It was only then that he realized that Neill had gotten to him. That he really did believe he must find the letter and that he was committed to doing everything in his power to make it happen.
Nikki looked hard at him, suspicious as ever. “So tell me why a hood like Tino Coluzzi would ever want something like that.”
“Maybe,” Simon said, “he didn’t mean to steal it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means maybe he got it accidentally. Look, that’s as far as I can go.” He waited for a moment, expecting another rebuke. Nikki remained silent, though her expression was far from convinced. He said, “Your turn.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.” She began walking, her shoulder nearly touching his. “I didn’t pick up anything new about Coluzzi,” she said. “Other than to confirm that he was behind a large theft of pharmaceutical drugs last year. I was able, however, to find out the name of a place where his friends hang out. It’s a bar in the Marais called Le Galleon Rouge.”
“Never heard of it.”
“A dive. I asked around. Apparently it’s popular with that crowd. You want to ask for someone named Giacomo, or Jack. Long hair. Sideburns. Mustache.”
“Jack or Giacomo at the Le Galleon Rouge. It’s a start.”
She looked Simon up and down. “Don’t go dressed like that.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“The commissaire told me about you saving his life. Thank him, not me.”
“He’s exaggerating, but thanks anyway.”
Nikki began walking backward, away from him. “Anything for a friend of the PJ. Oh yeah…” She put a finger to her forehead. “One day you’ll tell me about that.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said. “By the way, word has it that your friend was looking to get a crew together.”
“Coluzzi?”
Nikki nodded. “Must have been some job, whatever they really wanted to steal.”
Chapter 27
Vassily Borodin stared at the image of the business card Valentina Asanova had sent.
SIMON RISKE
SPECIAL PROTECTIVE SERVICES AND INVESTIGATIONS
9 NEW BOND STREET
LONDON, ENGLAND
The firm’s name meant nothing to him. There were dozens of such firms in every major world capital. Spying was a fully privatized industry.
He put down his phone, ruing the interruption in his work. On his desk a fan of dossiers was scattered, all neatly numbered and labeled. The information inside constituted his proof. Old-fashioned, hard proof in the form of damning papers from banks, corporations, and government ministries.
He thought of the effort required to assemble it and a wave of fatigue overtook him. He leaned back in his chair and looked out the window. The rain had continued unabated since the day before. His view gave north to the center of the city. When the air was clear and the sun shining, he had a direct view of the new business district and could count the Stalin skyscrapers set in a ring around the city. Today, the rain made it impossible to see anything except the dirt caked on his window.
He looked once again at the business card and questioned his decision to send Valentina Asanova to Paris. Was he getting himself into more trouble or doing what any patriot would? He sat straighter. He had never been a man who shirked his duty. He would never have succeeded in the old regime, when devotion to the Communist Party demanded a uniform, unwavering, and often blithely ignorant obedience. He was a man of his time, doing what any smart, ambitious, and patriotic man of his time should do.
It had all begun with a rumor of a clandestine meeting that had taken place almost thirty years in the past. Borodin, a major at the time, had been quick to dismiss it. A man in his position trafficked in hearsay at his peril. Then, a year later, a second source, independent from the first, repeated it. This time with a crucial detail added. The meeting had taken place at a dacha north of Moscow in the month of September, days after the momentous visit. More importantly, the dacha belonged to General Ivan Truchin, one of the first high-ranking officers to denounce the old Soviet regime.
The smart response was to say “Nonsense” or “Rubbish” and slam the door on such dangerous talk. But Borodin was at heart distrustful. It was in his nature to ask “What if?” or, better, “Why not?” Where others sought out the good in people, he was inclined to seek the ill, or at least the duplicitous. He was nothing more than the product of his training.
