Marseille was hot and sticky. The roads were packed, and Gallic tempers were fraying. A car had broken down on the bridge above Vallon des Auffes and the normally quiet and tranquil little fishing port was hearing the outside world crashing in on their lives with a vengeance. French fishermen gathered around one of the cabanons to talk and to complain to each other about the noise. The cabanons were small, rustic sheds, useful for storing fishing tackle or black-market booze and cigarettes. They were also the perfect place in which to hide. That was what Simon the Zealot had been told, anyway. His recent foray into smuggling had started well, he’d been able to move quite a bit of stock and made a bit of cash that he was planning on using to help him get a foothold in the lucrative drugs ma
