You never changed the combination.”
“You remembered it,” said Coluzzi.
“One, twenty-three, forty-five.” Simon recited the digits one at a time. “And put your hands down. Or I will shoot you.”
“You were always the smart one,” said Coluzzi.
“Not smart enough. I didn’t figure you to be a snitch.”
Simon studied his old friend. What else to call him? Traitor? Murderer? Since taking the assignment, he’d imagined this moment countless times. All the scenarios involved a spate of heated recriminations followed by some form of violent retribution and lots and lots of blood—Coluzzi’s, not his. Now here he was looking at Tino Coluzzi, face-to-face with the man who’d done his best to kill him…and had, in fact, to his own mind, succeeded. Yet somehow he couldn’t summon those long-simmering reserves of anger. It would be easy enough to shoot him and be done with it. And then? What would be solved? He wouldn’t even have retrieved the letter.
In the end, he always came back to how it was between them before everything went south.
“I can’t believe I’m looking at you,” said Coluzzi.
“Not bad for a dead man.”
“A little less hair, a few more pounds, but otherwise…” Coluzzi craned his neck to have a look at the scar on Simon’s forehead. “I knew I was holding back. Just a little harder.” He made a motion as if he were hitting Simon again, bringing down the iron bar, putting his weight into it. “Bam.”
Simon smiled. It was the old Tino, always trying to impress, to explain away his failures. “Hard to kill a man face-to-face. Or, in your case, from behind.”
“Is that what you think? I was scared?” Coluzzi considered this. “Maybe. Maybe not. Word was you didn’t have much problem doing it. Killing Al-Faris, I mean. The Egyptian. Word was that you were his shower boy. You were a pretty kid back then. Long hair, ponytail, those elephant hair bracelets you thought were so cool. Guess he liked them, too. I heard all about it after you were dead. Or whatever. Easy to kill someone when they’re on their knees—”
“Enough,” said Simon. It was dumb of him, he knew, to be baited. We’re all still boys, aren’t we? He waited for the monsignor to offer some pithy saying to calm him, an old maxim about it being up to him to decide what or who got to him, but nothing came to mind.
It was then, standing feet from Tino Coluzzi, with the means to kill the man he detested more than any other at his disposal, carte blanche to do as he pleased, that Simon realized he didn’t need the monsignor anymore. His lessons were learned. He was his own man.
“Something I say bother you?”
“No,” said Simon. “Nothing you say or do could bother me.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that.” Coluzzi laughed. “So how did you find me?”
“Jojo. He hadn’t figured you for a snitch either. I’d be careful going back to his place. He’s already mad enough about the hand.”
“I appreciate you looking out for me.”
“That’s what we were supposed to do.”
“I take it this is about the letter.”
“Correct.”
“Who are you working for? The American? He never gave me his name.”
Simon didn’t answer.
“If it isn’t the Russians,” said Coluzzi, “it must be the other side.”
Simon shrugged. It never paid to give men like Coluzzi too much information. “Who are you planning on selling it to? Alexei Ren?”
“Jojo does have a big mouth.”
“I’m trying to figure out why you’re wearing that uniform. Or is it just for old times’ sake?”
“Doesn’t matter now. You’ve found me.”
“I’m still curious.”
Coluzzi ignored the question. “There was a woman. She killed Luca Falconi. You might want to watch out for her.”
Simon made out a sliver of hope in Coluzzi’s voice and he knew Coluzzi’d made a deal with the Russians—be it Ren or someone else, Borodin, even—and he was holding out for the chance it might still come to pass. “She’s no longer in the equation.”
“So it’s just you?”
“Not exactly.” Simon motioned for Coluzzi to move down the hall. Nikki waited in the living room, where they’d hidden when Coluzzi arrived. “This is Detective Perez from the Paris police. She’s going to arrest you for robbing the prince once you give me the letter.”
Coluzzi looked her up and down with contempt. “And if I don’t?”
“I’ll shoot you,” said Nikki. “No difference to me if I bring you in dead or alive.”
“You?” Coluzzi laughed at her. “I know you, Detective. Aziz François is your bitch. He’s been feeding you a line of crap for years.”
“He told me about you and your friends at Le Galleon Rouge. I owe him that much.”
Coluzzi’s face dropped. “Go ahead then, Detective,” he responded in a burst of false bravado. “Shoot.”
“All right.” Nikki glanced at Simon, then raised the pistol—the Walther he’d taken off Jojo—and fired a round into the wall, an inch above his head. The noise was deafening.
“Are you crazy?” Coluzzi asked, cowering as bits of plaster and wallpaper rained down on him.
“Ask Aziz François.” Nikki trained the pistol on him. “I imagine one of your neighbors may have heard that. They might be calling the police even now. And then?” She shrugged.
“Your play,” said Simon.
Coluzzi straightened up, drawing a breath to gather his composure. He studied them both for a moment. “I don’t have the letter here.”
“Of course you don’t,” said Nikki, already fed up.
But Simon was more optimistic. “It’s at your place outside of town. Your rat hole.”
For once, Coluzzi couldn’t hide his surprise. “That’s right,” he said.
“Let’s go, then,” said Simon. “Time’s a-wasting.”