The Take(111)

He crested a hill and came up much too quickly on a station wagon. There were three children in the rear. One of them, a boy, grew excited at the sighting of the Dino and began giving him thumbs-ups and other gestures of approbation.

Simon slipped the car to the left, edging into the oncoming lane. A Mercedes zipped by and another behind it, so close his wing mirror rattled. A patch of empty road beckoned. He downshifted and slid into the oncoming lane. The station wagon matched his acceleration. Simon refused to look at the driver and continued to build speed, the needle touching 160. The station wagon stayed with him. What the hell! There were children in the car. Simon dry-shifted, shoving the car into neutral for a split second while juicing the rpms, then throwing it back into fourth.

The Dino leapt ahead.

A truck rounded the bend and was coming at him, closing fast.

Simon was a nose in front of the station wagon, but still the driver refused to slow. The children’s faces were glued to the window, unaware they were not simply spectators in a battle but unknowing participants. The Dino was underpowered by design, built as a more affordable entry into the Ferrari family. It didn’t have a V-12 or even a turbo-charged V-8. Simon was handcuffed by a V-6 that could give him two hundred horses on a good day.

The truck sounded its horn.

Simon took a last look at the station wagon. For a moment, his foot moved to the brake, then he bit his lip and downshifted into third, skyrocketing the rpms. The engine howled in pain. The vehicle shot forward. He yanked the wheel to the right and retook his lane as the truck whizzed past him, the sudden and dramatic change in air pressure causing his ears to pop.

A green traffic sign passed in a blur.

AIX-EN-PROVENCE 10 KM

By now, Coluzzi was there.

Faster.



Alexei Ren sat in the copilot’s seat of his helicopter, staring at the armored car. He’d landed at the aerodrome an hour earlier, sure to arrive before Borodin. He’d positioned his men strategically, knowing that Borodin would wish to leave as quickly as possible and that he would stay far from the main concourse. He saw them hiding among the private planes, fanned out evenly. There were six in all.

He was certain that Borodin had his own men positioned around the field, too, probably locals he’d brought for protection. Until now, however, no one besides Borodin had deplaned. Ren must assume the men were hidden on the far side of the field.

It made no difference.

All that mattered to Alexei Ren was that Vassily Borodin never again set foot in Moscow.



“Mr. Coluzzi.”

“Call me Tino. Please.”

Borodin looked up at Coluzzi standing in the bay of the armored truck, dressed in the Brink’s uniform, a pistol in his hand. The man was clever. He’d grant him that. He was unsure if his men had a clear shot or if they’d even know this was the man they were after. “The letter is here?”

“Hand me the suitcase.”

Borodin hoisted the suitcase into the truck, then followed it inside.

Coluzzi closed the door, then spun him around and frisked him. “Open the case. Take the money out and count it.”

“Must we? I didn’t fly all this way to engage in any last-minute tomfoolery. It’s all there.”

Coluzzi insisted. Borodin opened the case. He took out one packet of money and another, handing them over for inspection. “Ten thousand. Twenty.”

Coluzzi pulled the suitcase toward him. “Sit still and shut up.” He added an unctuous smile. “Please.”

“As you wish.”

The Corsican dug his hands into the case and removed the packets at random, fanning each to check against any padding, freeing one or two notes and holding them to the weak interior bulb.

“Happy?” asked Borodin.

“Ten million euros,” said Coluzzi, with smug satisfaction. “It really does look bigger.”

“Excuse me?”

Coluzzi closed the suitcase. “Never mind.”

“The letter?”

Coluzzi unbuttoned his chest pocket and withdrew the envelope, the rear flap embossed with an image of the White House. He watched Borodin’s eyes light up, his cheeks fire with a rosy glow.

With care, Borodin slipped the letter from the envelope. Here it was, then. The grail itself. Relief, satisfaction, and venom—in that order—coursed through his veins as he read the short message.

“Happy?” asked Coluzzi.

Borodin gestured at the door. “Our business is concluded. May I?”

Coluzzi threw it open and Borodin left the truck. When he had covered a few steps, he heard his deputy’s voice in his earpiece. “We can take him when he shows himself. We have a clear shot.”

“Leave him be,” said Borodin.

“But we cannot—”

“We have what we came for. The last thing we need is a fiasco. It will be bad enough if Major Asanova is tied to us.”

“Yes, sir.”

Borodin breathed deeply of the warm, scented air. He felt a lightness to his step that was entirely new to him. A sense of optimism he’d made a point to guard against. One day, he mused, it would be nice to vacation in the area. Perhaps, once he repatriated some of the billions the president had stolen, he would allow himself to borrow a bit off the top and bring his family. Nothing too much, mind you. No lordly sums. A million or two, at most. There were many lovely hotels. He’d heard the H?tel du Cap was especially nice, a favorite of his countrymen. The minutest of smiles creased his lips. How sweet, revenge.