The Take(75)

“Are you okay?” asked the skipper. “You look a little green.”

“I’m fine,” said Coluzzi, giving a tepid smile and a thumbs-up.

A smudge of brown appeared on the horizon and, soon after, a collection of white specks.

“Five minutes,” said the skipper.

The specks grew into yachts, but the smudge of brown remained flat, barely rising above the horizon. The boat rounded the eastern tip of land and pulled into a broad channel, passing between two long, similarly low islands. The boat slowed. The wind abated. The water was calm and the color of aquamarine, the sandy seafloor visible below. No fewer than a dozen yachts were anchored here and there. The largest among them, occupying pride of place nearest the white sand beach, was the Solange.

The skipper continued past the motor yacht and pulled alongside a dock extending fifty meters from land. Directly behind the dock, situated on a low bluff overlooking the beach, was a restaurant with thatched roofs and billowing white canopies. The smell of smoked seafood filled the air.

“Mr. Ren asks that you join him.”

Coluzzi negotiated his way onto the dock, pausing to steady himself and straighten his jacket before continuing to the beach and climbing the steep flight of steps to the restaurant.

A bodyguard waited at the top of the stairs. “Phone, please.”

“I may need it.”

“Mr. Ren doesn’t allow phones.”

Coluzzi handed over the burner phone he’d been using since midnight.

The bodyguard patted him down. He found nothing. “Bon appétit,” he said pleasantly.

“Merci.” Coluzzi had known well enough to leave his stiletto at home.

The restaurant’s charm came from its casual, near slapdash ambiance. Four long wooden tables were set end to end, each with ten to twelve rattan chairs along it. A liberal amount of sand had been spread over a poured concrete floor. Canopies overhead snapped like a ship’s sails. Bouquets of flowers decorated the interior pylons.

Only one table was occupied. Alexei Ren sat at its head, one leg draped over the arm of his chair, a glass of champagne dangling from his hand. His guests numbered eleven or twelve: men, women, and a few children, dressed in linen shirts, shorts, and bathing attire. Sadly, Coluzzi spotted none of the lovelies he’d spent time with the day before. These guests had pale skin, high cheekbones, and dark eyes. Ren’s Russian compatriots, no doubt.

Coluzzi counted ten empty bottles of Dom Pérignon on the table and at least as many chilling in ice buckets nearby. “Tino!” Ren raised an arm in welcome. “Come. Sit.”

Coluzzi grabbed a chair from the next table and brought it close. “Hello, Alexei.”

“What’ll you have? Some DP? Stoli? A beer?”

“Mineral water is fine.”

“Come on,” said Ren. “Join us. Today’s your day.”

“A beer,” Coluzzi said to the waiter, “1664.”

“There you go,” said Ren. He was smiling much too broadly. No matter how he tried, Coluzzi couldn’t smile back.

He knew all about Entre les ?les, even if he’d never been. There was a time when the place had been a local hangout, a sleepy lunch spot off the coast where you parked your boat, took a swim, then feasted on langoustines and beer for a decent price. All that had changed twenty years back when the Russians invaded the Riviera. Saint-Tropez had long been a chic destination ruined by rich tourists, but one by one even the most unprepossessing out-of-the-way spots were gobbled up by the surfeit of wealth and greed flooding the South of France. Why charge ten euros for a plate of ten langoustines when you could charge a hundred for just five?

The waiter brought the beer on a tray. Coluzzi had time to take a sip before Ren was on his feet. “Walk with me.”

Ren lit a cigar and put an arm around Coluzzi’s shoulder. “I don’t see the money,” he said.

“We said after you’d arranged the meeting.”

“You said ‘after.’ I never agreed.”

“Is there going to be a problem?”

Ren exhaled a cloud of blue smoke and hugged Coluzzi closer. “I know you’re good for it.”

“Of course.”

The Russian led the way out of the restaurant to a shaded area overlooking the windward side of the island. Coluzzi noted that a bodyguard followed and stood ten steps away, his back turned to fend off unwelcome visitors. Ren busied himself relighting his cigar. Coluzzi remained quiet. Nothing betrayed nerves or weakness more than idle chatter.

“This man…Borodin,” Ren began, assiduously lighting and pulling on his cigar. “He’s damned tough to reach. I mean, how do you go about contacting the head of the Russian spy service?”

“If I knew,” said Coluzzi, “we wouldn’t be here.”

“First,” said Ren, “you must know someone close to him. Someone who you trust…and who he trusts.” He opened his eyes wide and shrugged as if this were requesting the impossible. “I’ve been gone from Russia for years. My contacts are no longer what they once were. There was a time when if you asked me to call the head of the SVR, I would reply ‘On his home phone or his cell?’ Alas, those days are gone.”

Coluzzi nodded, but he felt himself getting nervous. Yesterday Ren had practically boasted he could make the call then and there. Now he sounded as if he were hedging his bets.