Scorpion Betrayal (27 page)

“He wishes,” Najla said.

“
Alors
…” the Frenchman said, looking at Najla.

“About the
Zaina,
Monsieur le Directeur? I understood she was due to be in Marseilles yesterday but never arrived. Where is she?” Scorpion asked.

Bartini checked his computer for a moment. “She's on her way. She made an unscheduled stop in Genoa. She's due to berth at 2245 hours tonight. If you wish, I can arrange a pass.”

“Why did the ship go to Genoa?”

“There was a death on the
Zaina,”
he said, looking at the computer screen. “The
capitaine.”

“The captain. Isn't that unusual?”

“Yes, but people die at sea. It happens.” Bartini shrugged.

“Is there any evidence of foul play?”

“I have no idea. One can contact the Italian authorities.”

“Why couldn't they unload the body in Marseilles?”

“I do not know, monsieur. Hmm,
c'est intéressant,”
he said, peering at the screen.

“What is?”

“One sees that they unloaded three TEU containers from the ship in Genoa.”

“Unusual because the stop was unscheduled?”

“To unload such a small number of containers is unusual,” Bartini said.

“Any idea what the cargo was?”

“One does not know, monsieur. For such matters you must contact the freight forwarders. In any case, the
Zaina
will be here in…” He checked his watch. “… seven hours, and you can talk to the ship's
officiers
yourself. And with that…” He stood up to let them know it was time to leave.
“Bien sur,”
he said to Najla. “You, mademoiselle, are welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

“One is tempted, monsieur. There's something about Frenchmen,” Najla said as she and Scorpion stood.

“What about the
Donetsk?
Where is she?” Scorpion asked.

Bartini tapped on the keyboard and checked his computer screen.

“At the moment, the Suez Canal. She'll be here in two and a half days. Do you want the pass?” he asked.

“If you please,” Scorpion said, and waited till Bartini scribbled something on a pad and handed it to him.

As they left, he said: “If you come again, bring your
jolie amie.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Najla said, extending her hand for Bartini to kiss, which he did.

They took a taxi outside the port gate to the Corniche Kennedy to check into a hotel for the night.

“A single room?” Najla said as Scorpion handed a credit card to the front desk clerk.

“After Amsterdam, I didn't think it was an issue,” he said.

“Are you going to tie me up again?”

At that, the desk clerk glanced up at them, a smirk on his face.

“Only if you want me to,” he said, signing the check-in slip. He sent her up to the room to freshen up while he intended to go to the hotel's business center to log on to the Internet.

“Suppose I go away again?” she said.

“You won't.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because you're watching me as much as I'm watching you,” he said, walking away.

Scorpion got on the Internet at the business center, but there was little new from Langley. CIA and NSA cryptographers were using the al Jabbar lead as a key to crack the code and said they should have something for him soon. They were investigating the cover companies and the Swiss drug company he had sent them, but despite the pressure from Washington, the Luxembourg authorities as well as the Swiss, as expected, were dragging their heels. Peters had been recalled from Amsterdam. For the time being only the security guard was listed as missing from the Utrecht mosque, and Accounting was balking at paying for Anika, the Amsterdam call girl, as “Miscellaneous Operational Expenses.” He logged out with the feeling that Langley was just wasting his time. Rabinowich still hadn't told him the one thing he needed to know: who the Palestinian was, or at least something that would help identify him.

He bought a new cell phone in the hotel lobby shop and made a call to an ex-DGSE agent, Didier Zardane, whom he had worked with on the Paris piece of the Saudi coup operation, and who, he'd heard, was semiretired to a
mas
he was renovating near Aix-en-Provence. Didier picked up the call on the first ring and expressed no surprise at hearing from a Monsieur McDonald he had never met. They arranged to meet over dinner in Marseilles at a restaurant Didier suggested. It was near the Cours Julien, which Didier called by its local name, the Cours Ju.

The restaurant by the Cours Ju was small and dark and smelled wonderfully of garlic and bouillabaisse. It was off the square, in the artsy quarter crowded with bars and cafés, south of the Canebière, Marseilles's main street. Scorpion, as was usual, was early. He sat with Najla over drinks of pastis. While they waited, he picked out three ways to exit the restaurant in an emergency and was confident there were no other agents staking them out, although the middle-aged Corsican whose glance had fallen on him and Najla and moved away as soon as he saw Scorpion was aware of him, was almost certainly of the milieu, as the underworld was known in Marseilles.

Didier came in, spotted Scorpion and immediately came over and without preamble sat at their table. He was tall, thin, with graying, wavy hair, wearing an Armani black leather jacket. In a flowered shirt, he could have passed for the man in the Tommy Bahama ads. Scorpion remembered him as the one who had fingered Gerard as an FSB double agent.

“Qui est-elle?”
Didier said, meaning Najla.

“We're not sure. I'm holding her close,” Scorpion replied in French.

“She could be opposition?”

He shrugged. “Langley says no, but one never knows.”

“You could terminate the
chatte,”
Didier said, deliberately using the vulgarity. “Or have you grown
sentimental
?”

“Am I part of this conversation?” Najla asked in English.

“Very much so, mademoiselle,” Didier said.

“For smuggling arms, drugs, and such, who is running things at Marseille Fos?” Scorpion asked in English.

“La CGT,” Didier said, pronouncing it “say-jay-tay.” Scorpion chuckled at the joke. The Confederation Generale du Travail was the national union that represented the dockworkers.

“Pas mal,”
Scorpion said. “They must miss you in Paris.”

“Paris can
va te faire foutre,”
Didier replied, indicating what Paris could do to themselves. “They're all like Americans now. All they know are computers and stupidity.”

“Back to my question, who in the milieu could get it through the port? Is it still les Corses?” meaning the Corsican mafia.

“You know la Brise de Mer? The Sea Breeze,” Didier translated for Najla.

“Sounds like the name of a boat,” she said.

“It's the name of a bar in Bastia in Corsica,” Didier explained. “It's where the gang started.”

“Who's the
vrai monsieur
?” Scorpion asked, using the Corsican slang for a gang boss.

“Cargiaca. Albertini Cargiaca is the
paceri,”
Didier whispered, motioning them closer. “As the title indicates, the one who can enforce the peace. What is this about?”

“Suppose I wanted to move something big through the port. Something
très difficile, très dangereux.
Could la Brise de Mer do it.”

“Sure. But as you say, it is
très difficile.
The
douanes
of Marseille Fos are good.”

“What about Genoa?”

Didier smiled. “Much easier. The Camorra di Napoli run the Genoa docks.”

“I'm sorry you can't stay for dinner,” Scorpion said, sliding an envelope stuffed with a thousand in hundred euro notes under a napkin that he pushed toward Didier, who pocketed it and stood up.

“Bon appetit.
They make the true bouillabaisse here. You should try it,” Didier said. He was about to leave when he stopped and added in French, “What about your
petite amie?
For a fee, I'll take care of it.”

“It's good to see you again,
mon vieux copain,”
Scorpion said, and watched him go. As soon as Didier left the restaurant, Scorpion got up and grabbed a waiter, whispered something to him and slipped him some money. He came back and sat down again.

“What was that about?” Najla said.

“Just being careful. In our business, it's important. But of course you know that.” He smiled. “Shall we try the bouillabaisse?” he said, signaling to the waiter.

As promised, the bouillabaisse was very good. It was done Marseilles style, with the fish and shellfish presented on a separate platter from the broth, which was served in a bowl with floating slices of baguette spread with rouille.

“This ship you asked him about—where's it from?”

“Ukraine. How's the bouillabaisse?”

“Delicious, and you're changing the subject. What's your interest in this Ukrainian ship?”

“Did you find it curious about the captain dying?”

“I was wondering about that too. You think someone killed him? Why?”

“Maybe he didn't do what they wanted. Or maybe he demanded more money than they wanted to pay.”

“Maybe someone wanted to go to Genoa, where it would be easier to get something dangerous through customs. Something you could ship in three containers. That good-looking Frenchman at the port thought that was very odd.”

“You just like him because he kissed your hand.”

“With his looks, he didn't have to. You could learn from him. It'd be interesting to see the autopsy report on that captain, wouldn't it?”

“Very.”

She put down her fork and looked at him. “You're a kind of policeman, aren't you?”

“No, not a policeman.”

“Or a CIA spy,” she said. “‘The Spy Who Loved Me.' Except you don't, do you? Love me.”

“That wouldn't be a good idea, would it?” he said.

“Because you don't know if I'm on your side, whichever side that is?”

“We need to finish up,” he said, putting his napkin on the table.

“Are we going to Genoa?” she asked, not looking at him.

“We'll see,” he said, getting up and speaking for a moment with the waiter he had spoken to earlier. He came back, tossed some money on the table, and grabbed Najla's hand.

“Come on. We have to go,” he said.

“What is it?” she asked, getting up.

“Didier. I had the waiter check outside from time to time while we were eating. He's sitting in a car down the street.”

“What does he want?”

“He smells money. He's decided to try to cut himself in,” Scorpion said, guiding her toward the back of the restaurant. As they walked into the narrow kitchen with three workers talking and noisily handling pots, a man in a soiled white apron shouted at them:

“Attention, monsieur! Il est interdit!
You may not come back here.”

Scorpion handed him a twenty euro note, and pulling Najla after him, was headed for the back door when he paused for a moment in front of a small TV mounted on a shelf. A chic well-tanned woman was broadcasting the
Dix-neuf—Vingt Journal Télévisé nightly
news.

“I thought you wanted to go,” Najla said.

“Wait a minute,” he said, and then the woman on TV said something that stopped him cold. Suddenly all the loose ends came together and he knew exactly where the Palestinian intended to strike and when.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Marseilles, France

H
e shouldn't have gone back to the hotel. He hadn't wanted to, but Najla insisted in the taxi after they'd gotten away from the restaurant.