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 b
lur. 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.
Chapter 68
Barnaby Neill steered his car along the auxiliary road that ringed the aerodrome. He kept one hand on the wheel while the other massaged his aching shoulder. Years had passed since he’d fired a rifle, and he’d failed to hold it as tightly as needed. Still, he was pleased with his aim. He’d needed one shot to neutralize Ren. Makepeace could not have done any better, rest his soul.
He slowed as he came abreast of the Ferrari, lying on its roof a hundred meters to his left. The car looked more like a recycled Coke can than a masterpiece of Italian design. He could not see Riske inside or, for that matter, anywhere in the grass. It was doubtful he could have escaped unscathed. If he wasn’t dead, he was badly injured. Under normal circumstances, he could simply dismiss him as a factor to be reckoned with. But Riske was anything but normal. He was a cockroach. You could step on him with your boot, you could grind him with your heel, and still he managed to survive.
Enough was enough.
Neill threw the car into park. Opening the door, he unholstered his pistol, chambered a round, then stepped outside. The road was covered with pine needles and he took a deep breath of the warm, fragrant air. A new resolve filled him. It was time to neutralize Mr. Riske just as he’d neutralized Mr. Ren.
He started out across the grass, searching for some sign of the investigator. It was common for people to be expelled from their vehicles in rollover crashes. He kept his eyes on the ruined car and the area nearby. A flurry of activity out of the corner of his eye drew his attention. Not Riske, Coluzzi. With evident difficulty, the Corsican was climbing out of the cab of the armored truck. His face was a bloody mess, his clothing askew. He pulled himself over the foot rail and slid indecorously down the side of the truck, falling into the grass and lying still.
Neill stopped to assess the situation. A moment ago he’d caught the first dissonant wails of a police siren. He could see the flashing blue lights deep in the trees as they neared the aerodrome. Not a single pair, but a dozen. His eyes studied the Ferrari, then dashed to the truck. It was one or the other.
Neill returned to his car at a jog. A minute later he was parked near the truck, using it to shield his presence as best as possible. He approached with caution, pistol in hand.
“Mr. Coluzzi, we meet again.”
“Mr. Neill, is it? I was wondering when I’d see you.”
Up close, Neill could see that Coluzzi had suffered a gash on the forehead as well as a broken nose. He was a mess. “I’m guessing our mutual friend told you my name.”
“Is it Ledou
x or Riske? I’m confused.”
“Do you have my letter?”
Coluzzi pointed at the sky. “Airmail to Moscow.” He coughed, expelling a wad of bloody phlegm.
“At least I’ve earned a consolation prize.”
“I don’t suppose you’d care to split it? We make a good team. Next time, though, tell me the rules in advance.”
“You have your six hundred thousand euros. Or, rather, you did.”
“It was the money you were after all along, not the letter.”
“It’s more complicated than that. Let’s just say I knew who I was dealing with.”
“I’m glad I didn’t disappoint you.”
“Only a little. You could have killed Riske.”
Coluzzi sighed, a mistake he rued as well. “How are we going to settle things?”
“Get me my money. Then we’ll talk.”
“I can’t,” said Coluzzi. “Knee. It’s ruined.”
“Up,” said Neill, not buying it. “On your feet.”
Coluzzi forced himself to his good knee, then attempted to stand. He managed, just, and wobbled unsteadily. Neill motioned with the pistol for him to walk. Coluzzi took a step and collapsed to the ground, moaning unpleasantly. Neill grabbed his leg below the kneecap. With thumb and forefinger, he squeezed. Coluzzi cried out.
“You really are hurt,” said Neill.
Grimacing, Coluzzi sat up, rubbing his knee. One hand moved slowly toward his ankle. His fingers tugged at his pant leg. The stiletto flashed through the air, its razor-sharp blade angling for Neill’s fleshy neck.
But Neill saw it coming. He caught Coluzzi’s wrist, stopping the blade a breath from its target. He stared at Coluzzi, tightening his grasp, slowly turning the wrist backward on itself. Coluzzi clenched his jaw. His body began to shake. Still, he said nothing. Neill wrenched the wrist violently, snapping bone and tearing cartilage. The stiletto fell to the ground. Coluzzi cried out. Neill cuffed him with the butt of his pistol for good measure.
“Is the truck unlocked?” he asked, and when Coluzzi refused to answer, he asked again, with menace.
The Take Page 34