Crocker intuited the rest. Young men gathered here to blow off steam and discuss their common interests in girls, football, motorcycles. They drank beer and Red Bull, bragged about their exploits, joked around with each other, tested their ambitions.
The younger of the two kids, maybe seventeen, was black, with a shaved head and thick black eyebrows. The older one looked Arabic and wore a goatee.
The darker-skinned kid looked up and said, “If you’re with the police and you’re asking about the cars that were broken into last night, we don’t know anything. We left the club right after dark.”
“We’re not with the police,” Akil replied in Arabic. “My friend here used to be a professional motocross rider.”
“What’s his name?”
“Crocker.”
The boys looked at each other and shook their heads. “Never heard of him.”
In his youth Crocker had spent endless hours on the motocross track, broken many bones, and won a decent number of pro-am races. He’d also developed the reputation of a daredevil who never backed down.
“He’s retired now but is looking to buy a bike and heard that someone here was selling a used Triumph Legend,” Akil said.
“A Triumph Legend?”
“My brother used to ride one,” Crocker said, in his badly accented French. “I’d like to check it out, take it for a ride. I’ll pay cash.”
“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.