“I have a situation that’s developing a bit too quickly. I need to borrow one of your men.”
“Not a good time. We’re stretched thin these days. What do you have in mind?”
“A shooter. I need him on-site within three hours. Should have him back to you by tomorrow.”
“Let me check.”
Neill left the station and walked up the hill a block to where he’d parked his car, a silver Audi sedan. Just then, Tanner came back on the line. “You’re in luck. I have just the guy. Put in twenty years as a sniper with your old outfit.”
“The Corps?”
“MARSOC.” Marines Special Operations Command. The successor to Force Recon and the United States Marine Corps’ most elite unit. “Spent a bunch of time in Afghanistan. He was a night soldier. In between he stopped off in Iraq. There’s a note here says he held the record for the longest kill in his battalion. Took out a bad guy at twelve hundred yards.”
Neill whistled long and low. “Quite some distance.”
“Been with us since ’11. He’s solid. I’ll task him out to your shop, but make sure you sign off on an interagency chit within thirty days. We’re watching every penny these days.”
“You got it. What’s his name?”
“You’re gonna love this. Jack Makepeace.”
“You’re right. I love it,” said Neill, sharing Tanner’s jocularity like any good fraternity brother.
“You’ll have his records in a second,” said Tanner. “Where am I sending him?”
“Marseille.”
Chapter 54
Coluzzi’s phone rang as he stepped onto the dock in the old port. The screen showed no number, only the word “Unknown.” Unknown to others perhaps, he mused, placing the phone to his ear. “Yes,” he said.
“I will be arriving this evening at eight p.m. at the aerodrome in Aix-en-Provence. I do not wish to stay long. Please have my property ready.”
“Just bring the money. There won’t be any problems.”
“You’ll have your money,” said Vassily Borodin. “Eight p.m.”
“One last thing,” said Coluzzi, needling the Russian. “How will I find you?”
“If there are other Gulfstream jets there, look for the one with the Russian flag on the tail.”
The line went dead. Coluzzi left the dock and walked up the hill toward the Basilique Notre-Dame de la Garde. The Aerodrome d’Aix-en-Provence was a modest airfield ten kilometers outside the city with a single runway long enough to accommodate only midsized jets. No commercial air service was offered. In fact, if Coluzzi recalled correctly, it wasn’t licensed to welcome international flights. There was a reason he knew so much about the aerodrome. Years back, when he’d brought in planes from Morocco packed to the gills with hashish, the aerodrome had been his port of choice. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one able to buy off the ground personnel.
Coluzzi arrived at the top of the hill. He was hot and sweaty and on edge at the prospect of making the transfer at the aerodrome. He didn’t relish the idea of walking by himself across a wide-open runway to Borodin’s plane. He’d be a sitting duck. Any of Borodin’s men could take him out with an easy shot. How could he have agreed to such a thing?
He clutched his phone, weighing whether he ought to demand that Borodin meet him elsewhere. After all, he had what the Russian wanted. Why shouldn’t he be the one to decide? Then an idea came to him. Oh yes, he thought. That might work. He relaxed, if only for an instant. Sometimes the best ways were the oldest.
If Borodin wanted to make the exchange at the aerodrome, so be it. Tino Coluzzi was one step ahead of him.
Buoyed by the clarity and cleverness of his thoughts, he stepped into a patch of shade beneath a grove of pines. From where he stood, he looked down on the old port. One slip was markedly vacant. He placed a call to the only other Russian he knew.
“I was beginning to wonder if something happened to you,” said Alexei Ren.
“The meeting’s set.”
“When?”
“None of your business.”
