The Take(23)

“All yours.”

Jojo left the room and Coluzzi brought up all charges for the past six months, then looked at them by name, A to Z. There were quite a few customers with Russian last names. He concentrated on those who spent less than five hundred euros. Russian diplomats weren’t any better paid than any other state employee.

In five minutes, he had two names. Andrei Gromov and Boris Stevcek. Both men often came together. Usually Fridays. Gromov consistently spent more, but not much. Neither charged more than two hundred euros, which meant they never took a girl to the VIP room for a blow job or bought them out for the night. Lookers, not touchers.

Still, Coluzzi had no proof either worked for the Russian government. They might as easily be with one of the tech companies sprouting up these days like mushrooms or a foreign airline or just about anyone. In fact, he didn’t even know if they were really Russians and not just French citizens with Russian names.

He exited the program and logged on to the net. Earlier he’d looked at the website for the Russian Consulate. Names of employees weren’t listed, not even the consul general. The question was who best to approach with the letter. He had no friends in the Russian spy service. Even if he had, he wasn’t sure how to present the letter. Coluzzi assumed that the Saudi prince had planned on delivering it to someone at or above his own level. The printout of the email he’d found in the prince’s briefcase had indicated there was to be a rendezvous on the island of Cyprus with a man named V. Borodin. A check on the Internet indicated that the current chief of the Russian spy service was a man named Vassily Borodin.

But how does one reach the head of the SVR? You might as well try to reach God.

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.