Midnight In Madrid

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?”

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 café 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.