“Guess what, Francis—we’re going to be neighbors.” Reboul looked up from his desk as an excited Elena burst into the room and bent over to kiss him on the forehead. “We’ve decided to look for a place in Marseille. Isn’t that great?”
Reboul rose to his feet, a broad smile lighting up his face, and returned the kiss. “That makes me very happy,” he said. “And, by an amazing coincidence, there is a bottle of Champagne out on the terrace waiting to be drunk. Where’s Sam?”
By the time Sam joined them on the terrace the bottle had been opened and the glasses filled. “A toast,” said Sam, raising his glass. “To Marseille, to good times, and most of all, to our friendship. Thank you, Francis.”
“It’s my pleasure,” said Reboul. “I’m delighted, but tell me—whatever happened to life in the Luberon?”
“Ah. Well, there’s no doubt it’s the most beautiful spot, really lovely. But we’ve realized that we’re not cut out for the country. We’re city people. Elena’s absolutely right—a quiet life in a remote farmhouse watching the lavender grow would probably drive us crazy.”
Reboul nodded. “I know what you mean. My old farm in the Camargue is bliss for three days. After that, I start inviting the horses in for a drink.”
As they continued to talk about their plans—and Elena had at least a hundred questions to ask about everything from the absolute necessity of a sea view to the merits of various neighborhoods—it became apparent that Reboul had something on his mind. He had become preoccupied, and more and more subdued, so much so that Elena stopped in midsentence.
“Francis, are you OK?”
Reboul shook his head and sighed. “Forgive me. It’s that idiot Russian—I’ve just had a report back from the people in Paris who have been doing a background check on him and his business methods, and it’s not good news.” He got up and went inside, returning with a slim folder. “All the details are in here, but what seems to happen is that most of his deals have had fatal consequences for someone.”
He opened the folder and spread the pages out on the table. “It’s not just those so-called accidents in Africa and Russia—I remember we made a joke of it at first—but it’s also happened in the Amazon and the Arctic. Competitors in both places suffered severe side-effects.” He looked up and drew the side of his hand across his throat. “And then there was the incident in New York.” He paused to take a sip of Champagne.
Sam was frowning. “Where were the police when all this was going on?”
Reboul tapped the page in front of him. “Investigations were carried out, or so it says here. But there was a problem, and it was always the same problem: in every case, Vronsky was never in the same country at the time these fatalities occurred, sometimes not even on the same continent.” Reboul shrugged. “So how do you prove a crime has been committed by someone who wasn’t there? You can have as many suspicions and theories as you like, but that’s not enough. You need proof.”
Elena took the Champagne from its ice bucket and topped up their glasses. “These guys who did the report—what do they recommend you do?”
“Stay away from him. And don’t forget that he seems to be at his most dangerous when he’s somewhere a long way away.” Reboul closed the folder and did his best to smile. “So I’d better keep an eye on his travel arrangements.”
It was only later, over dinner, that Reboul mentioned the car that had followed him in the morning. He tried to make light of it, but there were three worried people who went up to bed that night.
Optimism returned with the morning sun, to Sam at least. He was careful not to seem too cheerful in front of Reboul, but he wasted no time putting forward his idea. “Let’s change places for the morning,” he said. “Lend me Olivier and your car, and we’ll see if our friend in the Peugeot wants to play hide-and-seek today. If he does, I’d like to have a word with him.”
Reboul leaned across and patted Sam’s cheek. “You’re a dear friend, Sam. Thank you, but no. It’s my problem, and I don’t want you getting involved.”
“Francis, you don’t understand—a little challenge like this is something I enjoy. Besides which”—he wagged a finger at Reboul—“it gets me off the hook with Elena. She and Mimi have planned a fun-filled day with Marseille’s real estate agents, and after Madame Verrine I don’t think I can take any more enthusiasm. A pleasant, peaceful drive would do me a world of good.” He paused, and thought he could see that Reboul’s resistance was beginning to weaken. “So, do we have a deal?”
“But won’t this fellow know it’s not me in the car?”
“Not a chance. All he’s seen is the back of your head from thirty or forty yards away. It’s the car he’ll recognize.” Sam grinned. “Admit it—you’ve run out of arguments.”
Reboul stood up and stared out the window. “Very well. But Sam, you must promise me you won’t do anything dangerous.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
Olivier was delighted at the prospect of a break from his normal shuttle service to and from Reboul’s office.
“If this guy does follow us,” said Sam, “I want to find a place where we can stop and have a chat with him. Can you think of somewhere that would work?”
Olivier adjusted his sunglasses while he thought. “Pas de souci, not a problem. I have an idea,” he said, taking out his phone. “Just give me a minute.”
When he’d finished he explained his idea. The call had been to Ahmed, Le Pharo’s large and intimidating gardener. If they were followed, he would call Ahmed again, give him detailed instructions as to where they could meet, and tell him to follow the follower, who would then become the filling in a three-car sandwich. “After that,” said Olivier, “it’s just a question of picking a suitable spot, et voilà.”
Sam was impressed. “Have you done this sort of thing before?”
“Oh, once or twice. Before working for Monsieur Francis, I was a cop. In fact,” he said, putting a finger to his lips, “I’ve still got my gun. But that’s strictly entre nous.”
As they pulled out of the driveway, Sam peered around the newspaper he was using to hide his face to see if there was any sign of a white Peugeot. “I don’t see him,” he said.
“Don’t worry. If he’s a pro, he’ll have changed cars. And he wouldn’t have waited in the same place.”
By now, Olivier had turned off into the labyrinth of small streets behind the Vieux Port, his eyes flicking up every few seconds to the rearview mirror. With a sudden nudge of the accelerator, he crossed an intersection as the lights were changing before slowing down. “Ah, there you are, you bastard. Don’t look around,” he said to Sam. “It’s a gray Renault with rental plates, about twenty meters behind us.” Olivier took out his phone, called Ahmed, and told him to be outside the Banque de France on the Rue Paradis in ten minutes, and to follow the gray Renault that would be a few meters behind them.
“Now,” said Olivier, “I don’t want to lose him, and we’ve got a few minutes to kill. We’ll take the long way around to the Rue Paradis, and that should do it.”
They arrived to find that Ahmed, who had double-parked in front of the Banque de France, was looking under the hood of his pickup for some imagined mechanical fault. Olivier flashed his lights. Ahmed closed the hood, got back into the pickup, and pulled into the traffic two cars behind the Renault.
The three-car procession, widely spaced and traveling at an unhurried pace, made its way through the center of town. “Remember when you stayed at Monsieur Francis’s other house the last time you were here?”
“Is that where we’re going?”
“Not quite. At the end of that road there’s a rond-point—a traffic circle. It looks like it goes somewhere, but it doesn’t. That’s the end of the road.”
They drove on, into the 7th and 8th arrondissements, where many of Marseille’s wealthiest residents live in their large houses behind high stone walls. There was less traffic now, and the Renault had dropped back, frequently out of sight on the narrow, twisting road. They passed Reboul’s old house. “Not long now,” said Olivier. He called Ahmed and told him to close up on the Renault.
Another two hundred meters, and one last bend. The road had narrowed to a single lane before ending in the small traffic circle. The Renault came around that last bend and stopped short, behind Olivier. Ahmed’s pickup came to a halt immediately behind the Renault. There was nowhere for the driver to go. He was trapped.
Sam and Olivier walked back to the Renault, where Ahmed was waiting, his arms crossed, glaring at Rocca, the driver. He seemed to have shrunk behind the wheel, his face the picture of apprehension. Olivier opened the driver’s door and, in his most threatening police manner, told Rocca to get out. “Nobody ever comes down here,” he said, “so we can have a nice quiet chat without being disturbed. Bon, now let me see your driver’s license, and give me your cell phone.” For a split second Rocca might have considered protesting. But with three large and unfriendly men looming over him, he thought better of it, and did as he was told. Olivier noted the license details and handed it back. The phone he kept.
Olivier, prompted by Sam’s questions, proceeded to give Rocca a grilling. Who had hired him? How did Rocca contact him? Where did they meet? When was their next rendezvous? Why were they interested in Reboul? What exactly were they looking for?
To many of the questions Rocca had no answers, and it became clear that, apart from the cover story, he had been kept in the dark. After twenty frustrating minutes they were ready to let him go.
With the engine running and his window open, Rocca plucked up his courage and asked to have his phone back. Olivier bent down to give him the full benefit of his impenetrable sunglasses. “You’re lucky to get your car back,” he said, slapping the roof.
Rocca drove off, wilting with relief.