It was a fine soft Corsican evening, and the Figatelli brothers were waiting, as agreed, outside the entrance to their bar in Calvi, nor far from the site of the house where Christopher Columbus was born. It had been several days before they had managed to secure an audience with the man they were about to see, and they had only succeeded in this because of a small service they had been able to carry out for him the previous year. They had suggested meeting in the back room of the bar. But their contact, a cautious man, preferred to avoid the risk of being seen with them in public. He would send a car to pick them up and take them somewhere more discreet.
With a punctuality rare in Corsica, a big gray Renault pulled up precisely on time. It was driven by a man who, at first sight, seemed to have no neck—just a massive head growing out of even more massive shoulders. He motioned with a jerk of the head for the Figatellis to get into the car, and then he set off, ignoring their attempts to make conversation. A few minutes later, he pulled up outside a weather-stained, ancient house in the old quarter of town. The front door was opened by another giant, his size accentuated by a close-fitting T-shirt. He led the Figatellis down an ill-lit passageway and into a cavernous, darkened room with a high, vaulted ceiling. The only sign of life was the muted glow from the screen of a television, its sound turned down.
This was the headquarters of Nino Zonza, a man who, for fifty years, had been an influential, if little-known, figure behind the scenes of the Corsican underworld. Those who did know him valued him highly for his network of sources, and for the extent and accuracy of his information. Local legend had it that if you scratched your backside in Ajaccio, the news would have reached Zonza in Calvi within an hour.
“Come in. Sit down.” The voice coming from the back of the room was thin but husky. Their host, a tiny, hairless man withered by the passage of time, was perched on the edge of an armchair several sizes too big for him. He peered at the Figatelli brothers through dense black sunglasses.
“I remember you two boys,” he said. “You were useful. What do you want from an old man like me?”
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Monsieur Zonza,” said Jo. “And we would very much appreciate your help.” Zonza inclined his head, his sunglasses reflecting the glow from the TV screen. Jo continued. “We’ve heard a rumor. It seems that some Russians from the Riviera are making inquiries in connection with a certain job they would like done. A disappearance.”
“Ah yes,” said the old man. “One hears rumors like that more and more these days.” He smiled, and shook his head. “It’s a dangerous old world.”
Jo smiled back. “It certainly is. Now, there is talk of a prominent Marseille businessman somehow involved. And, as we have many friends in Marseille, we would like to know who that might be.” Jo spread his hands and shrugged. “In case we could help.”
“Indeed,” said Zonza. “I can understand your interest. But information such as this—so delicate, so secret—is never easy to come by. And naturally, it is never given away.”
“Of course, of course. But we would be happy to …”
Zonza held up an age-speckled hand. “There will be time enough to discuss payment if the information should become available. Let me think about it. If I should hear anything, I shall have a message left for you at your bar.”
“Do you know the address?” asked Jo.
Zonza smiled, revealing numerous gold teeth. “I know everything about Calvi.”
Once the Figatellis had been shown out, Zonza poured himself a glass of myrte and considered his position. The previous week, he had been asked to consider an attractive offer from the Oblomovs. Now it seemed that the Figatellis were becoming involved, and, being Corsican himself, he would much prefer to do business with Corsicans; that is, of course, providing they would be prepared to match the Russian offer. But, he told himself, there was no need to rush to a decision. In fact, it might be possible to string both sides along, taking payments from each of them. Interesting. He poured himself a second glass of myrte, turned up the sound on the television, and settled back to watch the rerun of another episode of Dallas.
The Figatellis, sitting over coffee in the back room of their bar, compared their impressions of the meeting.
“Well,” said Flo, “am I getting suspicious in my old age or does he know a lot more than he let on?”
“He must know all about it. If Maurice was able to pick up the rumor during a sober moment, Zonza, with that network of his, would certainly have heard. How many people does he have out on the street with their ears flapping? A dozen? Fifty? He must know.”
The brothers sat in silence for a few moments, trying to think of some way to induce Zonza to tell them what he had learned. But, as they had to admit, he was not a man who would respond kindly to pressure. Threats were out of the question. Money might work, but how much would it take?
“If we could find out who these Russians are, we’d at least have some options,” said Jo. He took out his phone. “Let’s get Maurice over here. Maybe he can remember where he got his information.”
Maurice made his entrance in his usual furtive fashion, as though he were half-expecting to be mugged. Small and dark, with a scruffy little beard, he prided himself on his unremarkable appearance. “It’s easy to get lost in a crowd,” he was fond of saying, “but I can almost vanish in an empty room.” And it was true. Like a chameleon, he was able to blend in with his surroundings. It was an eavesdropper’s greatest asset.
He accepted a glass of Corsican whisky and looked at the Figatellis expectantly, the possibility of another job never far from his thoughts.
“Remember that rumor you heard?” asked Flo. “About a couple of Russians?”
Maurice held up both hands. “Don’t rush me. I’ve got the word out, but these things aren’t on the evening news. Finding the name of the target? That’s going to take time.”
“Maybe it would be easier if we knew the names of the Russians.”
“Ah.” Maurice scratched his beard. “You’re right. One thing leads to another. Do you want me to …”
Flo grinned. “That little bonus of yours is getting bigger all the time.”
Maurice finished his whisky and stood up. “Always a pleasure, gentlemen. I’ll get back to you.”