It made no difference.
All that mattered to Alexei Ren was that Vassily Borodin never again set foot in Moscow.
“Mr. Coluzzi.”
“Call me Tino. Please.”
Borodin looked up at Coluzzi standing in the bay of the armored truck, dressed in the Brink’s uniform, a pistol in his hand. The man was clever. He’d grant him that. He was unsure if his men had a clear shot or if they’d even know this was the man they were after. “The letter is here?”
“Hand me the suitcase.”
Borodin hoisted the suitcase into the truck, then followed it inside.
Coluzzi closed the door, then spun him around and frisked him. “Open the case. Take the money out and count it.”
“Must we? I didn’t fly all this way to engage in any last-minute tomfoolery. It’s all there.”
Coluzzi insisted. Borodin opened the case. He took out one packet of money and another, handing them over for inspection. “Ten thousand. Twenty.”
Coluzzi pulled the suitcase toward him. “Sit still and shut up.” He added an unctuous smile. “Please.”
“As you wish.”
The Corsican dug his hands into the case and removed the packets at random, fanning each to check against any padding, freeing one or two notes and holding them to the weak interior bulb.
“Happy?” asked Borodin.
“Ten million euros,” said Coluzzi, with smug satisfaction. “It really does look bigger.”
“Excuse me?”
Coluzzi closed the suitcase. “Never mind.”
“The letter?”
Coluzzi unbuttoned his chest pocket and withdrew the envelope, the rear flap embossed with an image of the White House. He watched Borodin’s eyes light up, his cheeks fire with a rosy glow.
With care, Borodin slipped the letter from the envelope. Here it was, then. The grail itself. Relief, satisfaction, and venom—in that order—coursed through his veins as he read the short message.
“Happy?” asked Coluzzi.
Borodin gestured at the door. “Our business is concluded. May I?”
Coluzzi threw it open and Borodin left the truck. When he had covered a few steps, he heard his deputy’s voice in his earpiece. “We can take him when he shows himself. We have a clear shot.”
“Leave him be,” said Borodin.
“But we cannot—”
“We have what we came for. The last thing we need is a fiasco. It will be bad enough if Major Asanova is tied to us.”
“Yes, sir.”
Borodin breathed deeply of the warm, scented air. He felt a lightness to his step that was entirely new to him. A sense of optimism he’d made a point to guard against. One day, he mused, it would be nice to vacation in the area. Perhaps, once he repatriated some of the billions the president had stolen, he would allow himself to borrow a bit off the top and bring his family. Nothing too much, mind you. No lordly sums. A million or two, at most. There were many lovely hotels. He’d heard the Hôtel du Cap was especially nice, a favorite of his countrymen. The minutest of smiles creased his lips. How sweet, revenge.
“Tell the pilot to fire up the engines,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
Just then he felt something strike his leg. Something sharp and fleeting. A wasp sting on his thigh. Inexplicably, he fell to the ground. His vision blurred. His head spun. It all happened so fast.
