“He doesn’t want to talk to you.”
After that, radio silence. By his own order.
A robbery. What the hell happened?
Borodin cursed his predicament, bloodless lips stretched taut across his teeth. It was unthinkable that in this day and age a man in his position could not communicate securely with whomever he pleased no matter his location. Yet such was the case. Technology had come full circle. There was no conversation he could conduct on his phone, his laptop, even his office computer in Moscow, that someone else—someone he did not know and might have reason to fear—might also be hearing. And he, Vassily Alexandrovich Borodin, director of the SVR—the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service—was as much responsible for it as anyone.
Tonight, of all nights, he could tolerate no risk.
“Sir! Come quickly! There’s something you must see!” It was Kurtz, his deputy, standing outside the control shack, waving madly for him to return.
“All right,” called Borodin, raising a hand to calm him down. Giving a look at the sky, he turned and walked toward the shack. He was a small man, barely five feet four inches tall, rail thin, with jet-black hair and a Mongol’s high cheekbones and narrow eyes. Aware of his diminutive stature, he took pains to counter any impression of weakness. His posture was that of a ceremonial guard at Lenin’s tomb. Spine rigid. Jaw raised to see over the horizon. When addressing a colleague, he looked him in the eye and gave him his complete attention, taking pains not to blink. He held his thoughts when others were eager to share their own. All these habits conspired to leave the impression of a secure, confident, and powerful man.
“The prince,” shouted Kurtz. “A report about him is on television.”
Borodin followed him inside. The control shed was small and squalid and reeked of burnt lamb. Kurtz and the others stood in a semicircle, gazing at an old television perched high on the wall while chattering incessantly. The television broadcast pictures of a line of black sedans he recognized to be somewhere in Paris.
“Silence,” said Borodin.
The room quieted. With mounting despair, he listened to the reporter’s account of the robbery targeting Prince Abdul Aziz of Saudi Arabia. At last he knew what the pilot had been referring to.
“Well,” said Kurtz, when the report concluded. “What shall we do?”
Borodin offered his deputy an icy stare, then returned to his place alongside the runway.
In time, he spotted a pair of landing lights high in the sky. He followed them as they descended, and the prince’s jet touched down, shooting past him to the end of the runway.
Minutes later, the jet parked. Stairs were wheeled to the fuselage. The door opened and the prince descended.
Borodin held his ground, making no effort to approach.
“It’s gone,” said the prince as he drew near.
“The news reported that it was your money that was stolen.”
“They hijacked my car as well. My briefcase was inside.”
“With the letter?”
“Yes.”
Borodin considered this. For once, the prince was not wearing his sunglasses, and Borodin noted that his eyes were red-rimmed and pouchy. The man looked as if he had been crying.
“I don’t understand,” he said with exaggerated care. “What do you mean they hijacked your car?”
“To get away.”
“Didn’t they arrive by car themselves?”
“My guess is that they didn’t wish to move the money to save time. They were professionals.”
“But the money was not in your car?”
“The car behind mine.”
Borodin took this in. “And you had no indication they were interested in the letter?”
“None. It happened too quickly. One minute and they were gone.”
