Still, Coluzzi had no proof either worked for the Russian government. They might as easily be with one of the tech companies sprouting up these days like mushrooms or a foreign airline or just about anyone. In fact, he didn’t even know if they were really Russians and not just French citizens with Russian names.
He exited the program and logged on to the net. Earlier he’d looked at the website for the Russian Consulate. Names of employees weren’t listed, not even the consul general. The question was who best to approach with the letter. He had no friends in the Russian spy service. Even if he had, he wasn’t sure how to present the letter. Coluzzi assumed that the Saudi prince had planned on delivering it to someone at or above his own level. The printout of the email he’d found in the prince’s briefcase had indicated there was to be a rendezvous on the island of Cyprus with a man named V. Borodin. A check on the Internet indicated that the current chief of the Russian spy service was a man named Vassily Borodin.
But how does one reach the head of the SVR? You might as well try to reach God.
Coluzzi typed each of the men’s names into the search bar. Stevcek had a Facebook page and Coluzzi looked through the photos he’d posted. He could tell Stevcek was Russian just by looking at him. Pale skin, high cheekbones, bony nose, and the real giveaway, those Asiatic eyes.
He was also a prolific uploader of pictures. Coluzzi made it through fifty before giving up. He saw nothing that indicated what Stevcek did for a living, or if he worked for the Russian Consulate.
He started reviewing the man’s posts. All were written in Cyrillic, and thus incomprehensible. Still, he scanned down page after page. Gibberish and more gibberish.
And then he saw it. An anniversary page that denoted a special event. This was written in French. March 20—Started work at the Consulate in Marseille.
Immediately, Coluzzi looked up the number of the Russian consulate. “May I speak with Mr. Stevcek?”
“No one by that name works here.”
“Of course he does. I met him last week and he asked that I call him here.”
“There is no one here by that name. Is this in reference to a visa?”
Coluzzi cursed under his breath. Stevcek had probably been transferred to another posting. “It’s a different matter.” He took a breath and dove in. “I am in possession of information that may benefit your country.”
“What kind of information?” The reply came matter-of-factly, as if they received offers of this kind on a daily basis.
Coluzzi fumbled for the right words. “Technical. Sophisticated industrial plans. I’m an engineer. I wish to help Russia.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We cannot help.”
“Very secret. Confidential, understand? Top secret.”
The line went dead. Embarrassed by his amateurish performance, he put down the phone, erased his browsing history, and returned to the bar.
“Any luck?” asked Jojo. He’d changed into his chef’s whites for the evening, but the cigarette was still dangling from his mouth.
“Dead end.”
“In town for a while?”
“A few days.”
“Stop by tonight for a drink. Better yet, I’ll make you dinner.”
“Steak-frites?”
“You got it.”
“My favorite,” said Coluzzi, pleased that Jojo didn’t have a clue he’d ripped him off the year before. “And, Jojo, don’t overcook it this time.”
Chapter 12
Don’t overcook it.
Jojo Matta felt his cheeks color as he watched Coluzzi go down the hall. He stamped out his cigarette and marched to the kitchen, angrier than he could remember. The nerve. As if he’d forgotten all about how Coluzzi had cheated him.
Jojo tied on his apron and began the evening prep. He had two specials planned, grilled swordfish with steamed vegetables and mussels with garlic sauce. He opened the refrigerator and removed the fish, dropping it on the chopping block. He found his filleting knife and set to work cutting the slab into steaks. He could have purchased his fish precut, or even prepackaged, but he preferred to do it himself. It was a question of respect. If he charged thirty euros for a meal, he wanted to give his customers their money’s worth. It was how he did things. He wasn’t a cheat like Coluzzi.
Jojo looked down and saw that his hand was shaking. He drew a calming breath and set to work chopping the potatoes and carrots, the razor-sharp blade moving in a blur. He liked to go to the farmers’ market every morning and pick out the produce himself. It was another way he showed his customers respect. The best ingredients at a fair price.
The mere thought of fairness brought Coluzzi back to mind. How long had they known each other? Fifteen years? Twenty? Even if they weren’t family, they were friends.
And friends didn’t steal from friends.
The blade jumped. Jojo felt a nick and looked down to see a sliver of his thumb lying on the cutting board. The blood came a second later. He put his thumb under cold water for a minute, then rubbed it with a styptic pencil and bandaged it.
He’d been cooking since he was fourteen and was forced to take a class in meal preparation at a reform school near Perpignan. The school believed that learning the rudiments of French cooking offered their unruly charges a career path while channeling the anger and lack of discipline that had led them to commit crimes in the first place. The first part was true enough. Jojo had worked as a chef on and off for the past forty years. The second part less so. It wasn’t always a good idea to put sociopathic teenagers in proximity to sharp knives and boiling water. Jojo had left school with his leg scarred by scalding water and missing half an index finger. The upside was that he knew how to prepare a world-class coq au vin.
And that, he decided, was Tino Coluzzi’s problem. He didn’t respect anyone. Not friends. Not family. No one.
It was at a party last year that Jojo had run into Massimo Forte, the biggest jewelry fence this side of the Italian border. After a few drinks, Forte had let slip what he’d paid Coluzzi for the take from Harry Winston. The figure was double what Coluzzi had told them.
Not ten percent more.
Not twenty percent more.
Double.
One hundred percent more.
Jojo wasn’t averse to a little padding here and there. It had been Tino who’d cased the boutique, rounded up the crew, and jacked the truck they’d used to drive through the window. Likewise, his planning and execution had been top-notch. Tino ran a tight ship. No question he deserved a fatter share.
But padding was one thing. Gouging, another.
Jojo went back to work. He dumped the bloodied vegetables in the garbage, washed off the chopping block, and started again. He’d tried to put Coluzzi’s double-dealing out of his mind, but that was no longer possible.
The man was here.
In Marseille.
It was a question of pride.
Jojo had to make things right.
Dropping the knife, he went to his office and closed the door behind him. He wiped his hands before making the call.
“Hey,” he said. “You’ll never guess who just walked into the club? And he’s coming back for dinner. I’m thinking we should give him a special welcome.”
An hour later, Tino Coluzzi sat alone outdoors at the Café la Samaritaine, drinking an espresso and watching traffic trawl through the Vieux-Port. Skiffs bringing in the second catch of the day. Tourist boats returning from Les Calanques. Day sailors mooring motor yachts.
Coluzzi looked past them and out to sea. In the distance, the walls of the Chateau d’If sparkled as if laced with gold. Though he’d lived in and around Marseille for twenty years, he’d never visited the castle and one-time fortress where the Count of Monte Cristo had been imprisoned. Right now he was thinking that prison might be a safer alternative, all things considered.