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.
The players were on the field warming up. He spotted Alexei Ren standing at midfield, kicking a ball back and forth with a few players. Despite the heat, he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt buttoned at the collar.
The scoreboard ticked down the time until kickoff. Ren retreated to the sideline. The game began and still he stood with his players. Coluzzi kept his eyes on the Russian, worried he’d remain on the field the entire game. At five minutes, the visiting team scored. Ren hung his head in dismay and walked into the stadium, Coluzzi assumed to the elevator that would take him to his luxury box.
Coluzzi looked to his right, where an escalator took ticket holders to the club level and to Ren’s luxury box. Two security guards examined tickets and waved a metal detector over each guest’s torso. A pair of Marseille policemen stood nearby, checking IDs. Jojo’s ticket was good enough to get him into the stadium, but that was it.
Coluzzi continued down the concourse, stopping to buy a beer. Hand in his pocket, he sipped the beer, all the while examining the comings and goings of the stadium personnel. He’d spent his life studying an organization’s security arrangements. Be it an armored car company, a bank, or a jewelry store, all had one thing in common. A schedule.
By now, the concourse was more or less empty. He was able to observe the stadium staff at work. Passing the next escalator he noted that with the game under way, security to the luxury level had slackened. Only one guard and one policeman remained in place. Still, that was enough. The escalator was out of the question.
Farther along, he dumped his beer and purchased a frozen piña colada. The drink was perfect cover, he decided. What kind of a man in his profession drank a sweet icy drink with a maraschino cherry on top? He prayed he didn’t run into someone he knew. Some things you couldn’t explain.
A team of two workers dressed in canary-yellow shorts and shirts stopped at an elevator a few steps past the escalator. Sipping from his curlicue straw, he watched as they summoned the elevator, then used a key to unlock the door when it arrived. Coluzzi stayed in position. Ten minutes later, the two returned, carrying several trash bags. They crossed the concourse to an unmarked door, entered, deposited the trash, and returned to continue their rounds.
After the third pickup, he followed them to the trash room. He waited until they were inside, then opened the door and entered, stumbling purposely.
“Excuse me, sir,” one of them said, dark-skinned, maybe twenty-five, Algerian or Libyan. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for the men’s room,” said Coluzzi, feigning drunkenness. “I can’t wait another second.”
The workers exchanged a look, then approached him. “This is not the men’s room, sir.”
“Isn’t it?” Coluzzi threw the frozen drink into the dark-skinned worker’s face, then turned and punched his colleague, two knuckles to the cheek with brio. The man fell to the ground, grabbing at his busted face. The Algerian recoiled, wiping the drink from his face. Coluzzi slugged him in the stomach. The man doubled over. Coluzzi delivered a blow to his exposed neck. Second man down.
The other man tried to get to his feet. Coluzzi took a length of hair in his fist and slammed his forehead against the concrete floor. Once. Twice. Again and again until the man went limp.
Standing, Coluzzi kicked the Algerian in the face and ribs until he was sure the man was incapacitated. Then he kicked him some more because he hated immigrants.
He found the key to the elevator and yanked it free from the fob.
A minute later he was standing at the work elevator below Alexei Ren’s luxury box. And a minute after that he was alone in the box’s service kitchen. He passed through a door and found himself in a large air-conditioned lounge with a serve-yourself bar, a counter piled high with sandwiches, a popcorn machine, and a lovely young blonde pouring champagne.
He asked for a flute, and when he received it, there was Alexei Ren, walking past him. A pretty Asian woman followed him, an iPad clutched in one hand.
The box was nearly empty and no one seemed to pay any attention to the new arrival. Coluzzi watched the game, speaking to no one. A few minutes later the Asian woman returned. He approached her, a smile on his face.
“Yes?”
“I’m an old friend of Mr. Ren’s. Could you ask him if he has a minute?”
The woman regarded him askance. “Your name?”
“Jojo.”
“Jojo what?”
“Just Jojo. He’ll know me.”
“Mr. Ren will see you now.”
The Asian woman led the way to a private suite and showed Coluzzi in. The room was empty, a magnum of Dom Pérignon on ice next to a tureen of caviar.
Coluzzi paced the room, unsure of how to broach the reason for his urgent appointment. It would be the truth. There was simply no way around it.
Ten minutes passed. Finally, the door opened. Alexei Ren entered, followed by two bodyguards. Ren eyed him, then whispered something to the bodyguards. The men retreated to a far corner. Ren approached him. “You’re not Jojo Matta. Actually, how the hell did you get in here?”
Coluzzi introduced himself, saying he was an old friend of Jojo’s and that he’d grown up in the area. He didn’t need to say more.
“I’m no longer in that line of work,” said Ren.
Coluzzi said nothing, meeting his gaze, his expression calling bullshit on him.
Ren came closer. “Why shouldn’t I have you thrown out?”
“That might be a mistake you’d come to regret.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Absolutely not. Just a missed opportunity. It’s not often a man is given the chance to make a difference to his country.”
“And you’re offering me such a chance?” Ren regarded the possibility as humorous. “I didn’t realize I was in the company of a patriot.”
“Or a chance to get even,” said Coluzzi. “I understand your departure from Russia wasn’t voluntary.”
“I like to say I received the same treatment as Lenin…only in reverse. I was shipped out of my country like a plague bacillus.”
Coluzzi smiled wanly. He had no idea what Ren was talking about. “You must miss home.”
Ren checked his watch. “The second half is about to begin, Mr. Coluzzi.”
“Before you said I was a patriot. Are you one as well?”
“I am a businessman.”
“And if you were given the chance to rid your homeland of a traitor, would you take it?”
Ren came closer. All traces of a smile had vanished and Coluzzi noticed the faintly bloodshot eyes, the spidery veins in his cheeks, the sour breath smelling of vodka. “What do you want?” asked Ren.
“Look at this.” Coluzzi held up his phone, displaying a series of pictures of the letter, the envelope, and the stationery found in the prince’s briefcase. “Everything you see is authentic. I have it in my possession. It’s my intention to give it to the man for whom it was intended.”
“Who is that?”
“Vassily Borodin. Director of the SVR.”
“I know who Vassily Borodin is.” Ren snatched the phone from Coluzzi’s hand and examined the pictures. “If this is authentic—and I have no reason to believe it is—how did you get your hands on it?” He handed Coluzzi back the phone. “Excuse me, but I must be going.”
Coluzzi grabbed his arm. “Wait.”
Ren stopped and faced him, eyes wide. The bodyguards, who had been keeping a distance, closed in.
Coluzzi released Ren’s arm. “You saw what happened in Paris. I found this in the prince’s briefcase along with an email indicating that he was working on behalf of Borodin.”
Ren angled his head, a new appreciation in his eyes. “It was you who took down the convoy in Paris?”
Coluzzi nodded. He had no intention of mentioning the American spy who’d put him on to it. He’d already let slip too much information.
“Chapeau,” said Ren, meaning “well done.” He ran a hand over his beard before asking to see the pictures once again. “I’ll need to examine the letter.”
“It doesn’t look any different than in the picture.”
“You don’t trust me?”
Coluzzi offered no response.
“And you believe Borodin will pay you?”
“I believe he had plans to use the letter to his advantage.”
Ren handed back the phone. “Not interested.”
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.”