Tino Coluzzi had no illusions. He was distrustful by nature, suspicious by profession, and one backward glance from being paranoid. When shaking a man’s hand, he made a practice of checking afterward that he still had all five fingers. And so it was that he dismissed as preposterous the notion that Vassily Borodin would politely hand over ten million euros in exchange for the letter and go on his merry way. Coluzzi had only to remember the first thought that had crossed his mind when he’d grasped the letter’s import.
No man should be in possession of this letter.
He was in a precarious position.
Equally troubling was the involvement of Alexei Ren. Though Coluzzi knew next to nothing about Ren’s past, there was no mistaking the fire in his eye whenever Borodin’s name was mentioned, the tactile enmity that juiced him up like a live current. Then, of course, there was the matter of Ren’s tattoos. Coluzzi was no expert on Russian prison art, but he’d been in the company of enough vory v zakone to know that each symbol represented a past act and that most of them had to do with robbery, murder, and other accomplishments even he didn’t want to imagine.
For a man like Ren, revenge wasn’t a question of choice. It was a moral imperative. When he’d casually asked where and when Coluzzi would hand over the letter to Vassily Borodin, it was more than idle curiosity.
If that weren’t enough, there was the lurking and unexplained presence of Simon Ledoux to consider. No question, Coluzzi had his hands fuller than he might have liked.
All of which explained why at 4:30 in the afternoon he was driving through an industrial district in the hills west of the city searching for a dented blue iron gate. Behind the gate was a parking depot used to house broken-down municipal buses, dump trucks and cement mixers idled by a stagnant economy, discarded postal vans, and lastly—and of primary interest to him—a host of armored cars either out of service or in need of repair.
Turning onto the Rue Gambon, he spotted the entry gate, a battered piece of iron one story high and ten meters long. A concrete wall topped by barbed wire ran to either side and circled the block. Coluzzi left the car running and pressed the entry button. A screen lit up, showing his face. “Open up,” he said.
A buzzer sounded. The gate rolled back on its track, rattling loud enough to wake the dead. Coluzzi punched the gas and entered the yard, parking adjacent to the office. An unshaven man in dark coveralls was waiting outside, hands in his pockets. With a nod, he motioned Coluzzi inside.
“Didn’t give me much time,” he said, dropping into a chair on the business side of the desk.
“Well?”
The man opened a drawer and tossed a set of keys across the desk. “Brink’s. Brought in yesterday for an oil change, new brake pads.”
“Gas?”
“Full.”
Coluzzi placed a neatly folded wad of bills on the desk. “One thousand.”
“I need it back by midnight. All the armored cars have beacons so the head office can keep track of where they are at all times. There’s an electronic inventory check performed automatically at shift change.”
“At midnight?”
The man nodded.
“I’ll have it back to you by ten.”
The man stood, coming around the desk. “Need any help? Someone to ride point?”
“I’m good.”
“You’re sure? No one drives an armored car alone. What are you after, anyway?”
Coluzzi took the man’s face in his hands, fingers clamping his jaw and cheeks. “I’m fine by myself, thank you very much,” he said, holding him in his grip for a while longer, then shoving the man away.
“Just asking. I wasn’t trying to upset you.”
“You didn’t,” said Coluzzi. “If you’d upset me, you wouldn’t still be standing.”
The man gathered himself. “Still have your uniform? After what happened in Nice, police are checking drivers.”
“Thanks for the info. I’ll keep it in mind.” Coluzzi patted the man’s cheek. “I’ll be back to get the truck at seven.”
Leaving the lot, Tino Coluzzi skirted the northern boundaries of the city in an effort to avoid the worst of the traffic before joining the highway and continuing to his home in Aubagne. So far he’d managed to keep away from his local haunts—Jojo’s notwithstanding. He’d known that sooner or later he would have to stop by the old place. It wasn’t just the uniform he needed. If he wasn’t going to take a crew with him, he was at least going to make sure that he himself was well protected. His pistol and stiletto weren’t going to cut it in case anything went south. He was going in heavy. Just like the old days.
He reached Aubagne a little past five. He drove leisurely through the town, eyes darting here and there, looking for anything out of place. He’d bought the home ten years earlier. Tile roof, two bedrooms, two baths, a quiet garden with a birdbath that attracted every hummingbird in the area. He knew his neighbors. He knew which cars belonged and which didn’t.
Coluzzi’s home was on a small, leafy road a ways outside town. He turned down the lane and slowed, windows lowered, eyes and ears open. A year had passed since his last visit. He was pleased to see the Clercs’ motorboat in their driveway, as much dirt covering the tarpaulin as ever. Their cat, a very large tabby, sat nearby. The Guillo family had not taken in their trash barrels yet. One day late. Shame, shame. The Guillos were Basque and loved their wine. He recognized their Simca parked in the drive.
He dropped the speed further as his home came into view. The shades were down. The driveway was clear of leaves and pine needles, and the lawn was neatly mowed. He paid a gardener to come twice a month to keep things neat and tidy. A check in the rearview revealed nothing of interest, other than the Clercs’ tabby, which was following him down the street. He wished he’d had men as brave on some of the jobs he’d pulled.
Coluzzi opened the electric garage door and parked his car, closing the door behind him immediately. The last thing he needed was a chat with his neighbors. He went to the window cut high in the door and peered out. You could never be too safe.
Satisfied that he had not been followed and that he had no reason for concern, he unlocked the door and entered his home. He went immediately to the bathroom and turned on the shower. The tank was old and needed five minutes to get lukewarm. He took off his jacket and shirt and laid them on the bed, along with his pistol and stiletto. He left the master bedroom and went down the hall to the guest room. Inside was a single bed and an imposing chestnut armoire that had belonged to his grandfather. He opened the armoire and rummaged through the clothing hung inside until he found what he was looking for. Pale gray short-sleeved shirt. Black trousers with an officer’s stripe running down the outer leg. His Brink’s uniform. He tried on the trousers and shirt and was pleased that they both still fit.
He needed one more thing. Something every bit as important as the uniform. He opened a door to a small closet at the back corner of the room. Inside was a large black safe, half the size of a refrigerator. It was his gun safe. He spun the combination—right, left, then right again—and the door eased open. He didn’t intend on meeting Vassily Borodin empty-handed. He had a Russian friend of his own to bring to the party. His cherished Kalashnikov, which he’d owned for as long as he could remember.
He kneeled and looked inside.
His stomach turned, worry overcoming him.
The safe was empty.
He activated his phone’s flashlight and peered inside.
Nothing.
And then he knew.
Coluzzi stood, turning around slowly, raising his hands in the air. “Ledoux,” he said. “You really are alive.”