A sleek jet sat on the apron at the far end of the runway. Six windows, blue stripe along the fuselage, winglets at the end of each wing. He didn’t need to see the Russian tricolor painted high on its tail to know it was Borodin’s. There wasn’t another jet—private or commercial—at the aerodrome. The engines were spooling, trails of translucent exhaust visible against the backdrop of forest. This pleased Coluzzi. It meant Borodin wanted to make a quick exchange and get the hell out of here. He imagined Borodin had plans for the letter. Coluzzi had plans, too. Ten million euros’ worth.
He drove past the squadron of aircraft to the north end of the field and stopped when he was at a safe distance from the jet. The aerodrome was shutting down for the night. There was little activity of note. A pair of mechanics in an old jeep bumped along toward the repair shed. A Piper Cub had just landed and was taxiing to its designated spot. The control tower closed at nine. Anyone wanting to land after that did it on his own visual reconnaissance.
He put the truck in park, leaving the engine running, and called Borodin.
“You’re late,” said the Russian. “Is everything in order?”
“Everything is fine,” said Coluzzi. “Here’s how it works. You’ll come alone to my truck with the money. I’ll open the back and you’ll climb inside. After I count the money, I will give you the letter.”
“Fine,” said Borodin.
Fine? Coluzzi had expected more resistance, a request for a bodyguard to accompany him, proof he had the letter on his person. Something. He cursed Ledoux for causing him to be tardy. He had no idea when Borodin had arrived or if he’d had the chance to deploy any men. It made sense he wouldn’t come alone or unprotected. Not the director of the SVR.
“Well?” asked the Russian.
“I’m waiting.” Coluzzi unbuckled his safety belt. He had the air-conditioning on high, but he was sweating all the same. What he needed was some fresh air, but windows in armored cars didn’t go down. There were only vents in the roof, which he knew about all too well because the first thing you did when you hit a truck was to clog them with towels soaked in ether to encourage the driver to abandon his post. You could block the vents to the cargo bay, too, but you couldn’t count on that to force the guards to open the doors. It was usually necessary to take more proactive measures, namely a well-aimed RPG or a round from a Barrett .50 caliber rifle to blast open the lock.
The desire of armored car manufacturers to seal off the cargo bay had led them to install a steel bulkhead separating it from the driver’s compartment. So it was that Coluzzi needed to exit the truck. This particular truck had its door on the side, a single panel like the door to an RV, but made from steel two inches thick.
He scanned the airfield, looking for signs of them lying in wait. The sun was touching the horizon. A soft wind rustled the pines. All was calm. Another look. He saw nothing to give him pause.
The jet’s forward door opened inward. Stairs unfolded. A lone man descended the steps. He was short and thin, dressed in a dark suit. A runt if there ever was one. Where was the money? Another figure appeared in the doorway and handed down a suitcase. Borodin—at least he thought it was Borodin—took it by the handle and began to walk in his direction. After several steps, he set down the suitcase and stopped. Coluzzi shifted in his seat. What was wrong? Why had Borodin halted? Then the Russian freed the extendable handle and continued in his direction, wheeling the suitcase behind him.
Coluzzi opened the door and stepped outside into the warm evening air. With relish, he rubbed his hands together.
Payday.
Simon had never driven so fast.
As a boy, even before he was old enough for a license, he would take a car he’d boosted and give it a run through the hills outside the city. Speed limits meant nothing. He drove as fast as his skills allowed. If the car permitted it, he drove faster. The roads were narrow and winding with plenty of hairpin turns and more blind curves than not. Once in the mountains, there were no guardrails to keep you from sliding off the road and plummeting a few hundred meters down a sheer cliff. It went without saying, he preferred to drive at night.
Still, he had never driven like this, foot plastered to the floor, darting in and out of his lane, dodging oncoming traffic, daring others to hit him. Time and again, he met the blue flash of halogens, the fearful protest of a horn. Time and again, he ducked back into his lane by the skin of his teeth.
He crested a hill and came up much too quickly on a station wagon. There were three children in the rear. One of them, a boy, grew excited at the sighting of the Dino and began giving him thumbs-ups and other gestures of approbation.
Simon slipped the car to the left, edging into the oncoming lane. A Mercedes zipped by and another behind it, so close his wing mirror rattled. A patch of empty road beckoned. He downshifted and slid into the oncoming lane. The station wagon matched his acceleration. Simon refused to look at the driver and continued to build speed, the needle touching 160. The station wagon stayed with him. What the hell! There were children in the car. Simon dry-shifted, shoving the car into neutral for a split second while juicing the rpms, then throwing it back into fourth.
The Dino leapt ahead.
A truck rounded the bend and was coming at him, closing fast.
Simon was a nose in front of the station wagon, but still the driver refused to slow. The children’s faces were glued to the window, unaware they were not simply spectators in a battle but unknowing participants. The Dino was underpowered by design, built as a more affordable entry into the Ferrari family. It didn’t have a V-12 or even a turbo-charged V-8. Simon was handcuffed by a V-6 that could give him two hundred horses on a good day.
The truck sounded its horn.
Simon took a last look at the station wagon. For a moment, his foot moved to the brake, then he bit his lip and downshifted into third, skyrocketing the rpms. The engine howled in pain. The vehicle shot forward. He yanked the wheel to the right and retook his lane as the truck whizzed past him, the sudden and dramatic change in air pressure causing his ears to pop.
A green traffic sign passed in a blur.
AIX-EN-PROVENCE 10 KM
By now, Coluzzi was there.
Faster.
Alexei Ren sat in the copilot’s seat of his helicopter, staring at the armored car. He’d landed at the aerodrome an hour earlier, sure to arrive before Borodin. He’d positioned his men strategically, knowing that Borodin would wish to leave as quickly as possible and that he would stay far from the main concourse. He saw them hiding among the private planes, fanned out evenly. There were six in all.
He was certain that Borodin had his own men positioned around the field, too, probably locals he’d brought for protection. Until now, however, no one besides Borodin had deplaned. Ren must assume the men were hidden on the far side of the field.
