The phone rang.
Ren stood facing him, cigar firmly in the corner of his mouth, arms crossed over his chest. His smile was gone. His eyes stared at him as if he were his worst enemy.
“Good luck,” he said.
“All?.”
“Borodin?”
“Director Borodin, if you don’t mind. Am I speaking with Mr. Tino Coluzzi?”
The voice was calm, measured, not unfriendly, pitched higher than he’d expected, the man’s French nearly perfect.
“My name isn’t important.”
“There are no strangers in this business. We’ve been looking for you since yesterday. Now you turn up with Alexei Ren. You are an opportunistic man.”
“I do what’s necessary.”
“So it seems.”
“I have your letter. I guess I don’t need to tell you that.”
“No, you don’t. Mr. Delacroix was helpful in that regard, as was your friend Mr. Falconi. Or did you think we’d sit back and wait for you to come to us?”
Coluzzi swallowed, biting back his anger. He didn’t care about Delacroix, other than to be angry he’d paid him up front, but Luca Falconi had been like an uncle. “I didn’t think that.”
Borodin paused long enough for Coluzzi to digest the information. “What do you wish to do with your prize?”
“I have a few ideas.”
“May I ask you a question first?”
“Go ahead.”
“How did you come to find it? The news says the robbery was only about the money.”
“That’s my business.”
“So it wasn’t a coincidence?”
“Let’s say that there are others who want the letter as badly as you.”
“Have you spoken with them?” Borodin’s voice was suddenly too relaxed, almost nonchalant. Coluzzi realized that he was the more nervous of them.
“I thought you’d want it, seeing as how the prince was flying to Cyprus to personally deliver it to you.”
“My, my. You never cease to impress me.”
“The prince writes too much down. You might want to mention it to him next time you get together.”
“Mr. Coluzzi, I’m a busy man. You are correct that we would like to take possession of the letter. Sooner rather than later. I’m prepared to offer you fifty thousand euros.”
“I was thinking of a different number.”
“Of course you were.”
“How does twenty million sound?”
Borodin’s laugh sounded like a seal’s bark. “Did Ren give you that number?”
“All mine.”
“Impossible. We have a budget like any other organization. It’s not my decision alone.”
“I don’t think your budget applies in this matter.”
“Why not?”
“This is your play. I know what’s in the letter. I know why you want it. The number is twenty million.”
“Never.”
“Then I apologize for wasting your time. I’m a busy man, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another call to make.”
“Wait!”
“I’m listening.”
“Two million euros. Cash. You’ll have it in twelve hours.”
“Twenty million. Also in cash. And have it here by six.”
“Five million is the best I can do.”
“The sun is coming up in Washington, DC. I know just the person to call. He’s probably mad at me for not having given him the letter in the first place, but I suppose he’ll soften up. I’ve kept the Americans waiting long enough.”
“Ten million and that’s final.”
“What did you do to Luca Falconi?”
“Ten million, Mr. Coluzzi. Or you’ll find out yourself what we did to your friend.”
Coluzzi’s eyes met Ren’s. The Russian nodded.
“Deal,” said Coluzzi.
“Call this number back in an hour and I’ll give you the details.”
Borodin hung up before Coluzzi could protest.
Ren slipped the phone into his pocket. He held a fresh cigar in his free hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s celebrate.”
Chapter 49
Boris Blatt required four hours to determine where his watch had been stolen. He was not sure if he would ever discover how, or by whom.
He’d set to work upon his return from Zurich earlier that morning. His plane had landed punctually at nine at City Airport, his car waiting on the tarmac to take him home. The twelve-mile drive to Highgate in the north of London took nearly as long as the five-hundred-mile flight from Switzerland. It wasn’t until ten that he pulled through the iron gates into Parkfield’s grand forecourt. It was the first time Blatt had purchased a property with a name. Frankly, he thought “Parkfield” rather bland and lacking in grandiosity, especially for a ninety-thousand-square-foot Georgian revival set on five acres of grassland that counted as the second-largest private residence in the city. He preferred the name given to the largest private residence. Buckingham Palace.
Once inside, he took the elevator to the third floor and proceeded to his private office, locking the door behind him. A priori, it was a simple enough matter. The watch had been either taken from his closet, where he kept it in a climate-controlled cherrywood case equipped with a “watch winder” that turned the timepiece this way and that every hour to keep the mechanism charged, or, more improbably, stolen while he was wearing it. Blatt had heard of thieves capable of lifting a watch from a man’s wrist without him noticing. But he’d never heard of a thief so talented he could replace it with another watch—in this case, an exact replica—without him noticing.
A mathematician by training, Blatt focused his efforts on the first, infinitely more probable possibility. The watch had been stolen and a replica put in its place at his home.
Blatt’s first order of business was to call his wife and ask if she’d looked at the watch. Her response was a somewhat distracted “No.” He believed her. She had her own collection of watches, and they were worth far more than his. Moreover, she hadn’t set foot in his bedroom either here in London or in any of their other homes—in Bermuda, Manhattan, Bel-Air, Saint-Tropez, or Moscow—in years. He ruled out his wife.
Next, Blatt summoned his chief houseman, Roderick, who was the only person—besides Blatt himself—allowed free entry into Blatt’s bedroom. On the surface, Roderick was beyond reproach. He was well paid. He had no debts. He didn’t drink, gamble, or keep a mistress on the side. All this Blatt had made it his business to know. It was this record of untarnished integrity that had landed him the job.
Even so, Blatt made sure his bodyguards were present, and at their most intimidating, when he inquired about the watch, and if they hit the old Englishman a few times, Blatt didn’t notice. No matter how often he was asked, Roderick’s answer remained an earnest, stammering “No.” The same was true when asked if he’d let someone else into the bedroom.
Blatt thanked him and let him know he believed him entirely. By the look of the sweat running off the older man’s forehead and the sad, defeated manner in which he limped out of the room, the acquittal was none too soon.
Of course, there was a more reliable way to determine if anyone had ventured inside Blatt’s bedroom.
Leaving his office, Blatt retraced his steps down the corridor and took the elevator to the second underground floor. Using a special key, he unlocked a steel door and entered Parkfield’s operational headquarters. It was from this warren of offices that all work done on the house was scheduled and supervised. Painting, carpentry, plumbing—all of it. Also housed on the second underground floor was Parkfield’s security.
A door stood open at the end of the hall. Approaching, Blatt caught sight of the multiplex of eighty monitors showing live feeds from all cameras placed around the property. A dark, gnomish man sat at the console. Seeing Blatt, he shot to his feet.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Anton, have you finished checking my request?”
“Just now, sir.”
Blatt perched on the corner of the desk. He’d called Anton the night before, requesting he check the feed from his bedroom to see if anyone, besides himself and Roderick, had trespassed.
“Well?”
“No one, sir.”