The Take(84)

“Did you already speak to—”

“This is your deal. I’m not involved. My friend alerted Borodin that you wished to speak with him about a serious matter. Apparently, he was expecting you.”

Coluzzi looked at the numbers, then dialed without hesitation. All night he’d rehearsed what he would say to Borodin. Now his mouth was dry and he could no longer remember what he’d decided on.

The phone rang.

Ren stood facing him, cigar firmly in the corner of his mouth, arms crossed over his chest. His smile was gone. His eyes stared at him as if he were his worst enemy.

“Good luck,” he said.

“All?.”

“Borodin?”

“Director Borodin, if you don’t mind. Am I speaking with Mr. Tino Coluzzi?”

The voice was calm, measured, not unfriendly, pitched higher than he’d expected, the man’s French nearly perfect.

“My name isn’t important.”

“There are no strangers in this business. We’ve been looking for you since yesterday. Now you turn up with Alexei Ren. You are an opportunistic man.”

“I do what’s necessary.”

“So it seems.”

“I have your letter. I guess I don’t need to tell you that.”

“No, you don’t. Mr. Delacroix was helpful in that regard, as was your friend Mr. Falconi. Or did you think we’d sit back and wait for you to come to us?”

Coluzzi swallowed, biting back his anger. He didn’t care about Delacroix, other than to be angry he’d paid him up front, but Luca Falconi had been like an uncle. “I didn’t think that.”

Borodin paused long enough for Coluzzi to digest the information. “What do you wish to do with your prize?”

“I have a few ideas.”

“May I ask you a question first?”

“Go ahead.”

“How did you come to find it? The news says the robbery was only about the money.”

“That’s my business.”

“So it wasn’t a coincidence?”

“Let’s say that there are others who want the letter as badly as you.”

“Have you spoken with them?” Borodin’s voice was suddenly too relaxed, almost nonchalant. Coluzzi realized that he was the more nervous of them.

“I thought you’d want it, seeing as how the prince was flying to Cyprus to personally deliver it to you.”

“My, my. You never cease to impress me.”

“The prince writes too much down. You might want to mention it to him next time you get together.”

“Mr. Coluzzi, I’m a busy man. You are correct that we would like to take possession of the letter. Sooner rather than later. I’m prepared to offer you fifty thousand euros.”

“I was thinking of a different number.”

“Of course you were.”

“How does twenty million sound?”

Borodin’s laugh sounded like a seal’s bark. “Did Ren give you that number?”

“All mine.”

“Impossible. We have a budget like any other organization. It’s not my decision alone.”

“I don’t think your budget applies in this matter.”

“Why not?”

“This is your play. I know what’s in the letter. I know why you want it. The number is twenty million.”

“Never.”

“Then I apologize for wasting your time. I’m a busy man, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another call to make.”

“Wait!”

“I’m listening.”

“Two million euros. Cash. You’ll have it in twelve hours.”

“Twenty million. Also in cash. And have it here by six.”

“Five million is the best I can do.”

“The sun is coming up in Washington, DC. I know just the person to call. He’s probably mad at me for not having given him the letter in the first place, but I suppose he’ll soften up. I’ve kept the Americans waiting long enough.”

“Ten million and that’s final.”

“What did you do to Luca Falconi?”

“Ten million, Mr. Coluzzi. Or you’ll find out yourself what we did to your friend.”

Coluzzi’s eyes met Ren’s. The Russian nodded.

“Deal,” said Coluzzi.

“Call this number back in an hour and I’ll give you the details.”

Borodin hung up before Coluzzi could protest.

Ren slipped the phone into his pocket. He held a fresh cigar in his free hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s celebrate.”





Chapter 49



Boris Blatt required four hours to determine where his watch had been stolen. He was not sure if he would ever discover how, or by whom.

He’d set to work upon his return from Zurich earlier that morning. His plane had landed punctually at nine at City Airport, his car waiting on the tarmac to take him home. The twelve-mile drive to Highgate in the north of London took nearly as long as the five-hundred-mile flight from Switzerland. It wasn’t until ten that he pulled through the iron gates into Parkfield’s grand forecourt. It was the first time Blatt had purchased a property with a name. Frankly, he thought “Parkfield” rather bland and lacking in grandiosity, especially for a ninety-thousand-square-foot Georgian revival set on five acres of grassland that counted as the second-largest private residence in the city. He preferred the name given to the largest private residence. Buckingham Palace.