“Sure,” she said. “But you haven’t told me how this connects with
McKinnon raised an eyebrow and looked at Chang. “Peter?” he said.
“Alex,” Chang said, “if you don’t mind, Yuri Federov’s name came up when I did some business in Switzerland. The business was with a gentleman who most likely brokered the sale of the bird. A Colonel Tissot. And I use the term ‘gentleman’ very loosely.”
“And what was said?” she asked. “Between you and Tissot?”
“There was nothing specific,” Chang said. “Nothing damning, no particular bit of business,” Peter answered. “But from what I learned from Monsieur Tissot, it was as if Federov was someone that needed to be worked around. Maybe he was not involved in the case itself, but the case was in his orbit, his underworld hegemony.”
“Can you show me the reference?” Alex asked.
McKinnon picked it up from there. “Who needs a reference? Whether Federov is alive or not, his corporations out of Odessa still have financial interests in shipping all over the Black Sea and the Mediterranean. That’s enough right there to question a hood like that. You know what shipping is like in those stretches of water: you show me a boat, I’ll show you smugglers.”
“Not to mention the fact that ships of that nature would be excellent conduits for any sort of contraband,” Chang added. “From weapons to stolen art objects.”
“So,” McKinnon continued, “Federov, your Ukrainian bottom pincher, might be able to tell us something.” McKinnon held a long pause. “If only we had someone who can find him.”
“He’s Russian, by the way,” she said.
“Okay, your
“
“Not exactly,” McKinnon answered. “We want him to find you.
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 cafe 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.
