For now, though, Marković was in Paris, staying in a hotel that reeked of standing water and bad food. He had taken an early-morning train from Cologne, dumping the car at the Tiefgarage Hauptbahnhof with the keys in the ignition and €500 in the glove compartment. On the way to the station, he had made a call to ensure that the car would be disposed of within the hour.

Despite the precariousness of their position, the Vuksans still had certain obligations that needed to be fulfilled, and it was to Marković that they had entrusted this responsibility. The cargo soon to arrive at the Gare de Lyon had landed at Port-Vendres some days previously, following a circuitous journey from Syria via Egypt and Algeria. It would have been simpler to have routed them through Serbia using established channels, but these men had business to be concluded in Cairo and Algiers before they could depart for Europe, and had indicated their preference for the Port-Vendres back door. Given recent events in Belgrade, it was now fortunate that they had elected to bypass Serbia. The Vuksans would have been unable to guarantee them safe transit, and might even have been forced to return the portion of their fee already delivered. Port-Vendres, although riskier, had proven to be a blessing.

Back in the glory days of France’s imperial odyssey, Port-Vendres had benefited from being the southernmost French port to the colonies in Africa. While it was too far from the industrial cities to be a useful shipping center for goods, it had flourished as a terminal for passenger traffic to and from Algeria, because the crossing was smoother than over the Gulf of Lyon. Now the little commune was a tourist destination best known for its seafood restaurants, where fishing boats landed their catches at the quai du Fanal. Some security checks on incoming vessels were inevitable, but they were far fewer than might be anticipated at Toulon or Marseille. For this reason, and in order to preserve the integrity of the route, the Vuksans used their Port-Vendres contacts for only the most high-value cargo.

Marković found a table outside a Turkish café and lit a cigarette. He might have loathed Muslims, but he could not fault their coffee. Also, one never knew what one might learn by sitting in their presence and pretending not to speak French. Marković also had a smattering of Turkish, some Arabic, and adequate Spanish, as well as fluent English. He cultivated the aspect of an ignorant man, and his English deliberately remained heavily accented, but he was no dullard. The Vuksans did not employ dolts, or not for long.

And as Marković smoked his cigarette, and flicked idly through his cell phone, his image was captured and dispatched three hundred miles north, where a phone in Amsterdam pinged in the lounge of the Conservatorium, notifying the recipient of the message’s arrival.

Chapter XXVIII