“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.
