“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 cafe 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 cafe 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?”
Jean-Claude again smiled tolerantly.
“You’ve made your point and you’ve made it very clearly,” Jean-Claude said. “I think of this as part of the cost of doing business. A tax, so to speak. I don’t wish any aggravation past this evening any more than you do.”
“You will not hear from us,” said the Turk who for the second time attempted to leave. But Jean-Claude held his hand, keeping him at the table.
The Turk’s other hand inched toward his weapon.
“There is no need for a firearm,” Jean-Claude said disdainfully. “But now I just need assurance from you. I need your word to me that this is the only ‘tax’ the people in my organization are going to need to pay to you. I’ve already removed the little ‘bugs’ that you were so conniving as to place in our shipment of merchandise. And I have had the entire shipment searched millimeter by millimeter to make sure there are no other little hidden presents for us. So actually, you would have difficulty locating us after our mission is complete. So let’s just be clear that neither will ever see the other again under any circumstances.”
“You have our word,” said the Turk.
“Then you have ours as well.”
Jean-Claude extended a hand. It was firm, strong, and dry. Their hands clasped.
“Travel wisely with the money,” Jean-Claude said.
The Turk gave a little snort in return.
“I have an accomplice with a rifle in a window across the street,” Lazzari said. “You will give me ten minutes to leave. If you move from this table, you’ll be gunned down like a rabbit. If you reach under your clothing to find a weapon I may have missed, you’ll be gunned down also. If you make any effort to come looking for me or my brother, you will also be killed. Understand?”
“I understand perfectly,” Jean-Claude answered. “I’m in fear of my life here. There is no way I would dare to do anything.”
He sat back down and smiled.
“That’s good. That’s good.” Lazzari said. Yet somehow, Jean-Claude was too calm. He hadn’t sounded convincing to his business associate.
Fretfully, Lazzari turned on his heels. He moved swiftly along the narrow passageway between cafe tables. He hit the sidewalk, his pace accelerating. Jean-Claude watched him go, doing a slow count of seconds as the Turk disappeared with a bag of money.
THIRTY-EIGHT
MADRID, SEPTEMBER 10, LATE EVENING
They sat at a table that evening, Alex and Peter Chang, at a small restaurant in the Bailen amidst remnants of Moorish Madrid and in the shadow of the grand Basilica de San Francisco. They were in a small room with burnt-ochre walls and oak paneling, a quiet chamber behind a noisy brass tapas bar. They sat in a booth in the back that afforded both of them cover, as well as a view of both the entrance and the exit.
In Spanish, with an affable young waiter, they ordered a dinner of tuna steaks in soy and ginger with a bottle of Rioja. When the waiter departed, Alex switched the conversation back to English.
“You speak Spanish with a very slight accent,” she said, “but your English is perfect. Better than most native speakers, I’d say,” she said. “And what there is of an accent almost sounds British, but with a few American inflections thrown in. How did that happen?”
“I was born in Hong Kong and grew up there,” he said. “I went to British schools on the island and then later in England when I was older. My mother was a teacher, my father owned a shipping company. Only five ships, but papa kept them busy.”
“Only five, huh?” she said. “That’s five more than most people.”
“Then, when I was in my early twenties, I spent a few years in New York.”
“Doing what? Working?”
“Political studies. Columbia University. New York City,” Peter Chang said. “I was a teaching fellow and earned my master’s degree. I lived in New York for five years. I loved the place. Broadway theater. The smut of Times Square. Two ballparks and the dirty pretzels from the vendor who was always outside the School of International Relations on 110th Street. What a city!”
He finally grinned. There was a chilliness to Peter, she noted. She had to push hard to get past a cautious exterior. She wondered what lurked beneath, passion or poison.
“As you know, Hong Kong was a crown colony of the United Kingdom when I was growing up,” he continued. “My family remained even after the transfer of the island’s sovereignty to the People’s Republic of China in 1997. I went back, horrified that Peking now controlled the island. But it wasn’t as bad as I’d guessed. One thing led to another, and the new government offered me a very comfortable career.”
“Impressive resume,” she said.
“You flatter me,” he said.
“But hardly as impressive as your abilities with a pistol,” she said. “Or should I say,
“I was taken aside, given special treatment, special training. Same as yourself.”
The waiter arrived with the bottle of Rioja and the conversation jumped back to Spanish. Peter did the tasting, gave his approval, then asked for the wine to be decanted so it could air. The dialogue between Alex and Peter
