“You do? Thank God. It’s the truth. I swear. A tourniquet. My leg. Please.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“But…”
The woman placed the pistol to Delacroix’s forehead and shot him.
Valentina surveyed the room, the pool of blood, the corpse. She sucked in the scent of fear mixed with the acrid cordite. She opened a window, allowing in needed fresh air, then turned on the air conditioner. She didn’t want the smell leaking into the hall.
Valentina left the apartment. After she’d walked a block, she placed a call to Moscow. “The thief’s name is Tino Coluzzi,” she said. “A professional.”
“I’ll see if we have anything on him.”
“I believe I can find him.”
“I’m counting on you.”
“There’s something else. Another man is looking for the letter.”
There was a long silence and Valentina wondered if somehow she’d been mistaken to relay the information. “How do you know?” Borodin asked.
“Delacroix talked. An American named Riske came to see him earlier today. Simon Riske. He presented himself as an investigator working for an English firm. I took a photo of his business card.”
Borodin swore under his breath. “Send it over. I’ll see if we have anything on him. No matter what…make sure this man Riske doesn’t get what is ours. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Borodin ended the call.
Valentina put on her sunglasses and walked faster. She had a rival. The thought neither pleased nor displeased her. It was simply another element she must factor into the equation.
For the first time she wondered about the contents of the letter. She decided it didn’t matter. Knowing might only prove a distraction.
To her, the letter was a means to an end. Nothing more.
Find the letter and get her old life back.
She would stop at nothing.
Chapter 26
Nikki Perez was sitting at a table in the back of Julien’s Café when Simon arrived.
“You’re early,” he said, checking his watch. The place was empty except for an old man reading Le Figaro and the barman.
“My father taught us that five minutes early is on time.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Simon. “It’s warm in here. Let’s walk.”
“Sure,” said Nikki. “You’re the boss.”
Simon eyed her warily, not trusting the nice act.
They left Julien’s and crossed the Pont Saint-Michel toward the Boulevard Saint-Germain. “My favorite part of the city,” he said. “I lived near here when I was at school.”
“In the nineties, right?”
“Very funny. I slipped a sous-chef at a restaurant around the corner a few euros to give me the food they were going to throw out.”
