wearing that uniform. Or is it just for old times’ sake?”

“Doesn’t matter now. You’ve found me.”

“I’m still curious.”

Coluzzi ignored the question. “There was a woman. She killed Luca Falconi. You might want to watch out for her.”

Simon made out a sliver of hope in Coluzzi’s voice and he knew Coluzzi’d made a deal with the Russians—be it Ren or someone else, Borodin, even—and he was holding out for the chance it might still come to pass. “She’s no longer in the equation.”

“So it’s just you?”

“Not exactly.” Simon motioned for Coluzzi to move down the hall. Nikki waited in the living room, where they’d hidden when Coluzzi arrived. “This is Detective Perez from the Paris police. She’s going to arrest you for robbing the prince once you give me the letter.”

Coluzzi looked her up and down with contempt. “And if I don’t?”

“I’ll shoot you,” said Nikki. “No difference to me if I bring you in dead or alive.”

“You?” Coluzzi laughed at her. “I know you, Detective. Aziz Fran?ois is your bitch. He’s been feeding you a line of crap for years.”

“He told me about you and your friends at Le Galleon Rouge. I owe him that much.”

Coluzzi’s face dropped. “Go ahead then, Detective,” he responded in a burst of false bravado. “Shoot.”

“All right.” Nikki glanced at Simon, then raised the pistol—the Walther he’d taken off Jojo—and fired a round into the wall, an inch above his head. The noise was deafening.

“Are you crazy?” Coluzzi asked, cowering as bits of plaster and wallpaper rained down on him.

“Ask Aziz Fran?ois.” Nikki trained the pistol on him. “I imagine one of your neighbors may have heard that. They might be calling the police even now. And then?” She shrugged.

“Your play,” said Simon.

Coluzzi straightened up, drawing a breath to gather his composure. He studied them both for a moment. “I don’t have the letter here.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Nikki, already fed up.

But Simon was more optimistic. “It’s at your place outside of town. Your rat hole.”

For once, Coluzzi couldn’t hide his surprise. “That’s right,” he said.

“Let’s go, then,” said Simon. “Time’s a-wasting.”





Chapter 63



Yes, Victor, only men you can trust…He will put up a fight…Of that you can be sure…We will take him at his residence…Our time has come. Yes, my friend, I couldn’t agree more. It is a new day for the Rodina.”

Vassily Borodin ended the call to Moscow and stared out the window at the French countryside. Usually a master of self-control, he was finding it increasingly difficult to keep still. He felt like a schoolboy in church. Too many years had passed thinking of this moment. Too much effort expended. He grabbed the armrests with his hands, his knuckles white with tension.

So close.

Since leaving, he’d taken the final steps to put his plan into effect. He’d placed calls to like-minded men in positions of authority. At the National Police. The Army. The Air Force. And, of course, the Duma. He’d emailed all of them his last and most complete dossier containing the entirety of the evidence he had collected. He’d reached out to friendly members of the press. He’d even spoken to the few foreign government officials he considered friends.

The last and most important call was to his friends at the FSB, the Federal Security Service, the country’s most powerful institution.

The die was cast.

Tomorrow morning, upon his return to Moscow, letter in hand, all would be different. The arch criminal would be removed from power. He did not expect him to go easily. There would be a confrontation. The man had many friends. He had spread his largesse wisely over the years. But now he must go. The evidence was too strong. Evidence of corruption. Of bribery. Of looting of the nation’s rich patrimony.