ON BOARD THE FLOATING palace, Monika introduced me to Grant Masterson, the man who had hailed her. He was tall, had a husky build, and looked to be in his late forties. His face was strong and well tanned and he wore a T-shirt and white pants. I assumed he was one of the crew until Monika murmured, “This is Grant’s boat.”
“It’s a beauty,” I said, hoping that was the way you complimented boats.
“Two twenty-five-hundred-horsepower Rolls Royce Marine Merlins,” he said. “Can cruise two thousand miles and sleeps twenty. Every modern device from radar, sonar, radio, and direction finders to satellite navigation.” He gave a boyish grin. “At least that’s what the crew tell me. I really don’t know anything about boats from the technical viewpoint, but I do know I love this vessel.”
“So you should,” I said, mustering up a little more enthusiasm this time, “it really is magnificent.”
“She.”
He stopped and it was a second before I caught on. “Oh, yes, the crew call her ‘she,’ you mean?” He nodded and I turned to Monika. “Why are all boats feminine?”
“Because they’re charming, beautiful, and uncomplaining?” she suggested with a wicked smile.
“Or is it because they’re difficult to control and expensive to maintain?” said Grant with a straight face.
We laughed together, then Grant said, “Let me get you a drink and introduce you to some people.”
A waiter responded promptly to Grant’s wave and handed us glasses of champagne. A tray of appetizing-looking hors d’oeuvres was sailing above our heads when Grant stopped the man underneath it. Monika and I exchanged amused glances. She explained to Grant that we had just dined at the Louis XV and might not eat again for a week. Grant nodded and was about to release the waiter when Monika said, “But it would be an insult to your chef …,” so we both ate one of the small pastries filled with foie gras and topped with a slice of smoked salmon.
“Ah, here’s a fellow countryman,” Grant Masterson said. “You must meet him,” he said, winking, “—bankers are always useful to know.”
His name was Terence McGill and he was manager of the Monaco branch of the Bank of Belgravia. He had been here three years, he told me as Monika excused herself to go talk to a buxom redhead she was acquainted with from the racing circuit, although she looked as if she might be on the modeling circuit too.
“Grant Masterson is one of your customers, I take it?”
“Yes, for some time.”
“I hadn’t met him before today,” I said. “What line of business is he in?”
“Many. He owns property in a dozen countries, a freight company, a couple of golf courses, a cinema chain, some farms, processing plants for food products—”
My attention focused sharply. “Food? He’s in the food line?”
“Yes. He’s opening a new line of delicatessen-type shops, selling specialty foods. Some will be independent, some will be in supermarkets.”
He frowned slightly, noting my interest. “What’s your line of work?”
“Me? Oh, I’m writing a series of articles on vineyards in the South of France.”
“A journalist.” He sounded disappointed and there was something else too—was it apprehension? Perhaps alarm at being quoted was normal for a banker.
“My theme is vineyards in the South of France under English ownership.” I hastened to add, “Don’t worry, I’m not concerned about Grant Masterson or his plans.”
He looked relieved, although he said, “The information’s not exactly secret—in fact, it’s been mentioned in some of the magazines already.”
In my cloak-and-dagger persona as a journalist writing about wine and vineyards it was true that the information about Masterson’s plans was not of interest. As the Gourmet Detective, it had aroused my professional curiosity. Fortunately, McGill didn’t seem worried and I tossed in a remark about wine being sold in many delicatessens to placate him further. Nevertheless, he excused himself and moved on through the throng, seeking safer conversational companions than a journalist.
Circulating, I ran into Monika, who was in between groups. “How did you come to meet Masterson?” I asked.
“Oh, I met him at a party at the palace that Princess Caroline gave,” she said offhandedly. “Since then he’s sponsored me in the Grand Prix and a few other races.”
As she left me to greet an Asian couple, I had an opportunity to scan the people on deck. The majority were men but the women were mostly young and good-looking. There was a handful of both sexes in crisp white uniforms, obviously officers of the vessel. A dark-haired, trim man of young to middle age detached himself from them and introduced himself as the captain, George Gregali. He was a Greek who promptly disclaimed any knowledge of Masterson’s businesses. “I run this boat,” he told me. “I take him anywhere he wants to go, anytime he wants. That is my role.”
“Does he spend much time on me boat?”
“Alas, not a lot. His activities take him all over Europe and often to the USA and he flies mostly. But he loves to spend time here on Windsong.” He waved a hand invitingly. “Have you looked over her?” I admitted that I hadn’t. “Let me show you through,” he offered.
The chance to see such luxury is rare. The main salon had enormous round windows reflected by floor-to-ceiling columns of mirror. The next deck was the entertainment area where TV programs from all over the world were received by satellite and shown on giant screens and pulsating disco lights accompanied a laser show. The carpet was fiber-optic material and vibrated with different colors as dictated by the music. From controls at your bedside, underwater color TV cameras relayed pictures to monitors on the walls and ceiling of your stateroom.
The luxury was unrelenting. All the bathroom fixtures were cut from solid lapis lazuli and the knobs were of gold. A helicopter crouched on the aft deck and, Gregali told me, could be airborne at five minutes’ notice.
“Stupendous,” I said as we left the mind-boggling technological wizardry of the control room.
Gregali smiled, proud of his domain. “It is impressive, is it not?”
I thanked him and wandered away, leaned on the mirror-polished rail, and looked at the Royal Palace, all pink and white, up on top of “the Rock.”
Voices nearby attracted my attention. They came from a group where a tall, ungainly man with a shock of unruly hair was talking loudly. Two men and a woman were listening and I strolled over and joined them.
“… is well accepted that the planetary bodies influence Earth and everything on it,” he was saying. “The moon affects Earth’s oceans and controls the tides—the Romans knew about that—so naturally it affects all that happens on the solid portion too. The giant planets, Jupiter and Saturn, are farther away but they are so huge, they still affect us. Jupiter has thirteen hundred times the volume of Earth and Saturn is almost as big, so how can there be any doubt that they influence us?”
“By us, you mean people?” asked the woman.
“Yes, although my current studies concern plants,” the man with the unruly hair replied.
“All plants?” asked the Italian.
“Principally grapes at the present time.”
The ungainly man speaking had an awkward way of moving, almost like a puppet. His arms and hands seemed to be uncoordinated and he gesticulated wildly to emphasize his words. His accent evaded me. Mention of his study of grapes did not, though.
“What influences have you found to be exerted by planetary bodies on grapes?” I asked.
He turned his gaze in my direction and stared at me. Then he held out his hand. “Professor Rahmani,” he said and went on:
“Grapes have a close association with man and respond more readily to the influences of the universe. I chart the orbits of the planets and use them to define the best times to plant, to prune, to harvest, and to ferment. I can counsel which grape varieties respond best and I can advise which soil components yield the best results.”
I was fascinated by the professor’s exposition and so were the others.
“Professor, are you saying that you can produce better grapes this way?”
“Much better!” he said enthusiastically. “I can grow grapes that are twice as large and contain three times as much juice. The juice is tastier and fuller bodied.”
“Are you being supported by the wine industry?” I asked him.
“No.” He shook his voluminous head of hair. “They are reactionaries. They don’t want to see any change, not even if it’s progress that can be proved. The wine industry is stuck in the mud of centuries.”
It wasn’t an appropriate metaphor but it reflected his ire. I pursued my line of questioning now that it had a definite destination.
“Perhaps individual vineyards would see an advantage in being involved in your work?”
The professor looked at me without answering immediately. Before he could do so, a short Italian with the pragmatic viewpoint of a businessman said, “Perhaps our host, Grant Masterson, might want to invest in your ideas?”
The professor took out cards and handed one to each of us. They were impressively and expensively embossed. They displayed the name “Institute for the Study of Planetary Influences” and had an address in Provence.
“Please feel free to visit whenever you wish to see what we are doing,” he said. “We have excellent facilities and you can witness some fascinating experimentation. We always welcome visitors.”
The Italian saw an old acquaintance and turned away to chat. Professor Rahmani gave me a nod of dismissal as if to say that his presentation was over and stalked away.