Sitting a bread roll’s throw away from the imitation of the statue of David in the city plaza, Dulac recognized the heavyset man who in his prime had often been mistaken for Antonio Banderas. The Venezuelan crossed the Piazza Della Signoria and approached the small café and restaurant. Put on a bit of weight, have we Juan?
Dulac couldn’t help notice two men with oversized necks and undersized heads walking not so discreetly behind Garcia. Drawing closer to Dulac’s table, Garcia recognized the Frenchman and smiled. The bodyguards continued on as Garcia stopped and sat down.
‘So what brings you to Florence?’ Dulac said, trying to jumpstart the conversation.
‘I’m picking up a drawing by Piero di Cosimo. I’m still awaiting the last of the authentication certificates. In this business, you can’t be too careful. Too many crooks,’ Juan said, leaning over towards Dulac in feigned confidence. ‘So tell me my friend, what’s this business you can’t talk to me about over the phone?’
The waiter came to the table and hovered, pen and pad in hand. ‘Double espresso,’ said Garcia.
‘Same,’ said Dulac.
Dulac waited for the waiter to leave before answering.
‘Well, it goes like this. A certain party wishes to have abducted an important fugitive from French justice.’
Garcia’s eyes narrowed into slits. ‘So?’
‘I thought you might—’
‘Might what? I’m in the sugar business.’
‘I don’t have time for games, Juan.’
Garcia’s face hardened. ‘I don’t like your tone of voice, my friend. What do you mean “games”?’
‘I mean I did my homework. Interpol has a half meter long file on your personal protection alone. Don’t get me wrong, Juan. I’m not here to—’
‘Santa Maria! So you’re with Interpol?’ Garcia looked nervously at Dulac, then turned and discreetly shot a quick glance at his bodyguards sitting behind him.
‘Let’s just say I have access to certain privileged information.’
‘Every rich man in Venezuela is a kidnap target. Protection is not an option.’
‘Precisely. And I’m sure you’ve hired the best.’
‘I’m still alive.’ Juan smiled, showing two front teeth separated by a singularly wide gap.
Dulac tried to be reassuring, ‘Juan, I swear this has nothing to do with you. I want some names, that’s all.’
‘Sure. Names. Of course. Why didn’t I think of it? Russian, Italian or Jewish mafia? Which do you want?’
‘Not funny.’
‘Interpol! Who would have thought? Anyway this target of yours, I presume your party can’t get him out the legal way because of the lack of an extradition treaty?’
‘Dead-on.’
‘And who is this French fugitive of justice?’
‘Let’s just say he’s wanted in at least two jurisdictions for extortion, kidnapping and murder.’
‘Sounds like pretty big game.’
‘The biggest, and out of season.’
‘Let me get this straight, Dulac. If I understand correctly, you, an Interpol agent, are asking me to furnish you with, with mercenaries?’ Garcia smiled derisively.
‘Absolutely not.’
Garcia blew a long whistle through his gapped teeth then laughed. ‘I didn’t come here to get insulted.’
‘Relax, relax, my friend.’ Garcia put up a hand in protest. ‘Don’t be offended. Like Dylan said: “Times, they are a-changing”.’
Garcia turned towards his men and gave them a short palm down signal of his right hand. Facing Dulac again, he continued. ‘Even if I had such contacts, it would be very, very expensive, my friend.’
‘Money is no object. Including your finder’s fee.’
‘I was getting to that. But tell me, my friend, why isn’t Interpol taking care of this? Or for that matter, the French Sureté? They’ve done some extra-curricular work like this before.’
‘It’s a complicated story, but my party chooses not to use the official routes.’
‘I know someone at Mossad.’
‘Out of the question.’
Garcia looked suspiciously at Dulac. ‘This is not some religious, Islamic thing, is it?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Not exactly?’
‘I can only tell you that my principal’s motives are personal, not religious.’
‘The last thing I need is a fatwa on my head.’
‘No chance.’
Garcia leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head. ‘This game you’re playing is very dangerous, my friend. I don’t want to think of what happens if you miss.’
Before leaving, Garcia had given Dulac a name: Eric Roquebrun. ‘He’s good, but he’s a handful to control,’ warned Garcia.
‘Tell me more.’
‘He’s a great tactician, but in the heat of battle, he’ll do everything to get the job done.’
‘Isn’t that good?’
‘He’s got some collateral damage to his credit.’
‘Don’t you have someone else?’
‘Sure, but he’s temporarily unavailable.’
‘How temporary?’
‘Could be a while. Ahmed is doing life in Beirut on three charges of rape and four counts of murder.’
Back in his apartment, Dulac phoned Gina.
‘Again? But Mr Dulac, you’re still suspended. I can’t access…. If they find out I gave you access—’
‘Gina, they need you more than they need me.’
‘I don’t know, I….’
It had cost Dulac a massage and pedicure at Lyon’s upscale body shop, Chez Chloe, to get Gina to do another summary Interpol database search.
‘Eric Roquebrun, 46 years old, ex CRS, ex “Force Tactique”, fired for sexual harassment of a 26-year-old woman recruit and the brutalizing of two members of his unit. Last known address: Casier Postal 4800, Marseilles. Box closed for non-payment on renewal. Current whereabouts and employment unknown.’
Just the kind of man you’d want your sister to marry, Dulac thought.