‘Excusez moi, monsieur. Jay, air, Zed?? Jay, air, zed, igrec, bay?’
‘Oui,’ insisted Kowalski, ‘G.R.Z.Y.B.O.W.S.K.I.’
The Italian shrugged and presented himself to the switchboard operator once again.
‘Get me international enquiries, please.’
Within ten minutes Kowalski had JoJo’s telephone number and half an hour later he was through. At the end of the line the ex-legionnaire’s voice was distorted by crackling and he seemed hesitant to confirm the bad news in Kovac’s letter. Yes, he was glad Kowalski had rung, he had been trying to trace him for three months.
Unfortunately, yes, it was true about the illness of little Sylvie. She had been getting weaker and thinner, and when finally a doctor had diagnosed the illness, it had already been time to put her to bed. She was in the next bedroom at the flat from which JoJo was speaking. No it was not the same flat, they had taken a newer and larger one. What? The address? JoJo gave it slowly, while Kowalski, tongue between pursed lips, slowly wrote it down.
‘How long do the quacks give her?’ he roared down the line. He got his meaning over to JoJo at the fourth time of trying. There was a long pause.
‘Allo? Allo?’ he shouted when there was no reply. JoJo’s voice came back.
‘It could be a week, maybe two or three,’ said JoJo.
Disbelievingly, Kowalski stared at the mouthpiece in his hand. Without a word he replaced it on the cradle and blundered out of the cabin. After paying the cost of the call he collected the mail, snapped the steel case on his wrist tight shut, and walked back to the hotel. For the first time in many years his thoughts were in a turmoil and there was no one to whom he could turn for orders how to solve the problem by violence.
In his flat in Marseilles, the same one he had always lived in, JoJo also put down the receiver when he realised Kowalski had hung up. He turned to find the two men from the Action Service still where they had been, each with his Colt .45 Police Special in his hand. One was trained on JoJo, the other on his wife who sat ashen-faced in the corner of the sofa. ‘Bastards,’ said JoJo with venom. ‘Shits.’
‘Is he coming?’ asked one of the men.
‘He didn’t say. He just hung up on me,’ said the Pole.
The black flat eyes of the Corsican stared back at him.
‘He must come. Those are the orders.’
‘Well, you heard me, I said what you wanted. He must have been shocked. He just hung up. I couldn’t prevent him doing that.’
‘He had better come, for your sake JoJo,’ repeated the Corsican.
‘He will come,’ said JoJo resignedly. ‘If he can, he will come. For the girl’s sake.’
‘Good. Then your part is done.’
‘Then get out of here,’ shouted JoJo. ‘Leave us alone.’
The Corsican rose, the gun still in his hand. The other man remained seated, looking at the woman.
‘We’ll be going,’ said the Corsican, ‘but you two will come with us. We can’t have you talking around the place, or ringing Rome, now can we, JoJo?’
‘Where are you taking us?’
‘A little holiday. A nice pleasant hotel in the mountains. Plenty of sun and fresh air. Good for you JoJo.’
‘For how long?’ asked the Pole dully.
‘For as long as it takes.’
The Pole stared out of the window at the tangle of alleys and fish stalls that crouch behind the picture postcard frontage of the Old Port.
‘It is the height of the tourist season. The trains are full these days. In August we make more than all the winter. It will ruin us for several years.’
The Corsican laughed as if the idea amused him.
‘You must consider it rather a gain than a loss, JoJo. After all, it is for France, your adopted country.’