“Count on it.”
Simon stepped away. The helicopter lifted off the stone butte. Its nose dipped and it dove over the cliff toward the blue water, then rose and flew into the setting sun.
He almost didn’t hear the phone ringing. “D’Art?”
“Not much joy, I’m afraid. I called Garda, Securitas, and all the smaller shops. All their trucks are accounted for. Only Brink’s had anything interesting.”
“Go on.”
“One of their trucks that was listed as ‘under repair’ left their lot a little while ago.”
“Here in Marseille?”
“Nineteen Rue de la Paix. Know where that is?”
“Sure I do. Where is the truck now?”
“As of this moment, the truck appears to be on a highway heading northwest.”
“To the airport?”
“Already past it, I’m afraid.”
Simon sighed with frustration. If not the airport to meet Borodin, then where? “That’s a start.”
“Did I say I was finished? Clients like to follow the trucks transporting their valuables. I texted you a link to the truck’s geo-locator. You can follow it yourself. If it’s the right one…”
“It better be.”
“Good luck, then. By the way, someone’s been asking round about you.”
“Client?”
“Never mind who,” said D’Artagnan Moore in a lighter voice. “Call me as soon as you hit town. Right now it sounds as if you have your hands full enough.”
Simon hung up.
He grabbed the assault rifle and retraced his path to the Ferrari. Five minutes later he was on the Gineste heading west. He kept one eye on the road and one on his phone and the blinking dot on the map. The Brink’s truck had left the main highway ten kilometers past the airport and was headed north. Simon studied the map for possible locations. He spotted a name he hadn’t thought of in almost twenty years. Suddenly, it made sense.
Returning his concentration to the road, he gripped the wheel lightly and depressed the accelerator. Ahead, the sun was setting over the sea, a brilliant fireball poised above a field of shimmering blue.
It was Coluzzi behind the wheel of the Brink’s truck.
And Simon knew where he was headed.
Maybe…just maybe.
Chapter 67
Coluzzi had the feeling. The tingling at the tippy-tip of his fingers. The nervous rumble in his tummy. The unexplained desire to smile like an idiot, followed by the ferocious order to keep a straight face. It was the feeling he got when he was about to do a job and he knew it was going to come off.
And now, as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the Brink’s truck, guiding the heavy vehicle across the tarmac of the Aix-en-Provence aerodrome, he had it once again.
It was the feeling of fast money.
Coluzzi sat up straighter, gripping the wheel with both hands.
The aerodrome occupied a sprawling meadow bordered by a pine forest to the north, the highway to the east, and endless fields of wheat and barley to the south and west. There was one landing strip and a taxiway, nearly as long, running parallel to it. A few dozen private planes were parked near the control tower, all of them tethered to the tarmac. It was not uncommon for winds to reach triple digits.
