“It is our plane, darling,” said his wife, covering his hand with her own. “We can leave when we choose.”
The prince looked at her red nails, her mascara, and shook his hand free. “What do you know?”
The princess slid toward her door, saying nothing.
Prince Abdul Aziz stared out the window as the car crossed the Pont de l’Alma and slipped into the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. He knew he should be happier, rejoicing even. He’d pulled off the greatest coup of his career, yet it would mean nothing until the letter reached the proper hands. His only wish was to be gone from Paris as quickly as possible.
His eyes fell to the calfskin briefcase at his feet and his heart raced. He thought of the letter inside. A personal note from one man to another, handwritten in blue ink on the most exclusive of stationeries, in appearance as fresh as the day it was penned nearly thirty years ago.
And not just any note, but a note that would cause governments to collapse, alliances to realign, and death to many along the way.
Instinctively, he gripped the case between his ankles.
He leaned forward to squeeze the driver’s shoulder. “Faster.”
Tino Coluzzi followed the convoy across the city. The prince had chosen an unlikely route to the airport, using an August evening’s wide-open boulevards and traffic-free surface streets to navigate through Montparnasse toward Porte d’Orléans at the southern edge of the city. It was a move that shaved ten minutes off the more oft-chosen route along the Périphérique, the eight-lane superhighway that circled Paris. The decreased transit time had a cost, however, and that cost was security. It was nearly impossible to stop a convoy of sixteen vehicles once it was on the highway. Coluzzi would have no such difficulty on surface streets.
The Renault hit a dip as it crossed through an intersection, and Coluzzi grasped the stock of his AK-47 assault rifle. The poplin blazer was gone, as were the Italian driving shoes. He wore the same assault gear as the other men in the car with him. Three blocks ahead, the traffic signal for Porte d’Orléans burned red. Once past it, the prince would join the highway. Coluzzi’s chance would be gone.
“Tighten it up,” he said, placing his right hand on the door handle.
With a burst of acceleration, the Renault came up on the last BMW in line.
Coluzzi put the radio to his mouth. “Take him.”
A moment later, a car identical to his own darted into the street ahead of the first BMW. Red lights flared up and down the line of cars. Brakes squealed. The convoy stopped.
“Ram him.”
Coluzzi braced as his vehicle struck the car at a speed of ten kilometers per hour.
The kill box was established.
Coluzzi pulled the balaclava over his face and stepped out of the car. As he ran up the line of BMWs, another white Renault approached from a side street.
Coluzzi’s men poured from their vehicles. There were twelve including himself. All wore black commando gear, balaclavas pulled over their faces. Like him, all carried AK-47 assault rifles with an extra-long ammunition clip. The men fanned out to surround the convoy, weapons pointed at the idling automobiles. Coluzzi ran to the fifth vehicle and drove the butt of his rifle into the driver’s window. A second blow showered glass over the asphalt.
“Unlock the car,” he shouted. “Everyone out.”
The driver got out, hands held high. Coluzzi forced him to the ground, landing a boot on his back for good measure.
“Out. Now.”
A bodyguard emerged from one of the cars farther back. It was the leader, and his gun was drawn. He moved slowly, unsurely. It was a show of mad loyalty rather than an effort to stop the robbery. One of Coluzzi’s men was on him before he cleared the car and clubbed him with the stock of his weapon. The bodyguard fell to the asphalt like a sack of rocks.
Coluzzi opened the back door. “Your Highness. If you please.”
The prince stepped out, lending a hand for the princess. The two stood, staring at each other, saying nothing.
Immediately, one of Coluzzi’s men climbed behind the wheel and closed the door.
Coluzzi hurried to the next car in line. The sixth, carrying the money. “Out.”
The driver climbed out.
“On the ground.”
The driver lay down.
