“All right.” Nikki glanced at Simon, then raised the pistol—the Walther he’d taken off Jojo—and fired a round into the wall, an inch above his head. The noise was deafening.
“Are you crazy?” Coluzzi asked, cowering as bits of plaster and wallpaper rained down on him.
“Ask Aziz François.” Nikki trained the pistol on him. “I imagine one of your neighbors may have heard that. They might be calling the police even now. And then?” She shrugged.
“Your play,” said Simon.
Coluzzi straightened up, drawing a breath to gather his composure. He studied them both for a moment. “I don’t have the letter here.”
“Of course you don’t,” said Nikki, already fed up.
But Simon was more optimistic. “It’s at your place outside of town. Your rat hole.”
For once, Coluzzi couldn’t hide his surprise. “That’s right,” he said.
“Let’s go, then,” said Simon. “Time’s a-wasting.”
Chapter 63
Yes, Victor, only men you can trust…He will put up a fight…Of that you can be sure…We will take him at his residence…Our time has come. Yes, my friend, I couldn’t agree more. It is a new day for the Rodina.”
Vassily Borodin ended the call to Moscow and stared out the window at the French countryside. Usually a master of self-control, he was finding it increasingly difficult to keep still. He felt like a schoolboy in church. Too many years had passed thinking of this moment. Too much effort expended. He grabbed the armrests with his hands, his knuckles white with tension.
So close.
Since leaving, he’d taken the final steps to put his plan into effect. He’d placed calls to like-minded men in positions of authority. At the National Police. The Army. The Air Force. And, of course, the Duma. He’d emailed all of them his last and most complete dossier containing the entirety of the evidence he had collected. He’d reached out to friendly members of the press. He’d even spoken to the few foreign government officials he considered friends.
The last and most important call was to his friends at the FSB, the Federal Security Service, the country’s most powerful institution.
The die was cast.
Tomorrow morning, upon his return to Moscow, letter in hand, all would be different. The arch criminal would be removed from power. He did not expect him to go easily. There would be a confrontation. The man had many friends. He had spread his largesse wisely over the years. But now he must go. The evidence was too strong. Evidence of corruption. Of bribery. Of looting of the nation’s rich patrimony.
And, finally, there was the letter. The indisputable proof of his villainy. Not only was the president of the Russian Federation a thief. He was a spy.
And spies, like all traitors to their country, must be put to death.
The door to the cockpit opened. The captain approached. “Landing in one hour,” he said. “Ten minutes ahead of schedule.”
Borodin thanked him and the captain returned to his controls.
One hour.
Borodin was not sure he could wait so long.
Chapter 64
They drove in two cars. Coluzzi in the lead, Nikki in the back seat, her gun aimed squarely at his solar plexus. Simon followed in the Ferrari. It was a ten-minute drive down to the Gineste in Les Calanques national park. They left the highway and navigated a macadam road that petered out into a single-lane dirt track leading across a bluff of red rock dotted with Aleppo pines and patches of coastal scrub, the azure expanse of the Mediterranean before them. There were no houses anywhere. No structures of any kind.
The track disappeared altogether, but Coluzzi continued another half kilometer, dodging the trees and bushes, before stopping. Simon parked behind him and grabbed the machine gun from the back seat, unwrapping it from a blanket and carrying it in one hand, safety on, finger above the trigger guard. He had no idea what Coluzzi had up his sleeve or why he was wearing the uniform. None of it mattered once he got the letter. Until then, he wasn’t taking any chances.
“You did a good job,” he said, surveying the area. “I can’t spot it anywhere.”
“That’s the idea,” said Coluzzi.
They walked across the bluff, winding through the scrub, then descended a series of rock steps, plates of stone laid atop one another, like playing cards fanned out on a table. The drop between the stone plates grew larger and Simon knew they were nearing one of the Calanques, the inlets cutting into the shoreline like a succession of long, crooked fingers.
A few more steps and they were standing on the cliff’s edge, the sea a direct drop of a thousand feet. He leaned over and looked down, seeing the clear turquoise water, calm as a pond. To the right, there was a strip of beach and he could see a shack with a thatched roof and a few benches filled with guests.
