The Take

by Christopher Reich

  Yet even now he did not consider giving the American the briefcase.

  Only when he reached the highway and joined the anonymity of his fellow late-night travelers did he breathe easier. He followed the signs south toward Beaune and Aix-en-Provence. He would not be safe in Paris. He was going where he could take sanctuary among his own kind. Corsicans. Thieves. Brigands. He was going home.

  The drive calmed him, and before long, his natural, larcenous instincts asserted themselves. Others would come looking for the letter. This he knew. He had two choices. He could wait until they found him, in which case he would be a dead man, or he could find them first and make them a proposition.

  Tino Coluzzi’s fear vanished. In its place, he saw opportunity.

  The letter was worth far more than six hundred thousand euros.

  In the right hands, it was worth a million. Five million. Ten million euros, even.

  And in the wrong hands?

  Coluzzi smiled. In the wrong hands, it was invaluable.

  Chapter 5

  Nicosia, Cyprus

  Another man was waiting to receive the letter Tino Coluzzi had found, but he was not American. He was Russian. Vassily Borodin stood like a sentry beside the landing strip, his face lifted to the sky. The plane was not due for another thirty minutes, but he preferred to stay out of doors, listening to the waves crash onto the rocky cliffs, enjoying the scent of the coastal scrub. Anything was better than remaining inside the waiting area with its wheezing air conditioner and ancient linoleum floor. The riches that his fellow Russians had brought to Cyprus had yet to make it to the northern side of the island. He allowed himself a look at his watch. It was nearly midnight. Four hours had passed since his last and only contact with the plane.

  “There was a problem,” the pilot had said. “A robbery.”

  “What do you mean ‘a robbery’?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Let me speak to him.”

  “He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  After that, radio silence. By his own order.

  A robbery. What the hell happened?

  Borodin cursed his predicament, bloodless lips stretched taut across his teeth. It was unthinkable that in this day and age a man in his position could not communicate securely with whomever he pleased no matter his location. Yet such was the case. Technology had come full circle. There was no conversation he could conduct on his phone, his laptop, even his office computer in Moscow, that someone else—someone he did not know and might have reason to fear—might also be hearing. And he, Vassily Alexandrovich Borodin, director of the SVR—the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service—was as much responsible for it as anyone.

  Tonight, of all nights, he could tolerate no risk.

  “Sir! Come quickly! There’s something you must see!” It was Kurtz, his deputy, standing outside the control shack, waving madly for him to return.

  “All right,” called Borodin, raising a hand to calm him down. Giving a look at the sky, he turned and walked toward the shack. He was a small man, barely five feet four inches tall, rail thin, with jet-black hair and a Mongol’s high cheekbones and narrow eyes. Aware of his diminutive stature, he took pains to counter any impression of weakness. His posture was that of a ceremonial guard at Lenin’s tomb. Spine rigid. Jaw raised to see over the horizon. When addressing a colleague, he looked him in the eye and gave him his complete attention, taking pains not to blink. He held his thoughts when others were eager to share their own. All these habits conspired to leave the impression of a secure, confident, and powerful man.

  “The prince,” shouted Kurtz. “A report about him is on television.”

  Borodin followed him inside. The control shed was small and squalid and reeked of burnt lamb. Kurtz and the others stood in a semicircle, gazing at an old television perched high on the wall while chattering incessantly. The television broadcast pictures of a line of black sedans he recognized to be somewhere in Paris.

  “Silence,” said Borodin.

  The room quieted. With mounting despair, he listened to the reporter’s account of the robbery targeting Prince Abdul Aziz of Saudi Arabia. At last he knew what the pilot had been referring to.

  “Well,” said Kurtz, when the report concluded. “What shall we do?”

  Borodin offered his deputy an icy stare, then returned to his place alongside the runway.

  In time, he spotted a pair of landing lights high in the sky. He followed them as they descended, and the prince’s jet touched down, shooting past him to the end of the runway.

  Minutes later, the jet parked. Stairs were wheeled to the fuselage. The door opened and the prince descended.

  Borodin held his ground, making no effort to approach.

  “It’s gone,” said the prince as he drew near.

  “The news reported that it was your money that was stolen.”

  “They hijacked my car as well. My briefcase was inside.”

  “With the letter?”

  “Yes.”

  Borodin considered this. For once, the prince was not wearing his sunglasses, and Borodin noted that his eyes were red-rimmed and pouchy. The man looked as if he had been crying.

  “I don’t understand,” he said with exaggerated care. “What do you mean they hijacked your car?”

  “To get away.”

  “Didn’t they arrive by car themselves?”

  “My guess is that they didn’t wish to move the money to save time. They were professionals.”

  “But the money was not in your car?”

  “The car behind mine.”

  Borodin took this in. “And you had no indication they were interested in the letter?”

  “None. It happened too quickly. One minute and they were gone.”

  “And you simply stood by and allowed them to take it?”

  “Twelve men with machine guns. My men had pistols. What would you have done, my brave little friend?”

  Borodin swallowed the insult as he’d swallowed a million like them before. He listened intently as the prince described the sequence of events. Afterward, he said, “It is apparent they observed you leaving the hotel. You said it was an ambush. But how did they know what route you would take to the airport?”

  It was the prince’s turn to remain quiet.

  Borodin placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him onto the runway. The jet’s engines whined softly as they spooled down. If anyone inquired, it was a refueling stop. No one had deplaned. No meeting between Prince Abdul Aziz bin Saud and Vassily Borodin ever took place.

  They continued for a hundred meters, approaching the high cliffs that looked over the sea.

  Borodin turned and faced the prince. “Who counseled you on which route to take to the airport?”

  “I did not need any counsel. Paris is like a second home. I know the city like the back of my hand.”

  Borodin knew the city well, too. As a junior officer, he’d lived in the City of Light for three years. It was there that he was called upon to perform his first “wet work,” assassinating an exiled oligarch with a loose tongue and opinions that cast an ill light on the government.

  “Tell me,” he asked. “Why did you decide to drive across the city instead of using the highway?”

  “It is faster.”

  “Really?”

  The prince nodded.

  “And you told no one in advance about your chosen path?”

  “My driver, of course.”

  “When?”

  “Ten minutes prior to leaving the hotel.”

  Borodin considered this. In theory, there was just time for the chauffeur to have passed on the information to the thieves. It would have been close, but if everything went well, the thieves could have taken up position in time to intercept the prince.

  He discarded the notion out of hand. It was evident the thieves were professionals. Whether the letter or the money was their priority, they would never have left something so crucial as the prince’s route to the l
ast minute.

  The men continued their slow walk, stopping when the land fell away precipitously at their feet and the ocean crashed upon the rocks far below.

  “There was someone else,” added the prince.

  Borodin turned to look at the handsome Saudi. Of course there was someone else.

  “Delacroix. The hotel’s chief of security. I discussed with him which route might be the quickest. I don’t know if he suggested that we use surface streets or if it was me.”

  “When did this discussion take place?”

  “Saturday.”

  “A day before you left.”

  “Delacroix is a friend,” offered the prince with smug confidence. “I’ve known him for years. He is absolutely trustworthy.”

  Borodin nodded, as if in agreement. Never in his life had he met someone who was “absolutely trustworthy.” He wondered what else the prince had discussed with Delacroix. There had long been rumors about the prince’s sexuality. God knows what he might share with a lover, male or female. “The news says you left without speaking to anyone. Why didn’t you stay and aid the police as best you could?”

  “I am to see the king tomorrow morning. He does not tolerate cancellations.”

  “Of course.” Borodin knew that there was more to it than that. Prince Abdul Aziz was afraid. Afraid that any time now the letter’s theft would be discovered and he implicated in the crime. He put his hand on the prince’s shoulder and drew him near. “You saw it?” he asked. “With your own eyes?”

  Prince Abdul Aziz nodded and there was no mistaking the excitement in his eyes. “The paper stock matches a letter my grandfather received.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Positive.”

  “And the handwriting?”

  “Identical.”

  “I see.” Borodin’s voice betrayed no emotion, but behind his back he clenched his fingers into a triumphant fist. It was true, then. Everything he’d suspected for so long.

  “I’ll find whoever stole it,” said the prince. “I have contacts with the French police.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “But you can’t allow him to keep betraying your—”

  “I will find it,” said Borodin, more forcefully than he wished. “Or I won’t. You’ve already done enough.”

  “What will you do?” asked Prince Abdul Aziz.

  Borodin didn’t reply. He turned and looked out over the cliff, over the dark, roiling mass that was the Mediterranean. For the first time that evening, he smiled, briefly, cryptically, and the prince smiled, too.

  “Do you know,” said Borodin, “that if you look very hard you can see the lights of Turkey.”

  The prince turned his gaze in the same direction, stepping nearer the precipice. “Not tonight.”

  “Ah yes.” Borodin pointed to the north. “Just there.”

  “Really?” The prince narrowed his eyes, his neck craned as pebbles scattered from beneath his shoe and tumbled over the cliff. “I can’t make them out.”

  “Sparkles, there and there. Surely you can see them.”

  The prince stared harder, shaking his head, patience waning.

  “Perhaps you need to be a bit closer, my friend.”

  “Pardon me?”

  Borodin put a hand in the lee of the prince’s back and gave him a mighty shove. The prince lost his balance and put a foot forward. It found only air. He teetered, a hand reaching out for assistance. “Please…”

  Borodin stepped back.

  And then the prince was gone, his scream drowned by the wind and the tide.

  Borodin retraced his steps down the runway, passing the jet without a sideways glance. His mind was on the letter and how he might get it back. He’d come too far to stop now. Wheels were turning. The intricate machinery he’d assembled these past months had been set in motion.

  He threw open the door to the shack and signaled Kurtz to a corner. “I need to locate one of our agents. Top priority.”

  “Of course, General,” said Kurtz. “Who?”

  “Major Asanova.”

  Kurtz’s sullen face took on an uneasy cast. “Major Asanova is no longer technically under our command. After the Dubai incident…”

  “Where is she? I don’t care if she’s been reassigned. I require her services.”

  Kurtz frowned as if experiencing intestinal discomfort. “General, please. With all due respect. Let’s not be hasty.”

  Borodin stood on his tiptoes and brought his face closer to Kurtz’s. Close enough to see the beads of perspiration pooling on his lip. “I just asked the prince if he could see the lights of Turkey. Would you care to try?”

  Kurtz looked out the open door toward the plane, which remained on the runway. Finally, he returned his gaze to Borodin and discerned in his expression what had happened. “No, sir,” he replied with a violent shake of the head.

  “Well, then.”

  “Berlin,” said Kurtz. “H and I against the Americans.”

  “H and I” stood for “harass and intimidate,” and referred to provocative, often violent, measures taken to keep the American diplomats in a state of fear and apprehension, aware at all times that Russia was not a nation to be taken lightly.

  “Call her at once,” said Borodin. “Get her back to Moscow by the time we return.”

  “If I may remind the general, things did not turn out as neatly as planned the last time we engaged her services.”

  “Tell me, Ivan Ivanovich, did she fail to accomplish her objective?”

  “No, sir. Not that. It’s just that she…”

  “What?”

  “She tends to get a bit too…too…”

  “Too…?”

  “Involved,” said Kurtz, spitting the word out as if it were a bone stuck in his gullet. “The woman doesn’t know when to stop. She’s reckless. I’m only thinking of you, General.”

  “Under our current circumstances, I’d prefer to use the word ‘effective.’”

  “‘Effective,’ then.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m counting on.” Borodin walked to the door and cast a backward glance at the foul room. “Berlin, eh? What the hell is she doing there?”

  Chapter 6

  The dark figure crept closer to the mansion, crawling expertly through the undergrowth. It was nearly eleven p.m., the sky cloudless, the moon overhead. From her position in the woods bordering the home, Valentina Asanova, a fifteen-year veteran of Directorate S, Department 9 of the SVR—currently on enforced segregation—surveyed the property. Am Grossen Wannsee 42 was an old imposing mansion built on the western shores of Lake Wannsee, an inlet of the Havel River twenty-five kilometers from central Berlin. A guardhouse stood at the entry to a long curving driveway, manned twenty-four hours a day by plainclothes United States Marines. A mesh fence enclosed the grounds, topped by a double strand of razor-sharp concertina wire. At the back of the house a dock extended into the water, a handsome motorboat moored at its end. Here, too, an armed sentry stood guard, his silhouette visible as he paced back and forth. The home’s current resident was the Honorable Thomas Pickering, the United States ambassador to the Federal Republic of Germany, and his wife, Barbara.

  Valentina edged forward until her hands touched the lawn that ran to the forest’s end and she enjoyed an unencumbered view of the home. She was thirty-eight years old, trim and athletic, clad only in tight shorts and a black tank top, a watch cap concealing her hair, and bootblack on her face. Few lights burned from the upper floors. The grounds were quiet, almost too still. At the moment, the ambassador was away, attending a ball at the Hotel Adlon at the foot of the Brandenburg Gate, celebrating the end of the G20 summit. It was the first time in twenty years Russia had not been invited to the meeting of the West’s largest economic powers.

  Valentina had been sent to give voice to her government’s displeasure.

  Crouching, she dashed to the fence, throwing a compact black bag over the top. Even before it landed she was loping
down the slope to the lake. She waded into the water and swam out past the final fence post, her head barely above the waterline. The guard on the dock faced away from her, smoking a cigarette against regulations.

  Valentina emerged from the lake, silently and with purpose, and skittered up the gentle grade to retrieve her bag. Lying flat, she pulled on black leggings and a skintight, long-sleeved tunic. On her feet, she wore crepe-soled shoes, soundless on any surface. She secured her tool belt around her waist. Two items remained in the bag: a Taser set to twenty thousand volts and a knife. Both were to be used only in emergencies.

  Keeping low, she continued to the side of the house. The walls were built of rectangular stone blocks, deeply carved grooves separating them. Using her fingers, she scaled the wall to the first floor and vaulted onto a spacious balcony. She remained still long enough for her heart to slow, her eyes on the sentry, checking that he had not registered her presence.

  French doors leading to the master bedroom were secured. She selected a pick and jimmied the lock. A minute later, she was standing inside the ambassador’s home.

  Valentina had not come to steal. Her mission was of another nature: to harass and intimidate.

  She started in the bathroom. She dumped Madam Ambassador’s perfume in the toilet and emptied her medications on the floor. She snapped a pearl hair comb in two. Finding an appropriately violent shade of lipstick, she wrote “Die Americans” on the mirror. Coarse, perhaps, but frightening enough.

  She continued her work in the closet, slashing dresses with a pair of scissors and throwing them into a heap on the floor.

  Returning to the bedroom, she spent fifteen minutes rearranging the furniture. She dragged a pair of Louis XV chairs from one corner of the room to another. She spilled books off their shelves onto the floor. She tore the comforter and sheets off the bed. She rehung the paintings upside down. She placed bedside water glasses in a towel, stomped on them, then spread the shards over the parquet floor.