Peter was shaking his head.
“And why should Yuri Federov talk to me?” Alex asked. “Where’s my leverage to get any information out of him?”
“He still has a tax situation in front of the IRS,” McKinnon said. “It limits his business dealings around the world, exposes some of his personal assets in the United States and its territories, and restricts his entry into the United States.”
“So I could offer some flexibility on his tax problems?” she asked.
“That’s what I’m saying,” McKinnon said. “As long as his information proves useful. Check with your bossman Mike about that. The fix is in with Treasury if you can finagle a deal. Does this have a logic to it?”
She pondered it and let go with some information from her side.
“My instructions, if I ever wanted to get in touch,” she finally explained, “were to go to Geneva and register at a certain hotel under my real name. The next day I was to have lunch alone at a certain restaurant. I’m supposed to go there and ask for a captain named Koller and tell him that his aunt from New York sends her regards. I’m to sit by the Lake of Geneva reading a book at eleven the next morning. I will be met by someone, possibly even Federov, himself. I’m to repeat the procedure until he contacts me. Or until I get tired of not being contacted.”
“So he lives in the Geneva area?”
“That’s my guess, but I don’t know that as a fact.”
McKinnon smiled. “There,” he said. “After all that, wasn’t that easy? Peter will go with you to Switzerland, keep a discreet distance, and try not to kill everyone who makes a pass at you.” McKinnon said. “Think of Peter as your bodyguard, your backup. He seems to have shown a certain talent on that front. Would that work for you? If I were you, I’d be very pleased to have a gun like Peter watching my backside. Did you ever see The Bodyguard with Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner? Think of Peter as Kevin Costner, but with some Jackie Chan factored in.”
“All right,” she said after a moment’s thought. “That might work.”
“The only other question now,” McKinnon said, “is when can you leave for Geneva? It’s about a two-hour flight from here, but that won’t make any difference because you don’t want to fly. No flight records. And you should carry a gun, which I see you already have, so you can’t exactly do a Texas two-step through the airports.”
“Tomorrow?” she asked. “The day after tomorrow?”
“The day after tomorrow would be perfect,” he said, “if you could get your butt on the move that fast. Can that be done, considering this is an urgent request from those who sign the checks that allow you to cavort at a hotel like the Ritz in Madrid?”
“Okay,” she answered. “That can be done.”
“Perfect,” McKinnon said.
Then Peter turned to her. “I thought you and I might have dinner tonight,” Chang said. “Get to know each other a little better. How does that sound?”
She looked him squarely in his sharp, dark eyes.
“Dangerous,” she answered. “But the answer is yes. I owe you something, don’t I?”
Peter leaned back in his chair. For the first time, he smiled broadly.
THIRTY-SEVEN
MARSEILLES, SEPTEMBER 10, LATE EVENING
Hassan Lazzari, a Turk by way of Sicily, sat nervously in a nearly deserted café on the grand port in Marseilles. He was nursing a coffee and was positioned carefully at a small table away from everyone else. He sat there like a large stone, his posture erect, his features fagged, his face unshaven for the last few days.
It was late in the evening, night to most people. Lazzari was looking over the lights of the harbor and the tourists walking by the piers. Far up on the hills, overlooking the harbor, stood the Chateau d’If where the Count of Monte Cristo had been imprisoned, at least in the famous novel, and long before a popular sandwich was named for him.
Well, Hassan Lazzari didn’t feel like having a sandwich and didn’t much feel like any more coffee either. But he did feel imprisoned, imprisoned by his nerves and a sense of impending disaster.
The coffee was lukewarm and he had lost interest in it. He was there to become rich, to accept a bag full of money, but so far nothing had happened. He started to slouch. Then he straightened up in his chair when he saw a Frenchman approach him and figured it was the man he was waiting for. He figured that, because the approaching stranger-with hands visible-was carrying a small tote bag and looking right at Lazzari.
The Frenchman approached the table. “Mind if I join you?” he asked. They spoke French.
“Not if you brought the money,” the Turk said.
The Frenchman indicated a small duffel bag next to him. “Would I be here without the money?” he asked.
“You might be,” the Turk said. “No way of knowing.”
The Frenchman smiled indulgently.
Lazzari leaned back and allowed his outer shirt to fall open. Under his left armpit there was a powerhouse of an automatic pistol. The Frenchman’s eyes fell onto it, then lifted back into the Turk’s eyes.
The message was clear. No nonsense. Nonsense would be dealt with quickly, efficiently, and brutally. That’s the message that Lazzari was sending.
The Frenchman put the bag on an empty seat. The Turk looked at it nervously, reached to open it, but flicked his eyes back and forth between the bag and the delivery person.
“You’re Jean-Claude?” the Turk asked.
“I’m Jean-Claude,” the Frenchman said.
“How do I know that?”
“You don’t. And why do you care, anyway? Your money is there. Count it if you like.”
“I’m not going to pile up twenty-thousand euros on a café table, you fool,” Lazzari said.
“Then we’ll go to a back room if you like. I know the management here. The evening man Fajit is a friend of mine.”
“No back rooms,” the Turk said. “No friends.”
As if to reassure his client, Jean-Claude cautiously pushed up his shirt sleeves and laid his hands on the table.
“What might I do to put you at ease?” Jean-Claude asked.
“You can keep quiet, to start with.”
Then, impulsively, the Turk sighed and leaned forward. He leaned so far forward that he lifted up slightly from his seat. Reaching out, he roughly shoved his hands all over Jean-Claude’s shoulders, ribs, and waist, frisking him thoroughly. He groped at Jean-Claude’s crotch, under it and around it, searching for any trace of a weapon.
The Frenchman kept still and did nothing to protest.
The Turk eased back down in his seat.
“Why would I come here to deceive you?” Jean-Claude said. “You give me too much credit. You’re the one who has outsmarted us and the one who will profit tonight. Count the money,” he said, nodding toward the bag. “Everything you asked for is there.”
The Turk pulled the canvas duffel back to him. Without pulling any money out, he kept Jean-Claude and the rest of the café in view as he quickly inventoried the money.
It looked as if it was all there. He pulled out a few banknotes at random and scrutinized them. He liked what he saw, which had a calming effect.
“It looks good,” he said. “All right. It looks good.” He closed the duffel and prepared to stand. He still didn’t like this setup. He didn’t like it at all and wanted to be out of there as quickly as possible.
He looked back at Jean-Claude.
“I will give you a few words of warning,” the Turk said. “I’ll tell you one time. I should be back in Italy by noon tomorrow. If I am not, keep in mind that I am Sicilian in addition to being Turkish. I have relatives and friends. If anything happens to me while I’m transporting this money, you personally will be hunted down within twenty-four hours by some of the most savage killers in Europe. Then you will be tortured with knifes. You will be left to die slowly in an unspeakable way that will make you wish that you had never been born. Is that clear?”