He moved his attaché case to the desk and opened it. Inside, packed in foam, were the elements of his surveillance kit: bugs, transmitters, a parabolic microphone, high-def cameras disguised as screws or hidden in lapel pins. A separate, smaller case contained some new gear his technical advisor had sold him. Simon expected good things.
He finished dressing and took the elevator to the ground floor. A gallery with sofas and chairs and tables ran alongside the atrium around which the hotel was built. He chose an empty seat with an unobstructed view of the lobby. Nearby tables were occupied by flamboyant Germans, taciturn Saudis, and a flock of giggly Asian women, who, by the volume of shopping bags on the floor and couches around them, appeared to have visited every store on the Avenue Montaigne.
A server arrived, and he ordered a mineral water and a croque monsieur. He relaxed and picked up a copy of the New York Times Global Edition lying on a table. From his position, he was able to observe the hotel staff and the comings and goings of guests. He was wondering how Coluzzi had known in which car the prince carried his money and, more importantly, the precise route he would take to the airport. He was wondering who had told him. Simon knew an inside job when he saw one.
The sound of a door closing loudly drew his attention to the reception desk, where a compact, officious man emerged from a room behind the counter and spoke to the night manager in a stern manner.
Hotel security, thought Simon, spotting the man’s earpiece and lapel microphone. An important guest was due for arrival. The alarm had been sounded.
The server brought Simon’s food. He had time to eat half his sandwich before the VIPs arrived. Doormen poured into the lobby. The night manager positioned himself at the entry. The hotel security man retired to a far corner, appearing to admire a showcase displaying sparkling gold watches.
A moment later, a Middle Eastern family filed into the lobby—six children, two wives, a sheikh—accompanied by a two-man contingent of private security. The night manager greeted the sheikh and led him to the reception as the bellmen began ferrying in trolleys overflowing with trunks and cases. But Simon’s eyes instinctively stayed on the security man who had approached one of the bodyguards and discreetly led him aside for a more serious discussion.
The hotel’s chief of security was fit, full of vim, maybe fifty, with a prizefighter’s brow and thick hair gone prematurely gray. He wore a stiff blazer, pressed slacks, and polished leather shoes with thick soles that indicated he spent a good deal of time on his feet. His entire bearing screamed “military.”
The bodyguard led the hotel security man to the sheikh. There was a handshake, a bow of the head, and a solemn exchange of words before the sheikh returned to his family.
Simon settled the bill and passed through the lobby onto the street. The sun had set a while earlier. The night was warm and breezy. He strolled to the Champs-élysées and walked its length to the Place de la Concorde, admiring the obelisk, gazing up the grand boulevard to the Arc de Triomphe before heading back to the hotel.
As he strolled, he couldn’t erase the unsavory image of the sheikh slipping a neatly folded wad of bills into the hands of the hotel’s chief of security. He wondered if, like the prince, the sheikh also traveled with a million euros in cash.
Or if, perhaps, the payment was in exchange for helping chart the safest route to the airport.
Chapter 16
Jojo’s was in full swing when Coluzzi entered just after ten p.m. All the tables in the main room were occupied, with the overflow leaning on the brass railing and crowding the bar. Music blared as the girls worked the room, most not bothering to cover themselves with anything more than a G-string. He moved through the crowd, ignoring their entreaties, caught up in the smells of sweat, perfume, and lust. He gave the bartender a wave and pointed toward the kitchen, then continued down the hall.
“You’re back?” Dressed in chef’s whites, Jojo looked up from the grill.
“Didn’t expect me?”
“Already put aside my best steak for you.”
“Appreciate it.”
Jojo took out a steak from his prep drawer and threw it on the grill, dumped a handful of freshly cut fries into the basket, and dropped it into the fryer. Wiping his forehead with a towel, he returned his attention to Coluzzi. “Find your Russians?”
“Dead end.”
“Want to tell me what it’s about?”
“Actually, I have a question for you.”
“Yeah, what?”
“Still have your season tickets?”
“Thirty years running.”
“You ever see Alexei Ren?”
“Now and then. He likes to stand on the sidelines with his players.”
While the public knew Alexei Ren as a glamorous businessman who attended fashion shows in Paris and threw lavish parties at his home in Saint-Tropez, as well as the owner of the Olympique de Marseille football club, Coluzzi was privy to a darker truth. At one time Alexei Ren had been the king of the Russian mafiya in the South of France.
“You two friends?”
“Me? I know him. He used to come in not long after he got out of the gulag in Siberia and was setting up shop. He was a different man then. Absolutely ruthless. On a mission to get back the years he’d lost. The girls were scared of him. He couldn’t get enough.”
“You ever work together?”
Jojo flipped the steak, flames shooting from the grill. “That’s right,” he said, testing the meat with his fork. “You wouldn’t know. That was about the time you were doing your stretch for that armored car job.”
“Know what?”
“We had a sweet deal running that summer. I had some boys working legit jobs at the spots up and down the Riviera. Sporting Club in Monaco. H?tel du Cap. Byblos in Saint-Tropez. Moulin de Mougins. Only the best places. The kids were locals. They knew everyone, especially the movers and shakers. When they spotted one of the high and mighty coming into their establishment, they’d give me a call. I’d pass the word to Ren, shoot him their home address, and leave the rest to him. He had a slick crew. Very talented. Get in. Get out. Fast. Fast. Fast. They could smell jewels through three feet of concrete.” Jojo rubbed his fingertips together, grinning at the memory. “Rich pickings, my friend.”
“I never read about it.”
“Of course you didn’t. People that rich don’t want their names in the paper. They keep it all hush-hush. The insurance guys talk to the police. The police do a little looking. No one wants to give other thieves the idea there might be more. That was the summer I bought my boat. Good times.”
Jojo plated the steak, cleared the basket from the fryer, and dumped the contents into a bowl, dusting the fries with a pinch of salt from on high. After a few crisp shakes, he spilled the golden fries onto the plate and slid it in front of Coluzzi. “Hey,” he said in warning as Tino drew it nearer. Jojo spooned a dollop of garlic butter onto the steak, then gave his blessing. “Bon app.”
Coluzzi took his time eating, careful not to betray his interest in Alexei Ren. He asked for more fries, dousing them with the melted garlic butter and warm juices. “You know how to cook, Jojo.”
“Hope it’s not overdone.”
“Perfect.” Coluzzi put down his knife and fork, then wiped his mouth. “Why didn’t you keep working with Ren? I’d like to be in on a gig like that.”
“He cleaned up his act. He’s smarter than guys like us. He took that money and invested it. Pretty soon he bought that big computer company and he was off to the races. Now he’s like a superhero. Big family. Lots of kids. Setting up foundations for the poor.” Jojo laughed caustically. “Like everyone forgot what he looked like without his shirt.”
“What do you mean?”
“The tats. He was vor v zakone. A criminal for life. He didn’t come to France because he wanted to. He was kicked out.”
“That right?”
“Hoods like that have their personal history tattooed on every inch of their bodies. He came out on my boat once. It’s something you’ll never forget. Anyway, that’s why you never see him without a long-sleeved shirt and high collar. He doesn’t want anyone remembering.”