“That right?”
“When things were a little tougher and a man had to know how to look out for himself.” Ren picked up the vodka. “Can I pour you another?”
“Better not,” said Coluzzi. “Just in case you want to let me know how glad you are to see me again.”
Ren poured himself a shot and Coluzzi saw that Jojo hadn’t been lying. Ren’s arms and chest were covered with a latticework of inked art.
“Nastrovje,” said Ren, raising his glass and downing the vodka. “Did you see the game? Almost had them, but they were too strong in the end.”
“You need a new fullback.”
“We need two, but we can’t afford them at the moment. It’s a principle of mine that all my businesses pay for themselves.”
“Good idea.”
“Only way,” said Ren, falling into a low-backed chair. “Otherwise you find yourself throwing good money after bad.”
He poured them both another shot. “I admit it was a surprise hearing from a friend of Jojo’s. We go back quite some time. If you’d been a bit more discreet, I wouldn’t have had to make my boys teach you a lesson.”
“Sure you would have.”
Ren shrugged. “Old habits. I don’t pal around with your type these days. Just the way it is.”
“My mistake.”
Ren looked at him for a long moment, the blue, emotionless eyes boring into him. Suddenly, he smiled and slapped Coluzzi on the knee. “And so, my friend. What’s your guess? Just how badly does Mr. Borodin want that letter?”
“He flew to Cyprus to pick it up. You decide.”
“No, you. Go on.”
“I’m no expert on world affairs. To be honest, I’ve never left France. The only people I trust are my family. The people I work with. But Borodin…he didn’t use his own people to bring him the letter. He wanted to keep it a secret. He can’t trust his own guys.”
“You’re talking about Russia, my friend. A country built on distrust from the ground up. People are born with two sets of eyes—one to see ahead, the other behind to protect against being stabbed in the back.”
“That may be,” said Coluzzi. “But Borodin didn’t obtain the letter to protect his boss. He got it to bring him down.”
“One letter?” Ren scoffed. “Never!”
“What do you mean?”
“Anyone can deny one letter. He will claim it’s a forgery. A plant by the CIA. Who knows? Maybe it is. Either way, one letter isn’t enough. There’s got to be more.”
“Maybe,” said Coluzzi. “But the letter is the capper. Borodin may have other information, but without the letter it doesn’t mean much.”
Ren poured another shot and swirled the vodka in his glass. “That part is true, my friend. You’re smarter than a back-country peasant.”
Coluzzi inclined his head politely, vowing to kill the arrogant Russian. He’d use his stiletto. Ren wouldn’t feel it entering his rib cage until it was too late.
“I can reach Vassily Borodin,” said Ren. “It will not be cheap, however.”
Coluzzi remained impassive. Ren was a man who wore two hats. He’d seen the public version at the stadium. The polished, successful businessman who never missed his team’s games. Now he was seeing the private version. Not hardly as polished, and every bit as ruthless as Jojo had warned him.
“How much?” he asked finally.
“How much did you steal from the prince?” asked Ren.
It was impossible to lie. A newsman had gotten to a hotel cashier who had divulged the amount the prince kept in the safe. “Six hundred thousand and change.”
“Exactly?”
“Six hundred twenty-two thousand.”
“Think of it as your buy-in to the game. In return, you keep all that Borodin agrees to pay.”
“I was thinking more of a shared arrangement.”
“Oh?”
“You make contact with Borodin, help with the negotiations. We split what he pays.”
“An interesting proposition, except for one fact.” Ren put down his glass. “Without me, you have no chance of getting one ruble for your letter. Do you really think he will negotiate with you? A common hoodlum? He’s the chief of the second most powerful intelligence agency in the world.”
“I think he will talk to whoever has the letter. Me, you, or a hooker from Jojo’s.”
Ren threw his head back and laughed. “Maybe you are right after all, Tino. Maybe so. Anyhow, my offer stands. Take it or leave it. I don’t want a kopek from the men who placed me in prison for five years, stole all that I had, then exiled me from my homeland. You, however, are a different story.”
“I’ve had to pay my associates. There were expenses. There is nothing close to six hundred thousand euros left.”
“Let’s say five hundred thousand, then. That’s a nice round number. I’m not a greedy man. I’ll make the call as soon as you hand over the money.”
“You’ll get the money once the meeting is set. I’ll do my own talking, if you don’t mind.”
“Fair enough,” said Ren, as if he’d expected the demand all along. “And, Tino, I will need to look at the letter. I have no doubt that it’s real, but face facts. You’re a small-timer who steals a crumb here, a crumb there, and you’re asking me—Alexei Ren—to use my contacts to reach out to the highest levels of a foreign government.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
Ren extended a hand. His forearm was covered with grotesque drawings of skulls and snakes and onion domes and daggers dripping with blood. “Partners must trust each other,” he said. “Believe me, I want this deal to happen far more than you.”
Coluzzi doubted that, but he shook his hand nonetheless. “How much should we ask?”
“Ten million euros,” said Ren. “Bastards at the SVR have deep pockets. Let’s make Vassily Alexandrovich sweat a little.”
Coluzzi suspected Ren had his own designs on the money. He would have to be like a Russian himself, with a set of eyes to look ahead and another to look behind. Like it or not, there was no other way of contacting Borodin.
“Twenty,” said Coluzzi.
Ren squeezed his hand. “Even better…partner.”
Chapter 25
Delacroix locked the door to his office at precisely five p.m. and left the hotel. It was not his practice to leave promptly at the end of the workday, but he was not feeling like himself. The past few days had been taxing. The hotel had welcomed a larger than usual number of obscenely wealthy clients, and from dusk to dawn he’d been called on to see to their needs. This meant everything from arranging bail for the Indonesian prime minister’s fifteen-year-old daughter after her arrest for shoplifting at Galeries Lafayette to supervising daily surveillance sweeps of a German Internet tycoon’s suite. And, of course, there was the presence of the police, questioning all the staff, and himself, in particular, after the robbery two days earlier.
On top of all this, at some point today he’d mislaid his cellphone and spent a tense hour after lunch combing the hotel for it. By the grace of God, the concierge found it lying on the lobby floor. What rattled him more was that no matter how hard he tried, Delacroix could not remember setting it down anywhere near the concierge.
Still, he knew that neither the phone nor his duties were the root cause of his unease. It was the visit from the American investigator that worried him.
They knew.
Once on the street, he lit a cigarette and threw his jacket over his shoulder. It was a breezy afternoon and the warm, frantic wind lessened his anxiety. He came to the Metro and halted. The thought of taking the subway home held no appeal. He had no desire to spend thirty minutes in a hot, cramped car with his fellow Parisians. He needed to keep moving.
Delacroix threw his cigarette into the gutter. “Riske, Riske, Riske,” he repeated, running over the conversation with the American. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that Riske hadn’t believed him. He took the man’s business card from his pocket and called the number. A woman answered and gave the name of the company.
“I’d like to speak with Simon Riske.”
“He’s away on assignment at the moment. May I have him call you or would you like to speak with another of our professionals?”