The Take(106)

And, finally, there was the letter. The indisputable proof of his villainy. Not only was the president of the Russian Federation a thief. He was a spy.

And spies, like all traitors to their country, must be put to death.

The door to the cockpit opened. The captain approached. “Landing in one hour,” he said. “Ten minutes ahead of schedule.”

Borodin thanked him and the captain returned to his controls.

One hour.

Borodin was not sure he could wait so long.





Chapter 64



They drove in two cars. Coluzzi in the lead, Nikki in the back seat, her gun aimed squarely at his solar plexus. Simon followed in the Ferrari. It was a ten-minute drive down to the Gineste in Les Calanques national park. They left the highway and navigated a macadam road that petered out into a single-lane dirt track leading across a bluff of red rock dotted with Aleppo pines and patches of coastal scrub, the azure expanse of the Mediterranean before them. There were no houses anywhere. No structures of any kind.

The track disappeared altogether, but Coluzzi continued another half kilometer, dodging the trees and bushes, before stopping. Simon parked behind him and grabbed the machine gun from the back seat, unwrapping it from a blanket and carrying it in one hand, safety on, finger above the trigger guard. He had no idea what Coluzzi had up his sleeve or why he was wearing the uniform. None of it mattered once he got the letter. Until then, he wasn’t taking any chances.

“You did a good job,” he said, surveying the area. “I can’t spot it anywhere.”

“That’s the idea,” said Coluzzi.

They walked across the bluff, winding through the scrub, then descended a series of rock steps, plates of stone laid atop one another, like playing cards fanned out on a table. The drop between the stone plates grew larger and Simon knew they were nearing one of the Calanques, the inlets cutting into the shoreline like a succession of long, crooked fingers.

A few more steps and they were standing on the cliff’s edge, the sea a direct drop of a thousand feet. He leaned over and looked down, seeing the clear turquoise water, calm as a pond. To the right, there was a strip of beach and he could see a shack with a thatched roof and a few benches filled with guests.

“Le Bilboquet,” he said, giving the name of the bar that was in the picture he’d found at Falconi’s.

“So?”

“They had a good salade Ni?oise.”

“Still do.”

Coluzzi turned to his left, and it was then that Simon discovered the shelter built into the surrounding rock. There was a stout wooden roof, sanded with red dust, a peasant’s boarded door, and a terrace running to a vertical precipice. Like a mirage, it was there but not there. Blink twice and it was gone.

Coluzzi unlocked the door. Nikki followed close behind, her pistol aimed at a spot in the center of his back.

“Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?” Coluzzi called over his shoulder, as if inviting in his chums. “I’ve got some decent eau-de-vie for you, Ledoux, now that you’ve gone upper class on us.”

“Let’s get what we came for,” Simon replied. “You can have happy hour at the station.”

The hideout’s furnishings were nicer than he’d expected. There were carpets over wood floors, an old, flouncy sofa in the living area, a flat-screen TV plugged into a generator, and a few chairs and tables, staples of any second-hand furniture store. Coluzzi asked if he might open the door to the terrace. Simon said, “No.”

“Where’s the letter?” demanded Nikki.

“Why in such a hurry?” Coluzzi asked.

“We want to make sure you get a good night’s sleep,” said Simon. “Jails are such peaceful places.” He had the machine gun in firing position. Coluzzi wasn’t going without a fight.

“In the bedroom.” Coluzzi turned and took a few paces to the rear of the shelter. “I’ve got a safe under my bed. I need to roll the carpet back.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” said Simon.

“That would be nice.”

Coluzzi stepped into a cramped room with low ceilings, no windows, a single bed pushed up against the wall. Simon handed Nikki the machine gun, and she set it down against the wall outside the room, quick to return to her alert position, gun raised, held with both hands.

Coluzzi got onto his knees and rolled back a tattered burgundy carpet. Simon kneeled next to him, peeling back the opposite corner. There was a door cut into the floorboards and a silver pull ring to one side.

“Easy,” said Simon.

“Of course.” Coluzzi gave the ring a yank and the door came free. He raised it slowly until it stood upright. “Hold it open. It tends to drop on my head.”

Coluzzi bent lower to open the safe. “Funny, isn’t it? We went to all that trouble to steal half a million euros, knocking off jewelry stores, banks, the big trucks. Cops shooting at us, running like hell, driving like hell. I found a goddamned letter and it’s worth ten million.”

“Is that what they’re offering?”

“Cash. On its way.” He looked over his shoulder, hoping.

“That wasn’t the original deal, though, was it?” said Simon.

“So you are working for him?”

“Open the safe, Tino.”

Coluzzi returned his attention to the safe. “You know, it really isn’t so difficult killing a man face-to-face,” he said. “I didn’t have a choice with you. Take you face-to-face and you would’ve killed me. I’m not stupid. I knew you’d come after me the moment I got put in Les Baums. It was survival, really. I couldn’t have you telling everyone in the yard that I was a snitch. That would have been the end. Goodbye, Tino. That makes me smart, not a coward. Otherwise, it doesn’t bother me. Looking a man in the eye and killing him.” Coluzzi raised his head to look at Simon. “I didn’t have a problem with the priest.”