Reluctantly, the guard lowered the machine gun and walked away.
“Okay,” said Aziz when he heard the door close. “I can help you.”
“Too late.”
“I know this man Coluzzi.”
“Sure you do,” said Nikki. “His name just popped into your head.”
“I bought some merch from him last year.”
“Oxy?”
Aziz nodded. “Like you said.”
“Go on.”
“He was getting a crew together not too long ago.”
“Last year?”
“Last week.”
“He doesn’t work with your people. How would you know?”
“Another guy like him was in, looking to score some weed. Just a key. We smoked a blunt and he mentioned that he was working for this dude. A real smooth operator.”
“Coluzzi?”
“Yeah, that’s the name. I remember now.”
“Of course you do. What else do you remember?”
“That’s it. Coluzzi was getting some of his guys together, used to be part of some gang in Marseille.”
“What were they going to do?”
“No idea. I swear. The guy who told me was high. He probably knew he’d already said too much.”
“So where can I find your friend?”
“I don’t know. He just called me, came by.”
“What’s his number?”
“He uses a burner. I kill my log every day.”
Nikki reached again for her cuffs.
“Wait, wait,” said Aziz. “We hung out once. This bar in the Marais. Full of guys like him from down south. Names like Luca and Giovanni. Leather coats. Gold chains. Too much cologne.”
“Give me your friend’s name.”
“I can’t do that, Nikki. That’s asking too much.”
Nikki opened the cuffs. “Hands in front or in back?”
“Jack. Giacomo’s his real name.”
“Jack or Giacomo who hangs out at a bar in the Marais.”
“Le Galleon Rouge.”
Nikki considered this. It might be true or it might not. She’d never heard of the bar, but then again, she wasn’t one to hang around the Marais. She put away the cuffs. “I’m going to need to take it.”
“Cost me fifty grand.”
“How much is your freedom worth?”
Aziz sat on a box, shoulders slumped, a hand contemplating his bald scalp. Nikki tapped him on the shoulder. Aziz glanced up.
“Which side?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve been back here with you too long. Can’t have anyone thinking I’m your friend.”
Aziz touched his right cheek. “Go easy.”
Nikki made a fist and slugged him in the face. Aziz toppled off the box and onto the floor. To his credit, he didn’t whimper.
“That was for my brother,” said Nikki.
Chapter 22
The match between Olympique de Marseille and Paris Saint-Germain was a preseason encounter slated to begin at three p.m. Tino Coluzzi joined the throngs of fans streaming across the grounds toward the Stade Vélodrome. While most were attired in shorts and T-shirts, Coluzzi was dressed in a summer-weight tan suit, a white shirt open at the collar. He didn’t plan on watching the game with the masses. It was his objective to watch alongside the richest man in the stadium: Alexei Ren.
Nearing the entry, he removed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. The heat was oppressive, with only the faintest of breezes. He dug a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. If he didn’t get into the shade soon, he’d sweat through his shirt. It was not the kind of impression he wanted to make.
The heat wasn’t the only thing making him sweat. He’d had no contact from the American in almost two days. Lying awake in his cramped, low-ceilinged bedroom, doors and windows battered shut, he’d wondered with concern bordering on fear who was coming after him. He didn’t peg the American as someone who would walk away after being betrayed and leave things as they stood. He was coming for the letter.
And so were the Russians.
Coluzzi took this as fact because he would do the same. And he’d be coming with a vengeance.
There was a long line to gain entrance to the stadium. Besides the men and women taking tickets, a healthy contingent of police was standing at or near the turnstiles. Their presence didn’t unsettle him. Crowds at Marseille football matches were known to get rowdy. What did unsettle him were the newly installed cameras perched atop the gates. He was no expert in technology but he knew that the facial-recognition systems implemented at high-profile venues around the country had resulted in several of his associates being arrested.
Coluzzi handed his ticket to the worker, doing his best to keep his head down, his face away from the cameras. The police paid him no mind and he proceeded into the stadium without incident, taking an escalator to the mezzanine concourse.
Years had passed since he’d attended a game. The old wooden benches were gone. Everything looked new and much too shiny. Beer came from polished taps behind neon-lit logos for Heineken and Kronenbourg and was sold by men and women in pressed uniforms. He missed the colorful vendors tossing out insults along with the cups of lukewarm brew.
The players were on the field warming up. He spotted Alexei Ren standing at midfield, kicking a ball back and forth with a few players. Despite the heat, he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt buttoned at the collar.
The scoreboard ticked down the time until kickoff. Ren retreated to the sideline. The game began and still he stood with his players. Coluzzi kept his eyes on the Russian, worried he’d remain on the field the entire game. At five minutes, the visiting team scored. Ren hung his head in dismay and walked into the stadium, Coluzzi assumed to the elevator that would take him to his luxury box.
Coluzzi looked to his right, where an escalator took ticket holders to the club level and to Ren’s luxury box. Two security guards examined tickets and waved a metal detector over each guest’s torso. A pair of Marseille policemen stood nearby, checking IDs. Jojo’s ticket was good enough to get him into the stadium, but that was it.
Coluzzi continued down the concourse, stopping to buy a beer. Hand in his pocket, he sipped the beer, all the while examining the comings and goings of the stadium personnel. He’d spent his life studying an organization’s security arrangements. Be it an armored car company, a bank, or a jewelry store, all had one thing in common. A schedule.
By now, the concourse was more or less empty. He was able to observe the stadium staff at work. Passing the next escalator he noted that with the game under way, security to the luxury level had slackened. Only one guard and one policeman remained in place. Still, that was enough. The escalator was out of the question.
Farther along, he dumped his beer and purchased a frozen pi?a colada. The drink was perfect cover, he decided. What kind of a man in his profession drank a sweet icy drink with a maraschino cherry on top? He prayed he didn’t run into someone he knew. Some things you couldn’t explain.
A team of two workers dressed in canary-yellow shorts and shirts stopped at an elevator a few steps past the escalator. Sipping from his curlicue straw, he watched as they summoned the elevator, then used a key to unlock the door when it arrived. Coluzzi stayed in position. Ten minutes later, the two returned, carrying several trash bags. They crossed the concourse to an unmarked door, entered, deposited the trash, and returned to continue their rounds.
After the third pickup, he followed them to the trash room. He waited until they were inside, then opened the door and entered, stumbling purposely.
“Excuse me, sir,” one of them said, dark-skinned, maybe twenty-five, Algerian or Libyan. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for the men’s room,” said Coluzzi, feigning drunkenness. “I can’t wait another second.”
The workers exchanged a look, then approached him. “This is not the men’s room, sir.”