Marseille was nicknamed ‘The Phocaean City’ after Greek colonists, and as Dimitar arrived in the modern-day paradise on the French Riviera, he could almost smell the history of the place. At the airport, Dimitar left the recycled air conditioning and fluorescent lighting and stepped into dry heat and full sunshine. It was almost midday, and the sun was as high in the sky as it would get.
Dimitar texted Sam Houston to let him know that he had arrived before taking a cab to the city. He asked the driver to make a few stops on the way while he waited for a reply from Sam.
Marseille was beautiful, but to Dimitar, everything was tinged with the stain of what had happened on the way here and what lay ahead. He had not slept well in the past four weeks. It had taken him almost the entire month to turn $1,000 into a million euros, but he’d had no choice. That was the million-dollar ransom Peter Serf demanded. Now Dimitar was actually in Marseille, ready to play Serf for Elena, his girlfriend. It all felt real. Tangible.
This was the end game.
They wound their way from the airport to the Old Port and swung by the Palais Longchamp and the Marseille Cathedral. The entire time, Dimitar could only think about the money burning a hole in his holdall and what he wanted to do with it. It was one game, heads-up against Serf to save Elena, but could he win?
But what if he lost?
Dimitar felt his phone buzz when he was on the steps of the Cathedral. He paid the cab driver and sat on the giant staircase, looking across at the rest of the city.
‘Dimitar. Safe trip?’
‘As safe as you can be when you’re carrying a million euros from one side of Western Europe to the other.’
Sam laughed. The high roller had been Dimitar’s closest ally since they met in London. That was several hundreds of thousands of dollars ago. Now the Dimitar had the million-dollar stake, they were ready for a truly high-stakes game – Sam’s specialty. But the stakes had never been this high; they were playing for Elena’s life.
‘Do you have any idea where Serf is staying?’ Dimitar asked. He’d spent the ride from the airport imagining his enemy on every street corner, scanning each face for his.
‘I’m told he’s at the Terre Blanche.’
‘The what?’
‘It translates as White Earth. It’s a hotel, the best in Marseille. It’s a spa, you can even play golf there. They probably have one of those little robots that hoovers the floor in every room.’
‘I’m not going there to play golf, Sam. Are you sure Serf is there?’
‘I spoke to one of their staff and asked if my father was staying there.’
‘Your father?’
‘Sure. I don’t have a real father, I’m an orphan, remember? My Dad can be anybody. It just so happens that he’s a tall guy, English like me. A real..
‘…son of a…’
‘…means to an end. Now, just a heads-up, so to speak. You only have 24 hours until the cut-off. If you arrive now, he might want to play right away. Are you rested?’
‘I flew economy if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t need rest. I need revenge. If he has Elena there, of course.’
‘I’ve got no confirmation of that. The girl I spoke with told me that she’s seen Serf but not your girlfriend.’
*
At the same time Sam and Dimitar were talking, Elena was in the same hotel room she’d been cooped up in for a week straight. She could clean, she could eat, she could sleep. But anything else was impossible. Thanks to the twin efforts of Peter Serf and his indebted friend Jeremy Rundle, she’d spent seven days and seven nights in the same room. Housekeeping was no longer required, so she was under orders to keep the place neat and tidy.
That meant she kept an eye on the knife in the closet, this latest hiding spot between the struts of the metal ironing board nestled in the back of the closet behind spare pillows and a winter blanket.
‘What do you want for lunch?’ asked Rundle, whose turn it was to watch her. It had been four hours since breakfast, and the sun was like a beam of light in the sky. It seared in through the thin curtains.
‘A pizza.’ She replied. ‘But an authentic one. A genuine Pizza con le Patate from Rome.’’
‘Potato and Mozzarella? I’ve tried it.’
‘You’ve travelled to Rome? It’s the only place they make it right. So, chop, chop, we’ve got a plane to catch.’
‘Nice try.’ Said Rundle, almost looking wistful at the idea of leaving the hotel himself. ‘Pasta, I can do. The hotel special.’
‘Again?’ she asked, putting her book down. She’d read four of the hotel’s cheap thrillers already, guessing the ending to the last two. Killing time was painful.
‘Not long now. Your boyfriend turns up today or this is your last meal.’
‘Have you got children?’ she asked. Rundle had been immovable on so many subjects over the last week, but whenever she asked him about his family, Elena had noticed a slight twitch at the side of his face, like someone might get if they tasted lemon in a meal when they weren’t expecting to.
‘Enough about me.’ He barked.
‘It’s always enough, Jeremy.’ She said bitterly, lingering on the last word to make it sound like the stupidest name ever created.
‘You have a problem with my name?’
‘In a way. Let’s say Dimitar turns up and beats your boss at his own game. What happens?’
‘What do you mean what happens? He wins. You leave. I go home and my debt with Peter is clear.’
‘You really think he’ll let you walk away from all this? He’ll probably paint you as the bad guy.’
Rundle creased his forehead. The door opened as Peter Serf walked in.
‘No lunch?’ he asked. Then he took Rundle to one side so that they were out of earshot of Elena.
‘Our friend came in on the red eye. He’s in Marseille. I want you to get up to the top floor and spot for me. I’ll watch her.’
‘You think he’ll walk right into the main entrance of the hotel?’
‘What choice does he have?’
Moving back towards Elena, he addressed Rundle again, but this time his eyes did not stray from Elena.
‘If anyone suspicious arrives at the hotel, you know what to do,’ said Serf, turning his gaze to the open balcony that stood proud with flowers ten floors above the hard, hot pavement below. Further away from the hotel sat an infinity pool. But it was easily fifty meters from the window.
Peter Serf walked back to the center of the room and looked right into the eyes of his kidnap victim.
‘You know how to swim, don’t you Elena?’
About the Author: Paul Seaton has written about poker for over 10 years, interviewing some of the best players ever to play the game such as Daniel Negreanu, Johnny Chan and Phil Hellmuth. Over the years, Paul has reported live from tournaments such as the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas and the European Poker Tour. He has also written for other poker brands where he was Head of Media, as well as BLUFF magazine, where he was Editor.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.