Vassily Borodin had been marked as a comer for some time. His rise through the ranks of the SVR had been rapid and without pause. He was smart, capable, ruthless, cunning, and very, very ambitious. For the first time in recent memory, Russia had spawned a man capable not only of replacing Vladimir Putin but of returning Mother Russia to some semblance of her former glory. For Vassily Borodin possessed another quality in even rarer supply. He was an honest man.
And so the letter.
It had been Neill’s idea. An ingenious means to draw the attention of a man with righteousness in his heart and treachery in his blood. A born usurper. The West had operatives by the dozens inside the Kremlin. The United States had operatives, the United Kingdom, France, Germany, Australia. It was just a matter of having one drop a hint here and there. The rest they left to Borodin.
The goal was not to depose the sitting president but to weaken him. And at the same time, to remove an unwelcome successor. For there was one hitch that Vassily Borodin could not know.
The letter was a fake.
Everything up to this point had been done to make him think otherwise.
But one of the graphologists in the Kremlin would know better. The error was in Reagan’s signature. A loop that was too big. Or was it a curl that was too tight? Neill couldn’t remember which. Anyway, they would compare it to others and they would know. Goodbye, Borodin.
The money was Neill’s reward for a job well done.
He had an urge to open the case, to look at the piles and piles of currency, to wallow in a few moments of wanton greed. Another time.
He hoisted the case up and out of the truck, sliding it to one side of the door. He began to think ahead. His first order of business would be to kill Coluzzi. From there it was an hour’s drive to the ferry in Marseille. He had just enough time to make the eleven p.m. boat to Ajaccio. He’d be sure to bid Coluzzi’s family a silent hello and thank you. He couldn’t have done it without their son. From Ajaccio, he’d take a plane to Morocco. He had a friendly banker in Marrakech and enough passports to stay hidden for the next fifty years. From there, he would disappear.
Neill smiled at the thought. He’d done it. He’d pulled it off.
He needed a boost to pull himself out of the truck and searched the compartment for a platform where he might stand. The bench would do nicely. He put a foot on it and raised a hand to the doorway. When he looked up, Simon Riske was there, staring down at him.
“Go away,” said Neill. “You’ve done your job.”
“And yours, too.”
“What do you want?”
“You should know. I wanted him. Coluzzi. Now I want something else.”
“The money? Fine. We can discuss it. First, let’s get out of here. I’m sure we can come to a reasonable agreement.”
“Not the money.”
“There’s ten million euros in that case.”
“That’s a lot.”
“Plenty to keep that shop of yours going. You can buy yourself a car. Buy two, even.”
“This whole thing was your plan, wasn’t it? The letter, Borodin, Coluzzi, the money.”
Neill was growing impatient. “Is this about the girl?”
“She’s alive, in case you’re interested.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I never like it when there’s collateral damage.”
“You’re a real caring soul.”
“What’s done is done. Now let me out of here.”
“I can’t do that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m still figuring that out. I’m a little shaken up, to tell you the truth. My collarbone’s busted and I think my arm is, too. All I know is that I’m not letting you walk away from here with all this money.”
