“When things were a little tougher and a man had to know how to look out for himself.” Ren picked up the vodka. “Can I pour you another?”
“Better not,” said Coluzzi. “Just in case you want to let me know how glad you are to see me again.”
Ren poured himself a shot and Coluzzi saw that Jojo hadn’t been lying. Ren’s arms and chest were covered with a latticework of inked art.
“Nastrovje,” said Ren, raising his glass and downing the vodka. “Did you see the game? Almost had them, but they were too strong in the end.”
“You need a new fullback.”
“We need two, but we can’t afford them at the moment. It’s a principle of mine that all my businesses pay for themselves.”
“Good idea.”
“Only way,” said Ren, falling into a low-backed chair. “Otherwise you find yourself throwing good money after bad.”
He poured them both another shot. “I admit it was a surprise hearing from a friend of Jojo’s. We go back quite some time. If you’d been a bit more discreet, I wouldn’t have had to make my boys teach you a lesson.”
“Sure you would have.”
Ren shrugged. “Old habits. I don’t pal around with your type these days. Just the way it is.”
“My mistake.”
Ren looked at him for a long moment, the blue, emotionless eyes boring into him. Suddenly, he smiled and slapped Coluzzi on the knee. “And so, my friend. What’s your guess? Just how badly does Mr. Borodin want that letter?”
“He flew to Cyprus to pick it up. You decide.”
“No, you. Go on.”
“I’m no expert on world affairs. To be honest, I’ve never left France. The only people I trust are my family. The people I work with. But Borodin…he didn’t use his own people to bring him the letter. He wanted to keep it a secret. He can’t trust his own guys.”
“You’re talking about Russia, my friend. A country built on distrust from the ground up. People are born with two sets of eyes—one to see ahead, the other behind to protect against being stabbed in the back.”
“That may be,” said Coluzzi. “But Borodin didn’t obtain the letter to protect his boss. He got it to bring him down.”
“One letter?” Ren scoffed. “Never!”
“What do you mean?”
“Anyone can deny one letter. He will claim it’s a forgery. A plant by the CIA. Who knows? Maybe it is. Either way, one letter isn’t enough. There’s got to be more.”
“Maybe,” said Coluzzi. “But the letter is the capper. Borodin may have other information, but without the letter it doesn’t mean much.”
Ren poured another shot and swirled the vodka in his glass. “That part is true, my friend. You’re smarter than a back-country peasant.”
Coluzzi inclined his head politely, vowing to kill the arrogant Russian. He’d use his stiletto. Ren wouldn’t feel it entering his rib cage until it was too late.
“I can reach Vassily Borodin,” said Ren. “It will not be cheap, however.”
Coluzzi remained impassive. Ren was a man who wore two hats. He’d seen the public version at the stadium. The polished, successful businessman who never missed his team’s games. Now he was seeing the private version. Not hardly as polished, and every bit as ruthless as Jojo had warned him.
“How much?” he asked finally.
“How much did you steal from the prince?” asked Ren.
It was impossible to lie. A newsman had gotten to a hotel cashier who had divulged the amount the prince kept in the safe. “Six hundred thousand and change.”
“Exactly?”
