Coluzzi had the feeling. The tingling at the tippy-tip of his fingers. The nervous rumble in his tummy. The unexplained desire to smile like an idiot, followed by the ferocious order to keep a straight face. It was the feeling he got when he was about to do a job and he knew it was going to come off.
And now, as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the Brink’s truck, guiding the heavy vehicle across the tarmac of the Aix-en-Provence aerodrome, he had it once again.
It was the feeling of fast money.
Coluzzi sat up straighter, gripping the wheel with both hands.
The aerodrome occupied a sprawling meadow bordered by a pine forest to the north, the highway to the east, and endless fields of wheat and barley to the south and west. There was one landing strip and a taxiway, nearly as long, running parallel to it. A few dozen private planes were parked near the control tower, all of them tethered to the tarmac. It was not uncommon for winds to reach triple digits.
A sleek jet sat on the apron at the far end of the runway. Six windows, blue stripe along the fuselage, winglets at the end of each wing. He didn’t need to see the Russian tricolor painted high on its tail to know it was Borodin’s. There wasn’t another jet—private or commercial—at the aerodrome. The engines were spooling, trails of translucent exhaust visible against the backdrop of forest. This pleased Coluzzi. It meant Borodin wanted to make a quick exchange and get the hell out of here. He imagined Borodin had plans for the letter. Coluzzi had plans, too. Ten million euros’ worth.
He drove past the squadron of aircraft to the north end of the field and stopped when he was at a safe distance from the jet. The aerodrome was shutting down for the night. There was little activity of note. A pair of mechanics in an old jeep bumped along toward the repair shed. A Piper Cub had just landed and was taxiing to its designated spot. The control tower closed at nine. Anyone wanting to land after that did it on his own visual reconnaissance.
He put the truck in park, leaving the engine running, and called Borodin.
“You’re late,” said the Russian. “Is everything in order?”
“Everything is fine,” said Coluzzi. “Here’s how it works. You’ll come alone to my truck with the money. I’ll open the back and you’ll climb inside. After I count the money, I will give you the letter.”
“Fine,” said Borodin.
Fine? Coluzzi had expected more resistance, a request for a bodyguard to accompany him, proof he had the letter on his person. Something. He cursed Ledoux for causing him to be tardy. He had no idea when Borodin had arrived or if he’d had the chance to deploy any men. It made sense he wouldn’t come alone or unprotected. Not the director of the SVR.
“Well?” asked the Russian.
“I’m waiting.” Coluzzi unbuckled his safety belt. He had the air-conditioning on high, but he was sweating all the same. What he needed was some fresh air, but windows in armored cars didn’t go down. There were only vents in the roof, which he knew about all too well because the first thing you did when you hit a truck was to clog them with towels soaked in ether to encourage the driver to abandon his post. You could block the vents to the cargo bay, too, but you couldn’t count on that to force the guards to open the doors. It was usually necessary to take more proactive measures, namely a well-aimed RPG or a round from a Barrett .50 caliber rifle to blast open the lock.
The desire of armored car manufacturers to seal off the cargo bay had led them to install a steel bulkhead separating it from the driver’s compartment. So it was that Coluzzi needed to exit the truck. This particular truck had its door on the side, a single panel like the door to an RV, but made from steel two inches thick.
He scanned the airfield, looking for signs of them lying in wait. The sun was touching the horizon. A soft wind rustled the pines. All was calm. Another look. He saw nothing to give him pause.
The jet’s forward door opened inward. Stairs unfolded. A lone man descended the steps. He was short and thin, dressed in a dark suit. A runt if there ever was one. Where was the money? Another figure appeared in the doorway and handed down a suitcase. Borodin—at least he thought it was Borodin—took it by the handle and began to walk in his direction. After several steps, he set down the suitcase and stopped. Coluzzi shifted in his seat. What was wrong? Why had Borodin halted? Then the Russian freed the extendable handle and continued in his direction, wheeling the suitcase behind him.
Coluzzi opened the door and stepped outside into the warm evening air. With relish, he rubbed his hands together.
Payday.
Simon had never driven so fast.
As a boy, even before he was old enough for a license, he would take a car he’d boosted and give it a run through the hills outside the city. Speed limits meant nothing. He drove as fast as his skills allowed. If the car permitted it, he drove faster. The roads were narrow and winding with plenty of hairpin turns and more blind curves than not. Once in the mountains, there were no guardrails to keep you from sliding off the road and plummeting a few hundred meters down a sheer cliff. It went without saying, he preferred to drive at night.
Still, he had never driven like this, foot plastered to the floor, darting in and out of his lane, dodging oncoming traffic, daring others to hit him. Time and again, he met the blue flash of halogens, the fearful protest of a horn. Time and again, he ducked back into his lane by the skin of his teeth.
He crested a hill and came up much too quickly on a station wagon. There were three children in the rear. One of them, a boy, grew excited at the sighting of the Dino and began giving him thumbs-ups and other gestures of approbation.
Simon slipped the car to the left, edging into the oncoming lane. A Mercedes zipped by and another behind it, so close his wing mirror rattled. A patch of empty road beckoned. He downshifted and slid into the oncoming lane. The station wagon matched his acceleration. Simon refused to look at the driver and continued to build speed, the needle touching 160. The station wagon stayed with him. What the hell! There were children in the car. Simon dry-shifted, shoving the car into neutral for a split second while juicing the rpms, then throwing it back into fourth.
The Dino leapt ahead.
A truck rounded the bend and was coming at him, closing fast.
Simon was a nose in front of the station wagon, but still the driver refused to slow. The children’s faces were glued to the window, unaware they were not simply spectators in a battle but unknowing participants. The Dino was underpowered by design, built as a more affordable entry into the Ferrari family. It didn’t have a V-12 or even a turbo-charged V-8. Simon was handcuffed by a V-6 that could give him two hundred horses on a good day.
The truck sounded its horn.
Simon took a last look at the station wagon. For a moment, his foot moved to the brake, then he bit his lip and downshifted into third, skyrocketing the rpms. The engine howled in pain. The vehicle shot forward. He yanked the wheel to the right and retook his lane as the truck whizzed past him, the sudden and dramatic change in air pressure causing his ears to pop.
A green traffic sign passed in a blur.
AIX-EN-PROVENCE 10 KM
By now, Coluzzi was there.
Faster.
Alexei Ren sat in the copilot’s seat of his helicopter, staring at the armored car. He’d landed at the aerodrome an hour earlier, sure to arrive before Borodin. He’d positioned his men strategically, knowing that Borodin would wish to leave as quickly as possible and that he would stay far from the main concourse. He saw them hiding among the private planes, fanned out evenly. There were six in all.
He was certain that Borodin had his own men positioned around the field, too, probably locals he’d brought for protection. Until now, however, no one besides Borodin had deplaned. Ren must assume the men were hidden on the far side of the field.
It made no difference.
All that mattered to Alexei Ren was that Vassily Borodin never again set foot in Moscow.
“Mr. Coluzzi.”
“Call me Tino. Please.”
Borodin looked up at Coluzzi standing in the bay of the armored truck, dressed in the Brink’s uniform, a pistol in his hand. The man was clever. He’d grant him that. He was unsure if his men had a clear shot or if they’d even know this was the man they were after. “The letter is here?”
“Hand me the suitcase.”
Borodin hoisted the suitcase into the truck, then followed it inside.
Coluzzi closed the door, then spun him around and frisked him. “Open the case. Take the money out and count it.”
“Must we? I didn’t fly all this way to engage in any last-minute tomfoolery. It’s all there.”
Coluzzi insisted. Borodin opened the case. He took out one packet of money and another, handing them over for inspection. “Ten thousand. Twenty.”
Coluzzi pulled the suitcase toward him. “Sit still and shut up.” He added an unctuous smile. “Please.”
“As you wish.”
The Corsican dug his hands into the case and removed the packets at random, fanning each to check against any padding, freeing one or two notes and holding them to the weak interior bulb.
“Happy?” asked Borodin.
“Ten million euros,” said Coluzzi, with smug satisfaction. “It really does look bigger.”
“Excuse me?”
Coluzzi closed the suitcase. “Never mind.”
“The letter?”
Coluzzi unbuttoned his chest pocket and withdrew the envelope, the rear flap embossed with an image of the White House. He watched Borodin’s eyes light up, his cheeks fire with a rosy glow.
With care, Borodin slipped the letter from the envelope. Here it was, then. The grail itself. Relief, satisfaction, and venom—in that order—coursed through his veins as he read the short message.
“Happy?” asked Coluzzi.
Borodin gestured at the door. “Our business is concluded. May I?”
Coluzzi threw it open and Borodin left the truck. When he had covered a few steps, he heard his deputy’s voice in his earpiece. “We can take him when he shows himself. We have a clear shot.”
“Leave him be,” said Borodin.
“But we cannot—”
“We have what we came for. The last thing we need is a fiasco. It will be bad enough if Major Asanova is tied to us.”
“Yes, sir.”
Borodin breathed deeply of the warm, scented air. He felt a lightness to his step that was entirely new to him. A sense of optimism he’d made a point to guard against. One day, he mused, it would be nice to vacation in the area. Perhaps, once he repatriated some of the billions the president had stolen, he would allow himself to borrow a bit off the top and bring his family. Nothing too much, mind you. No lordly sums. A million or two, at most. There were many lovely hotels. He’d heard the Hôtel du Cap was especially nice, a favorite of his countrymen. The minutest of smiles creased his lips. How sweet, revenge.
“Tell the pilot to fire up the engines,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
Just then he felt something strike his leg. Something sharp and fleeting. A wasp sting on his thigh. Inexplicably, he fell to the ground. His vision blurred. His head spun. It all happened so fast.
Only then did Vassily Borodin hear the gunshot.
Slowing as he neared the gated entry to the aerodrome, Simon made out the unmistakable snap-crackle-and-pop of fireworks. Not fireworks. Gunshots. The crack of high-caliber rifles and the frenetic patter of automatic weapons. A man ran toward him, hands waving.
“Turn around,” the gate attendant blurted, pausing for the shortest of moments at Simon’s window. “It’s a war. Get out now.”
With the engine idling, Simon could hear more clearly. The pops and bangs were coming fast and furious.
Simon accelerated and crashed through the pole barrier. He rounded the main building and immediately spotted a Brink’s truck at the far side of the field. Coluzzi. Not far from the truck, a private jet was parked, taxi lights flashing, front door open, stairs extended. Enter Vassily Borodin. Dusk was falling. Against the violet hues of fading day, the muzzle flash of machine-gun fire popped like fireflies.
He braked hard and skidded to a halt.
It was a pitched battle. He counted two men down on the tarmac near the jet. Another two fired automatic weapons from the protection of the jet’s landing gear. Return fire came from a helicopter parked a distance to the right and several small propeller planes.
Who were they? Friends of Coluzzi? Or was it Neill?
A man broke from the cover of the jet—one of Borodin’s?—unleashing a spray of gunfire while shouting exhortations to an unseen comrade. One of the men lying on the tarmac rose to his feet and limped toward the plane. A second man broke from the landing gear and ran to help, shooting from the hip, throwing the limping man’s arm over his shoulder.
Amid this, the Brink’s truck had begun to move, slowly at first but now gathering speed, executing a violent U-turn and barreling down the runway.
Heading directly at Simon.
He was getting away.
Alexei Ren had abandoned the safety of his helicopter to be with his men. He took cover behind the struts of a large Pilatus turboprop and watched as Borodin struggled to his feet. “Get him,” he shouted. Three of his men were dead and the other two pinned down by fire. He wasn’t sure what the tally was on the other side, but they’d lost a few of their own, too, and he was damned happy about it.
Several bullets struck the engine cowling above him, pinging madly. The shooting had been going on for an eternity, though it was probably no more than a minute. Already he was growing accustomed to the gunfire. It was easy to forget how loud and frightening an automatic weapon could be.
On the landing strip, one of Borodin’s men dashed to his side. The two made an easy target, but suddenly the gunfire had stopped. The air was still. Ren craned his neck but could no longer see his men. Were they dead? All of them?
A tall thin man appeared in the doorway of the jet, then ran down the stairs and hurried to Borodin.
Ren looked on, seized by a spasm of injustice. No, he protested impotently. He can’t get away. He can’t.
He remembered the time he’d spent in Siberia, the countless humiliations, the endless discomfort, the constant beatings, the unimaginable filth, the cold, oh yes, the cold. And, of course, the loss of his money, stolen by the government. Stolen by Borodin. The loss of precious years of his life. Stolen by Borodin.
His eye fell to his forearm and the daggers tattooed there. He’d killed three men in prison. And now? Who was he? A businessman? A yachtsman? A husband? The words sickened him. He’d allowed time and money and the easy life to soften him. To shelter him from his true self.
Enough.
Ren raised his submachine gun to his shoulder and charged. “Borodin!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, running toward the jet.
One of Borodin’s men lifted his rifle and fired.
Ren thrust out his arm and fired back, one-handed.
The man threw up his arms and fell.
“Borodin!” Ren shouted again, still running. He could see the weasel now, his face turned toward him, whiter than white, a death mask.
Here I am, he said to himself. You put me through hell and now I’m returning the favor.
Ren raised the weapon, the barrel pointing at the man he despised more than any other. Twenty meters separated them. He squeezed the trigger joyously, wildly happy. He had him!
A blow struck his chest. His breath left him, and he stopped at once, wondering who had shot him. Borodin was fleeing, climbing the stairs to the plane. His men were closing ranks behind him. Who?
Ren collapsed onto the tarmac. He could not move. His hands refused his commands, as did his feet. He wanted to blink but he could not even manage that. He felt the life running out of him as water spirals down a drain, circling ever faster. He saw Borodin’s pale face leering at him. Not for a moment did he regret his actions. He only wished that he’d fired more quickly. He’d wanted very badly to stand over his foe and spit in his face.
Ren stared into the sky. The light was fading so quickly. Impossible. The sun had only just gone down. He saw no stars. Only darkness as death wrapped him in its cold grip and carried him away.
He’ll never do it.
Simon gunned the Dino down the center of the landing strip, the painted white stripes disappearing beneath the hood as one long blur. He had the accelerator to the floor. He kept extra weight upon it, in case it might go a little bit further. The needle on the speedometer edged close to its limit. The Dino, though it looked like a million bucks, wasn’t built to run at high speed. Everything in the car rattled and jumped as if the screws were loose. He had the absurd and fleeting thought that the owner needed to bring it into his shop for a once-over.
He kept his eyes on the asphalt rushing toward him. Somewhere out there, barreling at him, was a ten-ton fist of reinforced, impregnable steel. He didn’t see the vehicle. He saw only the man inside. And that man was weak.
Playing chicken was not Simon’s first idea. He had the AK-47 in the back seat and three clips of ammunition. He’d considered trying to stop Coluzzi with concentrated bursts of fire. The problem was that it wouldn’t work. The truck’s engine was protected by a steel cowling. The windows were bulletproof. And the tires were run flat. Armored cars were designed to withstand precisely that kind of attack. The machine gun was out.
A second option was to follow Coluzzi from the airport to his destination. Sooner or later he would have to stop, and when he did, Simon would be there. If he wanted to use the machine gun at that point, he could have at it. Unlike the armored car, Coluzzi was not designed to withstand concentrated bursts of automatic weapons fire. This option was more feasible but equally unsatisfactory. Too much could happen once they left the aerodrome. A look at the fuel gauge put an end to the discussion. Simon was running on fumes.
Or he could simply let Coluzzi go and track him down another day. That was the simplest option and the safest for all concerned. If Simon could find him once, he could find him again. But in that time Coluzzi would have taken the money—however many million euros Borodin had paid him—and socked it away somewhere safe. The idea alone rankled him. Besides, who knew where he might get to?
This last option, he decided, was the dumbest of all. Not because it had the best chance of success—because it did—but because the mere thought of it made him ill. The bad guys did not get away with it. Not even for a day. And certainly not if their name was Coluzzi. Full stop.
Which brought Simon back to the present and the mass of gray steel filling up more and more of his windshield.
This was happening here. And it was happening now.
Simon’s fingers tightened on the wheel. He noted that his palms were as dry as dirt. By all rights his heart should be jumping out of his chest. Instead, it was beating quickly but rhythmically and, he was certain, half as fast as Tino Coluzzi’s was at this instant.
Simon lifted his eyes from the asphalt to the armored truck driving straight for him. If either of them was going to swerve, this was the moment. Twenty meters separated them. His arms tightened, his wrist locked into position. Somewhere he heard a horn blaring, growing louder, louder even than the bloody thoughts that had knocked all the others from his mind. The halogens flashed repeatedly.
Simon raised his gaze to Coluzzi, and for a moment the two looked at each other. In the eye. Man to man.
The next, Coluzzi threw the wheel to one side and steered the truck off the landing strip and into the grassy median.
The truck bounced over the tall grass, drifted into a shallow dip, then bounded up the other side, listing dangerously to one side. The wheels lifted off the ground, and for a few seconds the truck continued on two wheels, balancing precariously as if on a high wire. Then gravity asserted its domain and the armored truck fell onto its side and skidded to a long, slow halt.
Simon saw none of this.
The moment Coluzzi had veered off the runway, something else had demanded his attention. Not a truck, but a plane. His eyes were focused once again directly in front of him, where Vassily Borodin’s jet was advancing toward him like an arrow to its target. Simon braked and made a controlled one hundred eighty degree turn, leaving half his tires on the road. As he came to a halt, he felt the jet pass overhead, its weight pressing down upon him, its shadow blocking out the setting sun. He looked up. The plane was so close he could see the tires spinning, the grease slathered on the metal struts holding the landing gear, so close he could lift his hand and scratch the underbelly.
And then, as the sun came back into view and the plane rose into the air and he finally saw the truck lying on its side, Simon knew that he was going to die.
The thrust of the Gulfstream’s engines struck exactly two seconds later. The Dino was not a heavy car. Its weight with Simon, the machine gun, and the quarter gallon of gasoline remaining in the tank came to less than three thousand pounds. Each of the jet’s two Rolls-Royce turbine engines was capable of producing a maximum of fourteen thousand pounds of thrust. At the moment of takeoff, when the engines were tasked with lifting a forty-thousand-pound object off the earth and propelling it high into the sky, each was working at eighty percent of capacity, creating a combined thrust of nearly twenty-five thousand pounds per square inch. It was this miracle of engineering that picked up the Ferrari and flung it bodily into the air, spinning it head over tail, side over side, like a toy in a dryer.
Simon wrapped his hands around the steering wheel and braced both feet against the floorboard. It was no use. Everything was moving too rapidly, too wildly. He saw the earth and the sky and the earth and the sky. At some point he lost hold of the wheel. There was a terrific collision. Something knocked the wind out of him. He struck his head.
Then he saw nothing at all.