They drove in two cars. Coluzzi in the lead, Nikki in the back seat, her gun aimed squarely at his solar plexus. Simon followed in the Ferrari. It was a ten-minute drive down to the Gineste in Les Calanques national park. They left the highway and navigated a macadam road that petered out into a single-lane dirt track leading across a bluff of red rock dotted with Aleppo pines and patches of coastal scrub, the azure expanse of the Mediterranean before them. There were no houses anywhere. No structures of any kind.
The track disappeared altogether, but Coluzzi continued another half kilometer, dodging the trees and bushes, before stopping. Simon parked behind him and grabbed the machine gun from the back seat, unwrapping it from a blanket and carrying it in one hand, safety on, finger above the trigger guard. He had no idea what Coluzzi had up his sleeve or why he was wearing the uniform. None of it mattered once he got the letter. Until then, he wasn’t taking any chances.
“You did a good job,” he said, surveying the area. “I can’t spot it anywhere.”
“That’s the idea,” said Coluzzi.
They walked across the bluff, winding through the scrub, then descended a series of rock steps, plates of stone laid atop one another, like playing cards fanned out on a table. The drop between the stone plates grew larger and Simon knew they were nearing one of the Calanques, the inlets cutting into the shoreline like a succession of long, crooked fingers.
A few more steps and they were standing on the cliff’s edge, the sea a direct drop of a thousand feet. He leaned over and looked down, seeing the clear turquoise water, calm as a pond. To the right, there was a strip of beach and he could see a shack with a thatched roof and a few benches filled with guests.
“Le Bilboquet,” he said, giving the name of the bar that was in the picture he’d found at Falconi’s.
“So?”
“They had a good salade Niçoise.”
“Still do.”
Coluzzi turned to his left, and it was then that Simon discovered the shelter built into the surrounding rock. There was a stout wooden roof, sanded with red dust, a peasant’s boarded door, and a terrace running to a vertical precipice. Like a mirage, it was there but not there. Blink twice and it was gone.
Coluzzi unlocked the door. Nikki followed close behind, her pistol aimed at a spot in the center of his back.
“Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?” Coluzzi called over his shoulder, as if inviting in his chums. “I’ve got some decent eau-de-vie for you, Ledoux, now that you’ve gone upper class on us.”
“Let’s get what we came for,” Simon replied. “You can have happy hour at the station.”
The hideout’s furnishings were nicer than he’d expected. There were carpets over wood floors, an old, flouncy sofa in the living area, a flat-screen TV plugged into a generator, and a few chairs and tables, staples of any second-hand furniture store. Coluzzi asked if he might open the door to the terrace. Simon said, “No.”
“Where’s the letter?” demanded Nikki.
“Why in such a hurry?” Coluzzi asked.
“We want to make sure you get a good night’s sleep,” said Simon. “Jails are such peaceful places.” He had the machine gun in firing position. Coluzzi wasn’t going without a fight.
“In the bedroom.” Coluzzi turned and took a few paces to the rear of the shelter. “I’ve got a safe under my bed. I need to roll the carpet back.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” said Simon.
“That would be nice.”
Coluzzi stepped into a cramped room with low ceilings, no windows, a single bed pushed up against the wall. Simon handed Nikki the machine gun, and she set it down against the wall outside the room, quick to return to her alert position, gun raised, held with both hands.
Coluzzi got onto his knees and rolled back a tattered burgundy carpet. Simon kneeled next to him, peeling back the opposite corner. There was a door cut into the floorboards and a silver pull ring to one side.
“Easy,” said Simon.
“Of course.” Coluzzi gave the ring a yank and the door came free. He raised it slowly until it stood upright. “Hold it open. It tends to drop on my head.”
Coluzzi bent lower to open the safe. “Funny, isn’t it? We went to all that trouble to steal half a million euros, knocking off jewelry stores, banks, the big trucks. Cops shooting at us, running like hell, driving like hell. I found a goddamned letter and it’s worth ten million.”
“Is that what they’re offering?”
“Cash. On its way.” He looked over his shoulder, hoping.
“That wasn’t the original deal, though, was it?” said Simon.
“So you are working for him?”
“Open the safe, Tino.”
Coluzzi returned his attention to the safe. “You know, it really isn’t so difficult killing a man face-to-face,” he said. “I didn’t have a choice with you. Take you face-to-face and you would’ve killed me. I’m not stupid. I knew you’d come after me the moment I got put in Les Baums. It was survival, really. I couldn’t have you telling everyone in the yard that I was a snitch. That would have been the end. Goodbye, Tino. That makes me smart, not a coward. Otherwise, it doesn’t bother me. Looking a man in the eye and killing him.” Coluzzi raised his head to look at Simon. “I didn’t have a problem with the priest.”
“Who?”
“Your buddy from the hole. Deschutes.”
“He died from cancer.”
“Really? That what you think?” Coluzzi smirked. “He was sick when they let him out of the hole, but he wasn’t dead. Of course, you were back on the outside by then. You wouldn’t have known.”
“Paul Deschutes died from cancer three months after I was released. I asked about him.”
“Last I checked prisons aren’t as honest as they might be, reporting these kinds of things.”
“You’re lying. The monsignor never got out of solitary.”
“Maybe I have him mixed up with someone else. Tall man, long hair he refused to cut. Spooky blue eyes. Oh…and he had great skill in martial arts even in his condition. He would teach some of the younger guys.”
Simon felt his pulse racing. He’d never questioned how the monsignor had died. “You didn’t?”
“I couldn’t let him hang around the yard knowing he’d spent all that time with you. The way I see it, I just shortened his suffering.”
Simon saw the taunting in his eyes, the casual cruelty. He didn’t know if Coluzzi was telling the truth. Maybe. Maybe not. It didn’t matter. Simon had spent years getting as far away as possible from him and those like him. He refused to go back.
“Open the safe,” said Simon quietly, without rancor.
Coluzzi waited for a more heated reaction, and when none came he lowered his head and turned the dial a last time. Of course, it was the same combination as the other safe. He opened the door. There at the bottom was a buff-colored envelope.
“Here,” he said. “Have a look.”
Concerned, Nikki came closer. Simon said everything was all right. He studied the envelope, then opened it and read the note inside.
“What does it say?” Nikki asked.
“It’s not what it says, it’s who said it.” Simon slipped the note back inside the envelope and prepared to hand it to Nikki.
He did not see Coluzzi dip back into the safe. He noted only a flash of motion from the corner of his eye. Then Coluzzi was raising his hand. Simon glimpsed a small silver canister. He shut his eyes tightly as Coluzzi shot the pepper spray into his face. The pain was immediate and devastating. Simon dropped the letter, his hands reflexively moving to his eyes. At the same time, Coluzzi kicked the door closed, then jumped to his feet and locked it.
“Simon!” Nikki pounded the door.
“Shoot him!” Simon fell to his side, the spray searing his eyes, burning, burning. He blinked and the pain worsened. He could see nothing.
“Lay down,” shouted Nikki.
A moment passed and she fired three bullets into the lock. The door burst open. She was at his side. “Are you all right?”
“Where is he?”
“He’s gone. There was a side door.”
“Get him. I’ll be okay.”