“Any lead among the victims’ effects?” Bolan asked.

“One,” Chamson replied, taking a folded computer printout from an inside pocket. He smoothed it out on the table, before he spoke again. “Scotto was due to fly to Paris the day he was killed. He also had an onward booking to Marseilles. Secondini was headed for the same city. Ralfini was landing at Nice, but his pilot had already filed a second flight plan for later that evening. His destination was the Marseilles airport.”

“And Balestre?”

“He was due to check out of his hotel that evening, too. I think he and Ralfini would have flown to Marseilles together. Why else would the plane have landed at Nice?”

Bolan nodded slowly. “So the four of them had a meet fixed in Marseilles. And someone didn’t want them to make it.”

“That’s the way we read it,” Chamson said. “But why?”

Bolan was thoughtful. “I’m all for mafiosi liquidating one another. But in this case, I am curious. I think those four guys were aiming to horn in on something, but somehow it doesn’t seem to stack up in this case. The details are vague at this point.”

“It may not be as difficult as you think,” Chamson said. “There was a fifth death, you see, that you don’t know about.”

“A fifth?” There was renewed interest in Bolan’s voice.

“Not a murder this time. A fatal road accident. The victim was a hit man from Hamburg. He was headed for Marseilles to work for one of the gang bosses there. Not Scotto. But the four guys we’re concerned with aren’t the only ones to get on the wrong side of the mobsters.”

“Go on,” Bolan said.

“None of the Riviera hoods have met this gorilla. They’ve only seen photos. Nobody knows about the car smash: we kept the news under wraps.”

Bolan said nothing.

“There’s a distinct resemblance,” Telder said. “With the minimum of disguise, you could pass for the German — you could get away with his ID.” He paused for effect, then added, “We think it might be a good idea if you went to Marseilles in his place.”