“Philippe?”
“Who is this? What time is it?”
“Time for Marseille’s top reporter to be out reporting. It’s Sam.”
“Oh.” There was a grunt as Philippe sat up. “Is this urgent?”
“Better than that. It’s your chance to do a good deed to help your friend Francis.”
“What’s he done?”
“It’s not him, it’s Vronsky. We’re pretty sure he’s having Francis followed, and God knows what he’s going to try next. We really need to know more about him. Tell me—has he ever come back to you about his invitation to do an interview on his boat?”
“No. He said he’d call, but he hasn’t.”
“Well, I have an idea that he might fall for.”
“I’m listening.” Philippe’s voice had changed from drowsy to alert.
“It’s something to appeal to his vanity, and a chance to become better known in Marseille—which is one of his social ambitions. Here’s the plot. You have sold your editorial board on a series of in-depth profiles of Les Amis de Marseille, and who better to start with than the most generous ami of them all, Monsieur Vronsky.”
“But I already did him, remember? After the auction.”
“Ah,” said Sam, “but that was a mere sketch. I’m thinking of a complete portrait: the man in full—his hopes, his dreams, his indiscretions, everything. You know how these rich guys are. They’ve all got egos the size of a house, they love talking about themselves, and the big plus is that he liked the piece you did on him.”
Before there was time for an answer, Sam slipped in the bribe. Knowing Philippe’s fondness for lunch in general and Le Bistrot d’Edouard in particular, he suggested that they meet later at the restaurant, where they could discuss the matter face-to-face. Philippe bowed to the irresistible logic of Sam’s argument. Lunch it was.
Sam put down his phone and looked across the breakfast table at Elena. She was bent over the International New York Times, her coffee and croissant forgotten, her face intent and frowning. This, as Sam had come to know all too well, was her Do Not Disturb look. She finished the piece she was reading, gave a dismissive snort, and pushed the paper away with the back of her hand.
“God, they make me sick, those deadbeats in Washington,” she said. “The sooner they’re kicked out and replaced by women the better.” Warming to her subject, she wagged an outraged finger at Sam. “How can you be anti-abortion and pro-gun? These idiots drone on about the sanctity of human life—even though the human hasn’t even been born—and yet they and their buddies at the NRA choose to ignore the fact that guns kill thousands of Americans every year. Does that make sense?”
Elena left Sam to ponder this interesting question while she attacked her croissant. In fact, he had for many years been immune from the charms of any politician, regardless of party, and he was still surprised that anyone could take a bunch of such self-serving windbags seriously. It was a point of view that Elena considered constitutionally irresponsible, and so he decided to drop the subject and move on to safer ground.
“How would you like to come to lunch with two admirers?” he said. “Philippe and me.”
Elena looked up at him and smiled, her mood suddenly sunny. “I think I could make myself available.”
It was a couple of years since Philippe had introduced Elena and Sam to Chez Edouard, and it had been, for both of them, love at first bite. Elena could still remember what she had eaten, and was tempted to have the same again. Tapas in all their glory, from pata negra ham to tuna roe with a drizzle of olive oil, fried aubergine dusted with mint, tartare of salmon with honey and dill, deep-fried zucchini flowers, artichokes, anchovies, clams—there were fifteen dishes in all, and, as Elena said, she could happily try each one. But, with a small gesture to moderation, they eventually settled on four tapas each, with sharing privileges.
There is a special moment in a good restaurant that comes before eating a single mouthful, and it should be listed at the top of the menu. It is anticipation, in the sure and certain knowledge that you won’t be disappointed. Your order has been taken, your first glass of wine is to hand, tantalizing whiffs come through the kitchen door each time it swings open, waiters scurry, there is the moist creak of corks being eased out of bottles, and everything is as it should be. You settle back in your seat, and all’s well with the world. “Heaven,” said Elena.
Philippe had reserved a table in the upstairs dining room, with its hand-lettered frieze repeated around the room urging everyone to buvez, riez, chantez—drink, laugh, sing. It was still a little early for the singing, but the other two suggestions were being followed with great enthusiasm.
“Now,” said Sam, “this is a working lunch, OK? Let’s start with what we know, and then we can figure out what to do. First, we know that Vronsky badly wants Le Pharo. Second, we know that he has a record of getting what he wants, often by arranging for obstacles, even human obstacles, to disappear. Third, he’s always somewhere else when anything messy happens. That’s about it, and it’s not enough.” He paused to sample his wine. “Every man has his weakness, something that makes him vulnerable, and that’s what I’d love to find out.” He nodded toward Philippe. “And our best chance of doing that is you.”
Before Philippe had time to reply, the tapas arrived, an entire landscape of tapas that took up most of the table, and thoughts of Vronsky were put aside while due respect was paid to the chef.
“That was perfect,” said Elena, as she wiped the final traces of honey and dill from her plate with a scrap of bread. “I’m so glad we didn’t order a main course. Did you see they have churros and chocolate sauce for dessert?”
It was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. How Elena ate what she ate without any visible weight gain was a mystery to him. “Let’s get back to it. Philippe, what do you think? You must have interviewed a few captains of industry in your time. They like to talk, don’t they?”
“Try to stop them.” Philippe took a long pull at his wine. “As long as you stick to their favorite subject.”
“Which is themselves, right?”
“Right. Getting him to talk shouldn’t be difficult.”
Elena put her hand on Philippe’s arm. “We must do something,” she said. “All this is getting to Francis. I hate to see him so worried.”
Philippe nodded. “Let me work on it. For me, it depends on how much he wants to be a big shot in Marseille. If he does—and I think he does—we shouldn’t have a problem.”
Elena squeezed his arm. “For that, you can have one of my churros.”
Sam raised his glass to Philippe. “Over to you, jeune homme.”
Meanwhile, the phone lines between Cap d’Antibes and Corsica had been busy, with the Oblomovs putting out feelers among their contacts in Calvi and Ajaccio. But in such a small and tight-knit community it was almost impossible for even a single feeler to go unnoticed, particularly where murder and money were concerned. Ears were always cocked for careless remarks, and it wasn’t long before hints that there was something in the wind reached Flo and Jo, the Figatelli brothers.
Moving as they frequently did in some of the less conventional circles of Corsican society, they often heard gossip and news that were not for public consumption, and so it was this time. Their friend and occasional business colleague Maurice, a professional barfly, had overheard snatches of a conversation which suggested that some Riviera Russians were offering a truckload of money to make someone disappear. The Figatellis, ever alert to rumors of this sort, asked Maurice to continue his researches and report back, with a bonus if he could identify the target.
The Oblomovs were beginning to feel quite at home on The Caspian Queen. Once again they were in the luxurious cocoon of Vronsky’s stateroom, cigars and cognac to hand, to present a progress report. It started on an encouraging note.
“You tell us you want good news,” said Sasha Oblomov. “We bring you good news. There is a man in Calvi, Nino Zonza, who we have worked with on one or two projects. He says he can help us.”
“In what way?” asked Vronsky.
“In every way.” Oblomov took a swig of cognac and shuddered with pleasure. “He’ll even arrange the burial, if that’s what you want.”
Vronsky nodded his approval. He liked dealing with full-service professionals. “But don’t forget,” he said, “there must be no possibility of my being implicated.”
“Zonza can guarantee that, as long as the job is done in Corsica.” He leaned forward, tapping the side of his nose with an index finger. “Where certain things can be arranged without bothering the French authorities.”
“Now,” said Vronsky, “what would induce Reboul to take a trip to Corsica? Think about that. Meanwhile, we need to find out more about him—not just his movements, but his habits. And this time, I don’t want any amateurs chasing after his car. So find me someone serious.”
Oblomov scratched the stubble on his skull. “Let’s see—we want someone with the experience and the contacts to uncover all the nasty little details.” His expression brightened. “Someone, for instance, like my divorce lawyer in Nice. He has informers all along the coast, and he found out stuff about my ex-wife she even didn’t know. And he keeps his mouth shut.”
Vronsky, a survivor of uncomfortably thorough divorce proceedings himself, liked the idea. And so investigations were set in place by both sides, with neither side being aware of being investigated.