“How much?”
Akil stepped closer to them. “He’s got to see the bike first.”
The black boy shrugged at the goateed kid, who shrugged back. Neither of them seemed to know what the big Egyptian American was talking about.
“Who told you about the bike?”
“Rafiq. He said it’s a great ride. Three-cylinder 885cc twelve-valve engine. Around 30,000 miles on it. Needs some work.”
“Rafiq?”
“Yeah, Rifa’a Suyuti. We call him Rafiq.”
“You mean the guy who lives out on the road to Toulon?” the goateed kid asked.
“Yeah. Tall. Wavy hair. Big smile.”
“Leave me a number. We’ll call you back.”
“When?”
“That depends.”
Akil scribbled down his cell-phone number and told the boys that his Canadian friend had cash and wanted the bike soon for a trip into Spain.
“We’ll call you,” the black kid said to their backs.
Outside, Crocker decided to visit the local prefecture of police, where the two men were shuttled from one official to the next, only to learn after an hour that the Marseille office had no record of a Rifa’a Suyuti living in their jurisdiction.
The two Americans were near the port, eating dinner and watching the sky turn shades of mustard and red, when Akil got a call from a man named Yasir Simon, who said he was the owner of the Triumph Legend. He offered to meet them at the club at nine.
That gave them a little more than an hour and a half.
Crocker said, “Tell him we might be a few minutes late.” His mind was already pushing ahead, anticipating contingencies and what they might need in terms of protection.
Akil said, “My instincts tell me we should expect trouble.”
“I think they’re right.”
Crocker used Akil’s cell phone to call the number that had been left in the glove compartment. “I’m going to need a bike rack for the car,” he said in English.
“Where are you located?” the female voice with a British accent asked on the other end.
“I’m in town near the old harbor.”
“How many bicycles are you planning to carry?”
“Two.”
“We’ll have someone meet you on the corner of Rue Lafayette and Rue Marcel Sembat, near the Gare St. Charles, in half an hour.”
“Thank you.”
Right on time, a dark blue Acura SUV pulled up to the curb.
Crocker walked up to the driver’s-side window, where the attractive North African woman sat behind the wheel.
“We meet again,” he said.
Her black eyes reflected the yellow light from the streetlamp. “Yes. The equipment you requested is in the boot.”
All business.
He transferred two black gym bags to the back of the Renault, which was parked half a block away. Then zipped them open to find two M11 pistols and two MP5 submachine guns with magazines and extra ammo. Also tear-gas canisters, flash bangs, concussion and smoke grenades.
“Nice rack,” Akil said from the passenger seat.
“We’re good to go.”
Crocker navigated the Renault through the loops of narrow hilly streets and arrived at Club Rosa ten minutes past the hour.
Yasir Simon hadn’t arrived yet, but a half-dozen other young men were gathered in the club drinking beer and discussing something they’d just heard on Al-Manar TV, the Hezbollah propaganda station. Crocker recognized the Arabic words for “Jews” and “Zionists.” Sparks of danger electrified the air.
“Where’s the bike?” Crocker asked.
“They said he’s coming,” Akil whispered back.
Crocker bought two Red Bulls from the kid behind the counter, then heard a terrific roar approaching in the alley. He and Akil went out to look. Three guys on bikes. One a Triumph Legend. Green with some chrome, nice-sounding pipes. Decent leather.
Back in Crocker’s youth, a green bike was considered bad luck, especially among Harley riders.
The guy selling it-Yasir Simon-had a silver ring through his nostril and a tattoo of a cobra on his forearm.
As Crocker drank the Red Bull, he went over the bike carefully, checking for oil leaks around the engine gaskets, transmission leaks, tires, paint, chrome. Then he said, “I’d like to take it for a ride.”
“How much?” Akil asked.
“Two thousand euros.”
Crocker shook his head. “I’ll give you thirteen hundred. Cash.”
“You’re American?”
“Canadian. But I want to ride it first.”
“Why not? Follow me.”
Crocker sensed something was up when all three of them came along, Yasir behind a tall, sinewy guy on a Kawasaki Ninja and the third hard-looking dude alone on an older BMW. All three looked like they’d been spending a lot of time in the gym.
They led him through dark narrow streets to a two-lane highway that dipped and curled along the coast.
That’s when Crocker pulled back the throttle that opened up the big engine. He tore into the mottled light, leaving the other bikes behind him, surprised that the guy on the Ninja didn’t try to keep up.
The raw wind from the Mediterranean slapped his face. Scents of lavender and rosemary mixed with diesel fumes and the smell of the sea. He took the turns hard and wove around trucks and cars east toward Toulon, watching the landscape zip past, feeling like he owned the road.
Reaching the turnoff to Cassis, Crocker pulled over and stopped. The other two bikes caught up, and he could tell from the expressions of the three men that they were pissed off.
“Great bike!” he exclaimed in French, feeling like a teenager again.
Yasir, the silver ring glinting in his nostril, looked surprised. “You’re a crazy driver. You really serious to buy it?”
“Fuck yeah. Tonight. You sign over the registration, I’ll give you the cash.”
“Très bien.”
As the seller translated the news into Arabic for his two companions, Crocker sized them up further. They were rough-all in their late teens, early twenties. Deeply suspicious of him and Akil. They’d come expecting trouble.
He figured he could take all three of them if he had to, as long as they weren’t armed.
Crocker said, “I want to show the bike to Rafiq first. You guys lead the way.”
“What?”
“He lives nearby, doesn’t he? So let’s go see him.”
“No!”
Yasir sneered, “Forget about Rafiq. He has nothing to do with this.”
“He’s the one who told me about the bike.”
He didn’t budge. “No. No, man. We’re going back to the club.” Then he walked away and pulled out his cell phone.
Crocker’s ploy hadn’t worked, so he pointed the bike west and cranked up the throttle. The exhilaration of the ride diminished as he tried to figure out what to do next. The person he wanted was Rafiq. These punks obviously knew who he was. Maybe if he could find a way to separate Yasir from the others and get him away from the club…
As he played out several scenarios in his head, the three bikes reentered Marseille and started winding up the hills past some old fortifications.
Crocker saw the light green Renault he and Akil had come in parked on the street before the alley-the same place they’d left it forty minutes earlier. But Akil wasn’t in the car or standing nearby. Nor was he among the dozen young men who stood in the alley outside the Club Rosa.
“Where’s my friend?” he asked the first kid he saw-a big guy with barbed wire tattooed across his biceps.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“A big Egyptian. Six feet two. Wearing a black T-shirt and chinos.”
“Haven’t seen him.”
Bullshit.
Crocker recognized the black kid with the shaved head from their first visit. “Where’s Akil?” he asked him.
“Who?”
“The guy I came with. My friend.”
“Don’t know.”
Then Yasir and his two buddies were in his face, demanding that he make good on the deal.