Nikki wrinkled her nose. “How was it?”
“If you’re twenty-six, broke, and starving, it’s delicious. Fry anything in butter, cover it with enough ketchup or mayonnaise, and it tastes okay. I only got sick twice. Oysters. Haven’t had one since.”
“Nice story,” said Nikki, suddenly all business. “Is any of it true or just part of your general line of charming bullshit?”
“Pardon?” Simon smiled, hoping to keep things light, agreeable. “What happened to ‘You’re the boss’?”
“Save it for someone else. You knew Salvatore Brigantino was dead. He was in Germany last year having some kind of experimental treatment. The word’s all over the street. Commissaire Dumont told me you were sharp, that you had good contacts. How did you miss that?”
“We can rule Brigantino out. Good.”
“You still won’t tell me about your little birdie?”
“And Coluzzi?”
“Yes, Coluzzi. He’s a funny one to be on your list. Why would a lifelong bad guy who did time for bank robbery, attempted murder, and felonious assault want to steal a letter?”
“Good question. Once I find him, I’ll ask him and get back to you.”
“Sure you will.”
“Look, Nikki, I don’t know what’s gotten you so upset.”
“You did. You’re wasting my time. You knew Coluzzi was the one all along. Why did you lie?”
“Did you find him?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s make a deal. You tell me what’s in this famous letter and I’ll tell you if I found Coluzzi.”
“Fair enough.”
“Really? You’ll tell me?” It was Nikki’s turn to be surprised. She stood arms akimbo, ready to deliver her next stinging riposte.
“Promise.”
“All right, then,” she said. “Go ahead.”
“I don’t know,” said Simon.
Nikki threw him a look to say she was done here, turned, and walked in the other direction.
Simon hurried to catch up with her. “Word of honor. I don’t know what’s in that letter. My client in this matter—a man who I have every reason to believe—refused to tell me. He did make it clear, however, that it was important.”
“Sure it is. To save his marriage or his bank account.”
“More than that. A lot of people might be in trouble if the wrong people get it.”
“What kind of people?”
“You. Me. Everyone.”
“That’s rich. I’m scared now, Mr. Riske. Trembling in my boots. Can’t you see?” Nikki narrowed her eyes and laughed sarcastically. “Pass it on to the next rube. I’m out of here.”
Simon grabbed her arm before she could take a step. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe it,” he said.
It was only then that he realized that Neill had gotten to him. That he really did believe he must find the letter and that he was committed to doing everything in his power to make it happen.
Nikki looked hard at him, suspicious as ever. “So tell me why a hood like Tino Coluzzi would ever want something like that.”
“Maybe,” Simon said, “he didn’t mean to steal it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means maybe he got it accidentally. Look, that’s as far as I can go.” He waited for a moment, expecting another rebuke. Nikki remained silent, though her expression was far from convinced. He said, “Your turn.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.” She began walking, her shoulder nearly touching his. “I didn’t pick up anything new about Coluzzi,” she said. “Other than to confirm that he was behind a large theft of pharmaceutical drugs last year. I was able, however, to find out the name of a place where his friends hang out. It’s a bar in the Marais called Le Galleon Rouge.”
“Never heard of it.”
“A dive. I asked around. Apparently it’s popular with that crowd. You want to ask for someone named Giacomo, or Jack. Long hair. Sideburns. Mustache.”
“Jack or Giacomo at the Le Galleon Rouge. It’s a start.”
She looked Simon up and down. “Don’t go dressed like that.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“The commissaire told me about you saving his life. Thank him, not me.”
“He’s exaggerating, but thanks anyway.”
Nikki began walking backward, away from him. “Anything for a friend of the PJ. Oh yeah…” She put a finger to her forehead. “One day you’ll tell me about that.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said. “By the way, word has it that your friend was looking to get a crew together.”
“Coluzzi?”
Nikki nodded. “Must have been some job, whatever they really wanted to steal.”
Chapter 27
Vassily Borodin stared at the image of the business card Valentina Asanova had sent.
SIMON RISKE
SPECIAL PROTECTIVE SERVICES AND INVESTIGATIONS
9 NEW BOND STREET
LONDON, ENGLAND
The firm’s name meant nothing to him. There were dozens of such firms in every major world capital. Spying was a fully privatized industry.
He put down his phone, ruing the interruption in his work. On his desk a fan of dossiers was scattered, all neatly numbered and labeled. The information inside constituted his proof. Old-fashioned, hard proof in the form of damning papers from banks, corporations, and government ministries.
He thought of the effort required to assemble it and a wave of fatigue overtook him. He leaned back in his chair and looked out the window. The rain had continued unabated since the day before. His view gave north to the center of the city. When the air was clear and the sun shining, he had a direct view of the new business district and could count the Stalin skyscrapers set in a ring around the city. Today, the rain made it impossible to see anything except the dirt caked on his window.
He looked once again at the business card and questioned his decision to send Valentina Asanova to Paris. Was he getting himself into more trouble or doing what any patriot would? He sat straighter. He had never been a man who shirked his duty. He would never have succeeded in the old regime, when devotion to the Communist Party demanded a uniform, unwavering, and often blithely ignorant obedience. He was a man of his time, doing what any smart, ambitious, and patriotic man of his time should do.
It had all begun with a rumor of a clandestine meeting that had taken place almost thirty years in the past. Borodin, a major at the time, had been quick to dismiss it. A man in his position trafficked in hearsay at his peril. Then, a year later, a second source, independent from the first, repeated it. This time with a crucial detail added. The meeting had taken place at a dacha north of Moscow in the month of September, days after the momentous visit. More importantly, the dacha belonged to General Ivan Truchin, one of the first high-ranking officers to denounce the old Soviet regime.
The smart response was to say “Nonsense” or “Rubbish” and slam the door on such dangerous talk. But Borodin was at heart distrustful. It was in his nature to ask “What if?” or, better, “Why not?” Where others sought out the good in people, he was inclined to seek the ill, or at least the duplicitous. He was nothing more than the product of his training.
Though barely a teenager when the alleged meeting had taken place, he remembered the time well. It was the era of glasnost and perestroika. The West termed the words “opening” and “restructuring.” Borodin preferred “capitulation” and “destruction.”
The great Soviet ship launched amid blood and tumult in 1918 by Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov Lenin and his band of Bolshevik revolutionaries was sinking. Chaos reigned. It was every man for himself. Even the rats were fleeing the ship.
Borodin searched for his phone and for the thousandth time—no, the ten thousandth—looked at the picture. There they were, the biggest threats Mother Russia had ever known, all standing within feet of one another. Gorbachev, Reagan, and the worst of the three.