“What about her?”
Kurtz handed Borodin his smartphone. A report from a French news channel was queued up. Borodin shot Kurtz a damning glance, then pressed PLAY. With horror, he listened to a reporter from France 2 describe the mysterious death of a female Russian passenger aboard a TGV from Paris to Marseille following a physical altercation with another passenger. A witness appeared on screen telling of the fight that took place in the dining car between a beautiful blond woman and an unidentified man, acting out how the woman had plunged a pen into her neck and then died gruesomely. The reporter ended by adding that the unidentified passenger with whom the Russian woman had quarreled had disappeared and could not be found.
Borodin returned the phone to his assistant. The unidentified man was an American, of course. Most probably, the one named Riske with an e. Oh, how they must want the letter back to engage in such theatrics aboard a train.
Instead of anger, he felt a sudden lightness of being, the fleeting beatific joy that came from knowing that one was right. The letter was genuine. Absolutely, incontrovertibly genuine.
“Well?” asked Kurtz.
“Take me to the airport.”
“But, sir—”
“I’m going to get that damned thing myself.”
“Out of the question. It was already too much of a risk going to Cyprus.”
“Nonsense.”
Kurtz stepped closer. “People are asking questions.”
Borodin turned on Kurtz. “And I am going to bring them back answers.”
“Not alone. Major Asanova was a formidable asset. Whoever did this—”
“I’ll need a team of five. We have twenty men from Directorate S within three hours of Marseille. Find me the best. And make sure one of them is a decent shot. If Mr. Coluzzi thinks he can toy with me, he is sorely mistaken.”
Chapter 52
It was a drive through the most beautiful landscape on Earth. They made their way south along two-lane roads that rose and fell with the hills and valleys, past vineyards and wheat fields and grand country estates, through towns and hamlets, the air rich with the warm, fertile scent of the earth, the colors a palette of russet tones.
Driving was one of the few activities that relaxed Simon. Often, the faster he drove, the calmer he grew. Today, he made sure to check those instincts. He kept to the speed limit and obeyed every light and stop sign. They were off the radar. He wanted to keep it that way.
Nikki asked him again about his past. This time he told her, joking he had better take the opportunity while he still had it. He told her the real story as he knew it, not the sanitized version he’d grown used to recounting even to those he was close to. It was the truth with the emotions exposed; he was surprised at how raw some still were all these years later.
He told her about the fear and abandonment he’d felt after his father’s suicide, the bottomless well of anger at his not having left a note, the lingering notion that Simon was in some way responsible no matter how much he knew it wasn’t the case. The move to Marseille, the beatings he’d endured at his stepfather’s hand, until one day he’d decided enough was enough and he hit back. The decision to quit school. His first days on the street—un petit voyou—a little thug working the block. His distaste for the drug users he shepherded in and out of the dealers’ lairs, until he started using drugs himself. His move up the food chain to stealing cars, the unbeatable rush of leading a dozen police cars on a two-hour chase through Marseille and the surrounding countryside. No one knew the area as well as he—every street, every alley, every shortcut. No one.
All the while, Nikki nodded and said she understood or asked him a question about how he’d felt or why he hadn’t done something differently. Simon heard no judgment in her voice, just curiosity and empathy. And so he went on.
And then, the bigger move up to knocking off armored cars. The first time as part of a crew, surrounding the vehicle on all sides, one team charged with getting the cash, the other with fending off the police. The wild firefights in broad daylight, bullets whizzing everywhere, none by the grace of God hitting him. To this day, he admitted, he loved blowing off a clip of ammo on full auto with his AK. Yes, he owned one, but he kept it at his shooting club in London. He had lots of guns there. One day he’d show her.
He told her about the day he was arrested, what it felt like to be shot—it hadn’t hurt until later; at the time, he’d been too pumped with adrenaline to feel anything. He knew who had betrayed them but told no one.
“Why?” Nikki asked.
But Simon had moved on. The answer was coming. He didn’t want to get ahead of himself. He was back in Les Baums, and for the first time he told another person about killing Nasser-Al-Faris, how he felt nothing looking down on his dead body, not remorse, not guilt, not relief. Nothing. He was dead inside.
And then, his punishment in “the hole.” His certainty each and every day that he was losing his sanity. The endless hours made worse by not knowing how long he must endure. A month. A year. Longer. And all of it avoidable if he gave up one man’s name.
“Why didn’t you?” Nikki asked in disbelief. “You knew who betrayed you. He was responsible for the death of Bonfanti’s son. Not you.”
“We were all responsible,” Simon replied. “The second we decided to rob that truck, we’d given up any right to justice. Still, I should have known he was a rat.”
“I don’t understand. You could have walked out after a day.”
“Looking back, the decision’s easy. Then, things were different. I was different. I wanted to be the one who gave it to him. Face-to-face.”
“How long were you in solitary confinement?”
