THE ROAD FROM SAINT Symphorien to the ultralight airfield was not the place to be today. France’s most popular sport—bicycling—had commandeered the route and an endless stream of crouching, sweating men and women with yellow and blue number tags on their backs struggled to overtake their rivals. Feet flashed in dizzying circles and the metal tubular frames reached scorching speeds.
I was more tired than the cyclists when I finally turned into the airfield. I braked abruptly and pulled in under a clump of trees as a movement in the sky caught my attention. I turned off the car engine and then I could hear the buzz of the ultralight. It had the green and brown wings that I recalled with a shiver—it was Suvarov’s aircraft, the one that had dropped the beehive on me in the ghost village of Colcroze.
The nose dipped as I watched, then one wing tilted and the frail craft swung into a landing approach. It grew larger as it floated down, the wheels touched, and within seconds it had rolled to a stop. A car drove slowly from the wooden buildings to the aircraft. I had recognized the plane and I also recognized the car—it was a red convertible and its racy outline told me that it was Monika’s Maserati.
Glad that I had waited and watched, I sat there as Suvarov released his belt and climbed out of the aircraft. Monika got out of the car and went over to him. He lifted a box from a strap and shelf assembly by the pilot’s seat. It was the shape and size of a shoe box and he handed it to her. She took it reverently as if it were fragile or precious and they talked for a couple of minutes. She walked back to her car and the engine revved up noisily as she stamped on the accelerator. The convertible snarled into a U-turn and headed in my direction.
The encounter was conducted in a clandestine manner that made me curious. I wondered what was in the box and where Monika was going with it. I hastily started the engine, and pulled deeper into the trees and out of sight.
She raced by and I gave her time to reach the main road, then I followed. When I turned out, the red dot of the Maserati was heading north into the foothills and I went in pursuit. The cyclists had spread out now as the climb up into the hills slowed them down. They were less of a hazard and had coagulated into small groups.
I managed to keep the red car in sight most of the time, losing it on the twisting, turning road but finding it again. North we went, the cyclists thinning out still more, but I had the thought that it was just as well they were on the road. The way Monika drove, they would keep her from noticing that she was being followed. I wasn’t concerned that she would recognize my black Citroen, which looked like thousands of others all off the same assembly line.
We were heading toward the eastern part of the Var, the upper section of Provence. A ruined castle was perched on a hilltop, looking precarious, but it had probably been there for a thousand years. We entered a tiny village and I stayed a cautious distance behind the convertible as it slowed through the narrow street, but as we left the village, the red Maserati was pulling away.
We had driven for nearly an hour when I saw Monika make a turn onto a side road. As I reached it, Monika was no longer in sight, but the imposing sign indicated where the side road led.
Le Petit Manoir it said, and I recognized the name immediately as one of the homes of gastronomy and highly recommended by Michelin, Kleber, and Gault-Millau.
All this and the road only led to a restaurant! Well, it was well past noon, and at the worst I could have lunch. I drove down the road. It came out on the edge of a spectacular, beautifully manicured green lawn; on the surface of a miniature lake rimmed with stone, water lilies lay placidly.
The restaurant had a large patio at the lakeside that made a delightful outdoor dining area. The building itself was timbered with mullioned windows and had an imposing entrance of heavy beams and huge paving stones. A semicircular gravel drive ran from where I was to the restaurant entrance and a parking lot lay off the left. Only a few cars were there—it was evidently early for serious diners.
Monika’s red Maserati stood right in front of the entrance and I was just in time to see her going in to the restaurant, the box under her arm. I thought a valet might come out and park her car but nothing happened for several minutes. Then she came striding out of the restaurant, an eye-catching picture in tight-fitting light brown slacks, a russet brown belted jacket, and dark brown boots. Her blond hair fluttered back as she walked purposefully to the car, empty-handed. She jumped in and started the engine. With a clatter of gravel, she was completing the semicircle and heading back toward me.
I had to think fast. She had driven an hour to get here, so her journey must have had some important purpose—to deliver the box that Suvarov had given her. She was rounding the end of the drive, gravel still spurting up behind her. There was a wide space just ahead and I pulled into it, shielded from view.
I didn’t have to worry about her seeing me. She picked up speed as she left the gravel and came scorching along the dirt road. I had a momentary glimpse of her looking straight ahead as she raced past. I listened until the sound of her motor had died, men drove slowly to the parking lot.
The restaurant foyer was elegantly spacious. Massive beams supported a timbered ceiling, and a suit of armor stood at the door to the dining room. Weapons hung on the paneled walls and a massive basket of flowers gave a softening touch. Tapestries in soft golden tones lightened by faded yellows and reds added to the medieval atmosphere, and a huge black iron chandelier hung overhead. Black iron sconces on the walls held electrified candles.
A young man in a tuxedo welcomed me in friendly fashion.
“Good morning, m’sieu. You have a reservation? The table is for how many?” My response of “one” didn’t impress him but he looked through an old ledger thicker than a New York phone book. He was frowning when I heard voices behind me. A tall, distinguished man with silvery hair and another man in a tuxedo came walking to the exit.
“When will the next shipment come in?” asked the silver-haired man.
“Three or four days,” said the other. “They are getting more frequent now.”
“Good. Monsieur le Viscomte tells me that the quantities are increasing too.”
“Yes. I am managing to move more and more…”
Their voices died as they went out of the lobby and I could no longer distinguish the words.
Outside, tires crunched on gravel and a long black Mercedes pulled to a stop, the engine running. A chauffeur in a light gray uniform, peaked cap, and gloves stepped out and opened the rear door for the silver-haired man. He got in and the car drove off.
The young man who had greeted me was conferring with the tuxedo-clad man who had come across the foyer. The latter turned to me. “Good morning, m’sieu. I am the maître d’hôtel. You wish a table for one?”
I confirmed it and he smiled with pleasure as he said, “We are pleased to accommodate you, m’sieu. Please come this way.”
“The man who just left—I thought I recognized him. Who was he?” I asked.
He hesitated for a long second.
“You mean Monsieur Blanc?” he asked lightly.
“That is his name? Perhaps I am mistaken.”
“Yes, Jean Blanc. He is a wholesale butcher in Castellane.”
Jean Blanc is the French equivalent of John Smith or John Doe. I couldn’t think of the man’s real name but it certainly was not Jean Blanc. As I followed the maître d’ into the dining room, I was racking my memory, but the identity of me man escaped me. His name was as well known to me as his face. But who was he? It was not idle curiosity. He carried under his arm the box that Monika had brought.