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 Ledoux 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.
“See for yourself.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Neill walked to the rear of the truck and put a foot on the bumper, reaching a hand to the roof, and hauling himself up onto the side of the truck. He remained prone, as the first police cars entered the aerodrome. One after another, they made a sharp right turn and drove pell-mell to the far end of the field, where Borodin and Ren had engaged in their version of the shootout at the OK Corral. Finally, the sirens died off. He watched as the officers poured from their cars and surveyed the scene. Not one glanced in his direction.
He scuttled crab-like to the cargo door. It opened outward and he lowered himself into the rear bay. It was more cramped than he had expected, with a bench and an enclosed container to accept deposits. He noted how stuffy the air was, how stale and sour. The thought of spending an eight-hour day trapped in such unpleasant confines made him claustrophobic. But that was another man’s fate.
Neill picked up the suitcase, guessing its weight to be close to forty pounds. He saw that there was no combination and that it was unlocked.
Ten million euros.
How long had he waited?
The idea had come to him years before. He had grown tired of this life. He was doing an all-star’s job for a journeyman’s wages. The world was an expensive place and there was money to be had. At some point, between all the cars he’d never drive, the suits he’d never wear, the meals he’d never eat, and the women he’d never screw—out there between Belgrave Square and Rodeo Drive—he decided he wanted a piece. A government salary wasn’t going to cut it. And so he’d set about planning.