The First Casualty (12 page)

29

Gare de Marseille-Saint-Charles

Marseille, France

Three Hours, Twenty Minutes Later

Constructed in 1848, the Marseille train station is U-shaped, built around a rooftop canopy. It is perched on a plateau and reached by an outdoor grand staircase lined with African and Mideastern statuary reflecting the station's earlier significance as a waypoint to either destination. It is also the southern terminal of the TGV bullet train's line from Paris on which it is capable of exceeding 540 kilometers per hour.

At that speed, it is unnecessary to suffer the inconveniences of air travel.

With new sutures in his calf, Jason's leg felt stiff. He limped slowly down the stairs. At the bottom, he chose a cab at random, a Mercedes, and began the southern ride into the city.

The driver's skin was black, the color of an eight ball, toned, no doubt, by the French West African, Cameroonian, or Senegalese sun. Marseille had long been home to immigrants from former French colonies seeking jobs that did not exist under the new regimes of their homelands. Jason could see the man's eyes checking him out him in the rearview mirror.

“Where to, monsieur?”

“Perhaps you know of a man called Le Couteau?”

The eyes were studying him closely. “The knife? Marseille is large, monsieur. There are many people who may have such a . . . a
nom de guerre
.”

The voice was a pleasant baritone mix of deep African melody and French accent.

Jason reached into his pocket and produced a wad of euro. Leaning forward, he dropped them on the front passenger seat. “I would appreciate you searching for one of them.”

The driver cut an eye from the road to appraise the amount. “Perhaps this ‘Knife' does not wish to see you.”

“Perhaps,” Jason agreed amiably. “But if you tell people Jason Peters is looking for him, he might.”

They were passing l'Hôtel du Département, the local government headquarters—Big Blue, as it was known locally—bright blue structures that reminded Jason of a child's garish toy on stilts. The French seemed to prefer a modern aesthetic in their architecture, no matter how ugly—a passion that apparently exceeded national pride; the building had been designed not by a Frenchman, but a Brit, Will Alsop.

They drove in silence until they turned off the crowded boulevard La Canebière. Passing several narrow stepped streets, the Mercedes started down a steep hill to the Old Harbor, presided over by the huge gilded virgin atop the 151-foot belfry of the neo-Byzantine basilica of Notre-Dame de la Garde. The church sat on its hill overlooking a collection of private motor yachts, fishing craft, and sailboats like a hen towering above her chicks.

Jason had a perfect view of the harbor, long known as a center of smuggling and corruption. It was the crossroads where raw paste of Afghan poppy sap would be refined into powder and cut with flour, baby laxative, or, frequently, insecticides or other toxins before moving over the hill to the Vieux-Port, the main commercial harbor, where it would be hidden aboard ships of all flags bound for North America and its insatiable craving for heroin.

Narcotics was only one illicit item moving through Marseille. It had long been the point of disembarkation for illegal immigrants from Africa just across the Mediterranean as well as from the Near and Far East. Even though the European Common Market had put an end to the traditional smuggling of tobacco and alcohol products by removing the tariffs, the proscribed and forbidden was still available.

The visible business of the harbor was fishing. Nets hung like moss from masts as small trawlers wallowed in a gentle tide. Men climbed over some of the vessels, scraping, painting, or adjusting lines. Other craft were deserted, their crews either finishing the day in any of a number of seamen's taverns lining the quay or busy at the open-air market hawking the morning's catch.

The Mercedes rumbled over cobblestones to the Quai de Rive Neuve, a line of four- and five-story buildings with plain stucco or cement facades and the red tile roofs common to the south of France. Each of the ground floors was occupied by shops—a bakery, a greengrocer, a butcher, a tobacconist. Even though the car windows were rolled up, Jason could smell a mixture of salt water, freshly baked bread, slightly spoiled vegetables, and tobacco smoke. Between each shop was at least one, and perhaps several, café, brasserie, or bar. Outside the latter, men sat at tables littered with overflowing ashtrays, wine and beer bottles, or small glasses holding some more potent drinks. They were hard-looking men wearing watch caps and pea jackets against the chill of the sea breeze, men of every color who stared unabashedly at the sleek Mercedes.

The car stopped in front of one of the more disreputable-looking bistros. Refuse from the tables had simply been mounded at the curb rather than removed. From open second-story windows, white curtains fluttered like welcoming arms. Through one, Jason could glimpse the top of a bedstead, through another a pine armoire. As is common in Europe, the proprietor no doubt lived above his business.

Closer scrutiny revealed paint was only a distant memory to the door and window frames. A wooden fish hung over the door with some of its gilt remaining, along with the weathered words
le poisson­ d'or
,
“the Golden Fish.” Without a word, the driver got out of the Mercedes and went in. Several tables of men followed his progress with eyes barely showing above glasses of drink. Jason noted most of the clientele were not the stubble-bearded fishermen he had seen patronizing the other establishments. This one had a predominance of Africans, Asians, and various racial blends too subtle to identify. One thing they all had in common: the cold stares at Jason.

The driver returned. Behind him was a black man whose shaved scalp shone so brightly Jason suspected he polished it. A faded blue denim shirt stretched tightly across broad shoulders and chest. His nose was flat, more so on one side than the other, as though it had been smashed more than once. A pink scar stitched its way from right eyebrow to left cheek. His walk could be mistaken for a swagger instead of the limp Jason knew it was, a swaying like a ship under sail that seemed to emphasize his 250 plus pounds, weight that included little fat.

His face had the look of a scowl permanently frozen in place, a grimace that metamorphosed into a smile the second he recognized Jason in the back of the car.

He almost ripped the car's door from its hinges in his eagerness to open it. “I greet you, Jason Peters! Have you have finally come to visit your old friend?”

Jason felt himself snatched from his seat and dragged onto the curb where he feared his back would snap under the pressure of the hug he was given amid shouts of glee in English, French, and various African dialects.

Jason managed to wiggle free, laughing. “I greet you, too, Emphani! You're looking fine, ugly as ever.”

“You have won a beauty contest since last I saw you? Come, let us sit at a table and share a bottle of spirits I have made myself and the very best fish soup in all of France.”

Jason remembered too well the fiery, brain-numbing liquor Emphani distilled from fruit. His head ached every time he thought about it. “Make that a beer or wine, if you don't mind.”

The fish soup was another matter. Thinner than the bouillabaisse, seafood stew popular here, the soup used the stock of the rouget, a small, red fish found only in the warm waters of the coast of southern France. Thickened with toasted bread and mayonnaise-like sauce, it was a meal in itself.

Jason literally felt his mouth water. It had been since . . . since last night that he had even been close to food. Was it really last night, not an evening a week ago? Jason paid the cab driver and retrieved his single bag before sitting at a table. Moments later, a fragrant bowl of reddish liquid appeared before him. Emphani sat across from him, a sweating bottle of white Burgundy in one hand, two glasses in the other. Wordlessly, he poured a little into one, stuck in his finger, and flipped away a droplet.

“The Prophet, peace be upon him, tells his people not to drink a drop of wine,” he explained.

Jason grinned, remembering the ritual. “And that is the drop you will not drink.”

Emphani was filling Jason's glass. “Just so. Now, tell me of yourself, what you are doing, how you have been. Have you taken another wife? Has Allah blessed you yet with sons?”

In the Moslem custom, the meal was accompanied by small talk, news exchanged by men who had not seen each other in a long time. Jason spoke and listened, recalling other meals, some neither as pleasant or leisurely.

Emphani had served in the French Foreign Legion, stationed at their headquarters in Calvi, Corsica, one of the few “foreign” places France still controlled since the independence of her African colonies. In an unusual display of international cooperation, the French government had allowed Jason's Delta Force team to train along the nearby, and largely uninhabited, cliffs of Cap Corse for two weeks. Emphani had captained a squad of legionaries who had been attacked at dinner one night by an overpowering force of Corsica's own brand of terrorists, the Italian-speaking separatists who had been waging their battle since Louis XV bought the island from Genoa in 1769. The ensuing fight had produced both Emphani's scar and his nickname after he killed a man using only his table knife.

Hearing the ruckus, the nearby encampment of Delta Force men had joined the beleaguered French just in time to turn what could have been a massacre into a victory.

Jason and Emphani had crossed paths only twice since then: Once when the latter had been included in a complement of legionaries sent to quash a coup in a former African colony where Delta Force was already, if unofficially, engaged, and once when Emphani and his wife had appeared in Washington on a tour of America. Laurin had taken an instant liking to both of them and they, in turn, had sent flowers to her memorial service after 9/11.

From irregular e-mails, Jason knew Emphani had bought the bistro with his retirement income. From the looks of the place, it was fairly clear the business did not provide a living even here, where life was substantially less expensive than in, say, Paris. If forced to guess, Jason would have hazarded that, like so many citizens of Marseille, his friend was engaged in other, if not quite so legal, enterprises. Arms smuggling came to mind, as did an occasional stint as a mercenary. It would be impolite, of course, to be the first to mention such activities.

Emphani watched Jason scrape his bowl clean. “The hunger of my friend Jason is that of one who has not eaten in a long time. The soup pot may have a few more drops in it, should you desire.”

Jason drained the dregs of his glass. “Thanks, but the hospitality of my friend Emphani has been more than sufficient.”

He watched Emphani produce a blue box of Gitanes and proffer it.

“No thanks.”

Emphani struck a wooden match on the sole of his shoe and lit his cigarette. “You still do not have the tobacco habit, I see.”

Jason was looking at a
no smoking
sign. The government required no smoking areas upon request of patrons. “I have enough of the others.”

Emphani got up and turned the sign to the wall before returning to the table. “You have come to see me for more than my excellent fish soup, I think.”

“You mean your
wife's
excellent fish soup and, yes, I have.”

“Tell me.”

Jason did.

When he had finished, Emphani lit another Gitanes. “You will contact each of the men you will need? It sounds as though you do not have the time.”

“I don't,” Jason admitted. “But I wanted to speak to you personally.”

Emphani stared at the tip of his cigarette. “Because I am Moslem, you fear I will not fight these heaps of camel dung?”

“Mainly because you speak Arabic. But, yeah, the thought entered my mind.”

Emphani spat. “Moustaph! May the womb of the bitch dog that bore him be cursed! He and his fellows disgrace the name of the Prophet, may it always be honored! Would you not fight fellow Christians such as the cowardly jackals that bombed the building in your Oklahoma City? Or the son of a dog that set a bomb at your Olympics?”

“Just asking.”

“Moustaph, Bin Laden, Al Qaeda leadership! Like the cowards they are, or were, they hide while they bid others to die attempting to kill women and children. No true believer in the Prophet, may glory be upon him, would do such things. We leave mass slaughter to those of your religion such as Hitler.”

Jason was unsure how much of a Christian the late German dictator had been, but he did not pursue the matter. “So, you'll be with me?”

Emphani shrugged. “If the pay is good enough and there is, er, action as you call it. I grow bored as well as old here.” He smiled. “Besides, I will add diversion to your plan. You Americans love to mix many different races to your enterprises, your schools, and your government. Sometimes you do so even if it means the better-equipped man is not included. I am both black and Moslem. Diversion.”

“Diversity?” Jason asked. “You may add diversity, but what I'm interested in is that you're the best man with a knife or garrote I know.”

Before Emphani could answer, a young girl came out of the building. She was toffee-colored, a beautiful blend of Emphani's ebony skin and the whiteness of his wife. Her eyes were a deep brown, evenly set in a round face that was split by a smile. Like most young European women, she wore skin-tight jeans that displayed her figure to advantage. She said something in a tongue Jason did not understand.

Emphani rose to embrace her. “The flower of my garden, the sun of my sky, my daughter, Margot.”

Jason stood and nodded. “A pleasure.”

Recognizing the men were speaking English, Margot switched to that language. “Mother says if you want dinner for the customers tonight, you need to stop sitting around drinking and go to the market.”