He walked out of the suite and into the lounge, Coluzzi following close behind. All heads followed their departure.
“Don’t you want to get even with the man who threw you out of Russia?” asked Coluzzi.
Ren turned on him. “Don’t ever presume to tell me what I do or do not wish to do. Now get lost.”
He barked off a series of commands to his bodyguards, who immediately took Coluzzi by the arms and escorted him to the door.
“And don’t come back,” said Ren, heatedly enough to cause his guests to look. “Ever!”
Coluzzi didn’t resist as the bodyguards escorted him physically from the box. Once outside, he tried to shake himself loose, to no avail. “You can let me go now.”
“Those are not Mr. Ren’s wishes.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“The same place we take all people who upset Mr. Ren.” The bodyguards exchanged a look. The grip on his arms tightened. Coluzzi considered struggling, then spotted several policemen twenty yards or so down the concourse.
The men descended the escalators to the entry level, then continued down farther to the second subterranean level. They passed through steel doors with armed sentries standing to either side. Neither gave Coluzzi a second look as the bodyguards led him into the players’ parking lot. The doors closed behind them and he was guided to a silver Mercedes sedan.
“Get in.”
“Really?” said Coluzzi. “Let’s stop this here. I was only talking to Mr. Ren.”
“That’s the problem.” The larger of the two fired a fist into Coluzzi’s gut. He saw it coming and recoiled, weakening the blow. He fired a jab in return, catching the man’s jaw, buckling his knees. The second man hit Coluzzi in the ribs, knuckles curled, and then again in the sternum, full force. That was that. A moment later, Coluzzi found himself in the back seat, doubled up, breath a hundred miles away. He was only mildly aware of the engine turning over and the car traveling out of a tunnel. When he sat up, he observed that they were traveling down the Avenue du Prado, heading into town, not out of it.
“Don’t ask,” said the driver, eyeing him in the rearview mirror.
Coluzzi coughed and was disheartened to see flecks of blood on his hand. He laid his head against the window, the stream of air-conditioning bringing him back to life. He remained silent as the car passed the old fort, then descended toward the water. They rounded a corner and the port came into view. The first vessel he saw was the Solange, its sharp navy bow closest to the entry. The car passed through a security gate, drove a short distance, and stopped in front of the gangway.
The smaller man opened the door. “Out.”
Coluzzi dragged himself from the car, holding his ribs to the bemusement of the bodyguards.
“Mr. Ren asked that you wait in the main salon. Help yourself to the buffet and keep out of sight. He will see you after the match.”
“Have a drink,” said the larger man, grabbing Coluzzi by the collar and straightening him up.
“On us,” said the other.
Coluzzi nodded his head weakly, then spun and kneed the larger man in the testicles, hands on his shoulders, pulling him into the blow. The other took a step toward him, one hand going for his gun, then hesitated, his eyes searching the dock. Coluzzi grabbed the gun hand and twisted the wrist, snapping it, then shoved the bodyguard off the dock and into the sea. The man came up sputtering a moment later, swearing oaths at Coluzzi.
The captain rushed down the gangway. “What’s going on?”
Coluzzi straightened his jacket. “These gentlemen offered me a drink. I plan on making it a double.”
Chapter 23
Simon found a table in the shade at the café Les Deux Magots on the Left Bank. A waiter arrived and he ordered a beer and a ham and cheese baguette. He set his laptop on the table, using a flash cable to attach the SIM card reader. Waiting for the files to transfer, he placed a call to the shop. After checking that everything was on schedule, he asked to speak with Lucy.
“She’s not in,” said Harry Mason.
“Sick?”
“Don’t know. Didn’t call. Just didn’t show.” His floor boss was a bluff Irishman who regarded speaking as an exquisite form of torture.
“Did you call to see if she’s all right?”
“What am I…her daddy?”
