Vronsky had been pleased and even a little flattered to receive Philippe’s invitation to be the first subject in an important series of interviews. He felt at ease with the young journalist, and he saw this as an opportunity to establish himself as one of the more important benefactors of what he now thought of as his adopted city. And so he was happy to agree that the first session should take place on board The Caspian Queen, where, incidentally, his toys and his retinue would be on display.
For Philippe, the interview began in promising fashion with a short but luxurious trip in a chauffeur-driven Riva. His host was waiting to greet him at the top of the gangplank, wreathed in welcoming smiles, and Philippe recognized at once that he was going to be given the treatment. There would be flattery and ego massage, and Vronsky would behave as though this was the high spot of his day. Philippe had seen it all many times before, usually from minor public officials hoping that a favorable interview would propel them into the giddy heights of becoming major public officials. But, familiar though he was with the routine, Philippe had to admit that Vronsky was starting to put on an impressive performance.
The first act was a short guided tour of the more obvious attractions of a simple life at sea—the Rivas, the helicopters, the freshwater pool (Vronsky had found that salt water made him itch), the sundeck, the cocktail deck, and the bridge, with its battery of the latest electronic marvels. Philippe did his best to appear impressed by it all, although his overriding impression, which of course he kept to himself, was that the money spent on this floating extravagance would have been far better spent buying a magnificent house in Marseille, an apartment in Paris, and two or three choice vineyards in Cassis.
Moving inside, Philippe was taken through the vast sitting room and into the guest quarters: five suites, each with its own jacuzzi and, as Vronsky said with a modest smile, each with its own sea view. From there, they inspected a kitchen that would have made a three-star chef feel at home, a wine cellar fit for a château, and a cold room with separate sections devoted to foie gras and caviar. As Vronsky said, it was little details like this that made The Caspian Queen such a comfortable home away from home.
“And, if I may ask, where is home?” said Philippe.
“The world,” said Vronsky. “The world is my home. Now let me show you my office, and then we can get down to work.”
The office was large and modern, decorated with tributes to Oleg Vronsky. The enormous head of a bear shot in Siberia shared space on one wall with a giant black-and-white photograph of Vronsky, in tails, whirling around a ballroom with a pretty girl in his arms. Other, smaller photographs showed Vronsky with various celebrities of the kind that rich men attract, and there were several framed letters, most of them in Russian, that Vronsky described as coming from “friends in high places.”
Champagne was served, and cigars were offered. Philippe took out his list of questions and a tape recorder, and the interview began.
A couple of hours away, in a smaller and less elaborate office just off the Promenade des Anglais in Nice, the divorce lawyer Antoine Prat was bent over a notepad, toying with zeros, trying to estimate how much his latest assignment might be worth. His most recent client, Sasha Oblomov, had instructed him to spare nothing in his efforts to uncover every detail of Francis Reboul’s life and movements. The investigation would be long and complex and, if Prat had anything to do with it, ferociously expensive. He congratulated himself, as he frequently did, on having chosen an occupation that feeds off human weakness, fallibility, and greed, three qualities that had helped to reward him so generously over the years. Tucking his scribbled calculations away in a drawer, he summoned his secretary, the nubile Nicole, and started to plan his first steps.
That evening, Reboul had decided to put aside the cares of the day and introduce Elena to one of his favorite Provençal wines, the pale and elegant rosé of Château la Canorgue, a vin bio made without the addition of extra sulfites. This, so Reboul claimed, made the wine not only delicious but also good for you, a theory that Elena was testing with enthusiasm. She was delighted that Reboul seemed more like his old lighthearted self; she had become very fond of him, and she was quick to encourage any distraction, liquid or otherwise, that might cheer him up.
The first glass was going down surprisingly quickly, as first glasses often do. “It’s working,” said Elena. “I’m feeling better already.” Reboul smiled, topped up her glass, and was about to explain the connection between sulfites and hangovers when Sam joined them, exchanging the phone in his hand for a glass as he sat down.
“That was Philippe,” he said, “who has just had his ass kissed from one end of Vronsky’s boat to the other.”
Reboul winced at the thought. “So I gather it went well.”
“It could hardly have gone better. If Vronsky hadn’t had a dinner date, Philippe would still be on the boat.”
“Did he get anything interesting?” asked Elena.
“Nothing dramatic,” said Sam. “It’s probably too soon to expect any of the indiscreet stuff. But Vronsky wants another session, this time with a photographer, so it looks promising.”
Reboul put down his glass and leaned forward. “Look,” he said, “Vronsky wants Le Pharo—God knows he’s made that obvious enough. And if what we hear is true, he’ll do whatever it takes to get it. But what is that, and how does he plan to do it? I’m sorry, but he’s not going to tell a journalist, is he?”
Sam held up his hand. “You can never tell what he might let slip. Once he gets really comfortable with Philippe—and it seems to be headed in that direction—he’ll let his guard down. He’ll start saying things to show how smart he is. It happens all the time. Besides, at the moment, Philippe is our only contact with Vronsky. I know it’s frustrating, but I think our best bet is to be patient and wait for him to make his move. And, while we’re waiting, to be careful. Very careful.”
Over dinner, at Sam’s suggestion, they started to put together a list of subjects and questions for Philippe to put to Vronsky during the next session. Patience, however, was going to be difficult.