MARSEILLES – MARCH 1965The German was perched on the end of the bed; his fingers interlocked with barely contained fury and frustration as he stared at his two "senior employers". He was large, well-built, greying at the temples and sweating, due to a combination of the Mediterranean temperature and the woolen suit he wore. Suppressed fury riddled his face; the glower seemingly a permanent feature.
Their base was a series of connected rooms on the top floor of the Hotel Azure, overlooking the old port of Marseilles. The rooms were serviceable, at best. In fact, they were disgusting and no doubt more suited for clients who wanted to bang the putain"s these Corsican pimps peddled.
putain"sThe only thing in its favor, was that as well as access to the main part of the hotel, they also had a
