Vladlen Zelenko lived in a world that was black and white: everything around him, from people to objects, existed either to help him or hurt him. He had allies and he had enemies. People were meant to be used, and he allowed himself to be used by others if it furthered his ability to indulge his vices. He liked strong drinks and weak women, and he found plenty of both in Nice. This was a Mediterranean paradise, but more than that—it was his playground.
When he wasn’t called to his boss’s villa high up on Mont Boron, at least.
Yellow lights spotted the darkness beneath the hill, one by one, until the contours of the city could be seen again, the city streets lit up like golden rivers. The Mediterranean to the south was a black canvas that went on forever, like space. Looking out from a private courtyard high on the side of Mont Boron was like standing at the edge of the universe.
Or the underworld.
Zelenko made a half-assed attempt to stub out his cigarette on the low stone wall of his boss’ courtyard. When he flicked the butt out into the abyss, a trail of embers followed behind it like a comet.
“Come.”
His boss, Marat Solonik, was a black silhouette against the light of the doorway, tall and thin like a skeleton in a ten-thousand-dollar Brioni suit. Marat was a smart businessman and a fair boss, but he was also a shrewd criminal—which meant that Zelenko had to be careful about his position as Marat's lieutenant, just as Marat had to be careful about who he let close to him. They were both Russian, after all, and this was the natural order of things.
“This is him.”
Once inside, Zelenko pulled up an image on a tablet and slid it across an expensive wooden table. He spoke in Russian, the mother tongue.
Marat Solonik rubbed long fingers across the stubble at the side of his head.
“Look at the security feed from food vendor across street from our delivery office,” Zelenko said. “Man in footage is American. Pays in cash. Likes fried calamari. Been there every day for week.”
Zelenko reached over and swiped the screen.
“Here. Again. And here. Same seat. Always where he can see street.”
Another image appeared.
“Here is our van leaving alley. Now back to him. And here. Phone call.”
Marat studied the screen.
“I’m not convinced.”
Zelenko took the tablet back, swiped again, and handed it over.
“Traffic camera at port. Same man.”
“So?”
“I showed footage to our man at docks. Same American with blonde woman snooping earlier.”
Marat focused on the screen.
“Do we know who she is?”
“No. She hasn’t come back.”
A pause.
Zelenko pressed on. “But man has been spying on our delivery office.”
“My office.”
“Pardonnez-moi, Patron,” Zelenko said, switching to French as he spread his hands. Then, back to Russian, “But this is not coincidence.”
“No, it isn’t,” Marat said through steepled fingers. “So. Who is he?”
“Cal MacIntyre. Florida.”
Marat gave a short laugh. "That was quick."
“Facebook.”
Marat leaned back in his chair. "Clever, Zelenko. Cal MacIntyre . . . Tell me.”
“Retired schoolteacher.”
Marat laughed and brushed away the lie.
“And one more thing," Zelenko said. He was unsure about sharing this next part because it was unconfirmed, but Marat demanded to be kept fully aware at all times. “He’s not alone.”
Silence settled in the room.
Marat’s jaw visibly tightened.
“So. There are more.”
“It's not clear.”
Marat exhaled slowly.
“I don’t want him here. Any of them.”
A sudden gust of wind rattled the French doors.
“I’ll handle it,” Zelenko said.
Marat nodded.
“Tell the crew," Marat ordered. "If Cal MacIntyre appears again, he should understand we see him.”
“And if he doesn’t take the hint?”
Marat’s expression didn’t change.
“Then we teach him.”
“Swimming lesson?”
Marat smiled cruelly. "Take him out deep. Home before sunset."