The Nostradamus File

CHAPTER THREE

Marcel Sarti sat on the terrace of his hillside villa on the outskirts of Marseille, savoring a pastis and watching a yacht under full sail glide across the sparkling blue waters of the Gulf of Lion. The boss of L' Union Corse was in a good mood. It was a beautiful day, one of those days in the south of France when everything seems possible and new. The licorice taste of the drink formed pleasant heat on his tongue.

He watched preparations for his daughter's sixteenth birthday taking place on the green lawn below. A large tent was up, the tables set, the caterers on the scene. The bar was ready. Marcel expected 200 guests. An invitation was more than an honor, it was an unspoken command. It was not wise to offend Marcel Sarti by refusing. Six of the mayors of the city's arondissments and several council members would be in attendance. The Chief of Police was expected. And of course the CEO of the Grand Port of Marseille would be there. Smooth operations at France's busiest port were essential to the flow of drugs that formed a cornerstone of Marcel Sarti's empire.

If there was one bothersome thought to spoil Sarti's day, it was his failure to secure the manuscript in Paris. Marcel didn't know who had hired him to get the book. The contract had come through an intermediary, an American he'd dealt with in the past.

The targets had turned out to be more than tourists, which complicated things. One of his contacts in the police had learned the woman was a former consultant with the American NSA and worked for one of the American intelligence services. So did the man she'd been with.

The last thing Sarti needed was to piss off NSA or the CIA. Retrieving the book was more trouble than it was worth. He'd cancelled the contract and wired the money back to the Swiss account, less a reasonable compensation for the loss of his men. He wanted nothing more to do with it. The American had been insulting when Sarti informed him of his decision, something only a fool would do with Marcel.

He finished his pastis and stood. After the party he would decide what needed to be done about the American.