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.
