Coluzzi relaxed.
And then it was the prince’s turn. He exited the hotel in the company of the hotel’s general manager, the two walking arm in arm across the sidewalk. The prince was a handsome man dressed in his country’s traditional garb of a flowing white thobe and red-checked kaffiyeh secured with a black cord. As was his custom, he wore dark sunglasses. In his hand he carried a calfskin briefcase.
“All I want is the prince’s briefcase. The rest is yours.”
“Just the briefcase?”
“Tan calfskin. Leather handle.” The American had offered no further explanation. “Do we have a deal?”
Coluzzi swore under his breath. For two days he’d seen nothing of the briefcase. He’d begun to worry that the prince did not have it with him on this trip. Tan. Leather handle. There it was, thank God. He was staring so hard at it that he almost didn’t catch the bodyguard delivering the compact metal suitcase to the trunk of the sixth car.
The money goes in the sixth.
As the prince reached the car, his driver extended a hand to relieve him of the briefcase. The prince turned a shoulder to guard it, tensing like a rugby scrum half bracing for a hit. The driver retreated hastily.
The prince offered a last thank you to the hotel manager. There was a handshake. The manager bowed, slipping his gratuity into his pocket with a legerdemain Coluzzi admired. A final wave goodbye and the prince disappeared inside the car.
Not a second later, the first BMW peeled away from the curb. Then the second. In a minute, they were all gone, heading south en route to Orly airfield.
The Avenue George V was quiet once again. The excitement had passed. It was just another lazy Sunday evening in August.
A white Renault pulled up alongside Coluzzi and he jumped into the front seat. He took a two-way radio from the center console as the car sped away.
“The pigeon has flown the coop,” he said. “He’s coming at you.”
Prince Abdul Aziz bin Saud settled into his seat and exhaled. “Hurry up,” he said to the driver. “I don’t want to be late.”
“It is our plane, darling,” said his wife, covering his hand with her own. “We can leave when we choose.”
The prince looked at her red nails, her mascara, and shook his hand free. “What do you know?”
The princess slid toward her door, saying nothing.
Prince Abdul Aziz stared out the window as the car crossed the Pont de l’Alma and slipped into the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. He knew he should be happier, rejoicing even. He’d pulled off the greatest coup of his career, yet it would mean nothing until the letter reached the proper hands. His only wish was to be gone from Paris as quickly as possible.
His eyes fell to the calfskin briefcase at his feet and his heart raced. He thought of the letter inside. A personal note from one man to another, handwritten in blue ink on the most exclusive of stationeries, in appearance as fresh as the day it was penned nearly thirty years ago.
And not just any note, but a note that would cause governments to collapse, alliances to realign, and death to many along the way.
Instinctively, he gripped the case between his ankles.
He leaned forward to squeeze the driver’s shoulder. “Faster.”
Tino Coluzzi followed the convoy across the city. The prince had chosen an unlikely route to the airport, using an August evening’s wide-open boulevards and traffic-free surface streets to navigate through Montparnasse toward Porte d’Orléans at the southern edge of the city. It was a move that shaved ten minutes off the more oft-chosen route along the Périphérique, the eight-lane superhighway that circled Paris. The decreased transit time had a cost, however, and that cost was security. It was nearly impossible to stop a convoy of sixteen vehicles once it was on the highway. Coluzzi would have no such difficulty on surface streets.
The Renault hit a dip as it crossed through an intersection, and Coluzzi grasped the stock of his AK-47 assault rifle. The poplin blazer was gone, as were the Italian driving shoes. He wore the same assault gear as the other men in the car with him. Three blocks ahead, the traffic signal for Porte d’Orléans burned red. Once past it, the prince would join the highway. Coluzzi’s chance would be gone.
“Tighten it up,” he said, placing his right hand on the door handle.
With a burst of acceleration, the Renault came up on the last BMW in line.
Coluzzi put the radio to his mouth. “Take him.”
A moment later, a car identical to his own darted into the street ahead of the first BMW. Red lights flared up and down the line of cars. Brakes squealed. The convoy stopped.
“Ram him.”
Coluzzi braced as his vehicle struck the car at a speed of ten kilometers per hour.
The kill box was established.
Coluzzi pulled the balaclava over his face and stepped out of the car. As he ran up the line of BMWs, another white Renault approached from a side street.
Coluzzi’s men poured from their vehicles. There were twelve including himself. All wore black commando gear, balaclavas pulled over their faces. Like him, all carried AK-47 assault rifles with an extra-long ammunition clip. The men fanned out to surround the convoy, weapons pointed at the idling automobiles. Coluzzi ran to the fifth vehicle and drove the butt of his rifle into the driver’s window. A second blow showered glass over the asphalt.
“Unlock the car,” he shouted. “Everyone out.”
The driver got out, hands held high. Coluzzi forced him to the ground, landing a boot on his back for good measure.
“Out. Now.”
A bodyguard emerged from one of the cars farther back. It was the leader, and his gun was drawn. He moved slowly, unsurely. It was a show of mad loyalty rather than an effort to stop the robbery. One of Coluzzi’s men was on him before he cleared the car and clubbed him with the stock of his weapon. The bodyguard fell to the asphalt like a sack of rocks.
Coluzzi opened the back door. “Your Highness. If you please.”
The prince stepped out, lending a hand for the princess. The two stood, staring at each other, saying nothing.
Immediately, one of Coluzzi’s men climbed behind the wheel and closed the door.
Coluzzi hurried to the next car in line. The sixth, carrying the money. “Out.”
The driver climbed out.
“On the ground.”
The driver lay down.
One of Coluzzi’s men tossed his machine gun into the car and slid behind the wheel.
“My belongings,” said the prince, his eyes shifting to the calfskin briefcase visible in the back seat. “Please.”
Coluzzi returned to the prince. “Leave it.”
“Papers for my work. They are of no value to you.”
Already his men were running back to their vehicles.
Coluzzi shoved the prince away from the car, sunglasses falling to the ground, and the prince shoved back, fighting to go around him. The princess lunged at her husband in a vain effort to stop him. The prince knocked her away, then grabbed Coluzzi’s tunic. “I will find you.”
Coluzzi looked into the prince’s eyes. He saw fire and resolve. They were the eyes of a man accustomed to cruelty and having his way. They were not the eyes of a playboy.
“Excuse me,” he said, using the barrel of his rifle to free the prince’s hands from his person. “I must be going.”
The prince stepped away.
Coluzzi banged a fist on the roof of the prince’s car. The engine revved, then pulled out of line and sped away. Coluzzi jogged to the rear of the convoy and jumped into the Renault. “Allons-y.”
As the Renault accelerated, he looked over his shoulder. The prince and princess stood staring at the space where the cars had been.
Coluzzi wondered if five was still the prince’s lucky number.
Coluzzi threw the empty petrol can into the front seat of the burning BMW and watched the flames lick at the automobiles. His clothing, sunglasses, shoes, socks, even the false mustache he’d been wearing, were inside. Anything that could tie him or his men to the crime would be incinerated.
His phone rang. “Yes?”
“We counted it.”
“And?”