The first Vronsky interview, with Philippe employing the slavish flattery he would normally reserve for insecure politicians, had gone well. By the time it had finished, Vronsky seemed relaxed, comfortable, and, so Philippe hoped, more likely to let slip an indiscretion or two. For this next session, Vronsky had even agreed to leave the floating womb of The Caspian Queen and meet Philippe for lunch at Peron, only insisting that a separate table for one be reserved for Nikki, the ever-present bodyguard.
Lunch started with a reaction from Vronsky that boded well for the interview. This was his first visit to Peron, and he was delighted with the expansive sea view, which happened to feature The Caspian Queen at anchor five hundred yards away.
“You see?” he said, nodding at the yacht. “She follows me like a faithful dog.”
Philippe smiled and poured the wine. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “You’ve had a fascinating life, been all over the world, made millions—excuse me, billions—and it would be a great shame if we tried to compress all that you’ve achieved into this one article. It cries out for more important treatment.”
Vronsky’s eyebrows went up. “You have something in mind?”
“I do. I’d like to suggest that I write your biography.”
Philippe was expecting a reaction—an attack of false modesty, perhaps, or a little preening, but Vronsky said nothing while he turned the idea over in his mind. Like so many rich and successful men, he was often the target of a nagging feeling that whatever he had wasn’t quite enough. Something was lacking. Recognition, fame, celebrity—however it was described, it would be the ultimate public confirmation that he, Oleg Vronsky, was exceptional. And a flattering biography was one way of achieving that. Not surprisingly, Vronsky found the idea appealing.
“I’ve done a little research,” said Philippe, “and it’s a great rags-to-riches story: modest beginnings, risk and adventure in Africa and Brazil, enormous success—people will love it.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I know we’re here to work on the interview. But I’m really excited about the biography. Would you think about it?”
With the seed planted, Philippe went back to his notes, and the questions began. They started harmlessly enough: How did Vronsky like France? What would be his next stop after Marseille? Did he play golf? Where did he stay when he was in London or Paris? Did he spend any time on the Riviera?
This led naturally into Philippe’s next question. “I’ve heard,” he said, “that dozens of Russians have settled in the South of France. Do you know many of them?”
“A few,” said Vronsky, “but not here. It’s too quiet for them here—not enough parties. They prefer the Riviera. Cap d’Antibes, for instance. I was there not long ago, and it’s getting to be like a suburb of Moscow.”
As lunch continued and the wine flowed, Vronsky revealed that he had little time for his countrymen: “Peasants, for the most part, peasants who have struck it lucky—loud, vulgar, and uncultured.” Philippe, feeling that the protestations were a little too glib, wasn’t altogether convinced. He made a mental note to look into the Russian colony on the coast.
As lunch drew to its liquid end, Philippe told Vronsky that he had enough material to start writing, and promised to arrange for a photographer to come and take pictures of the great man on his yacht, and perhaps at the wheel of his Bentley. They parted company on the best of terms, each feeling that the meeting had been more than satisfactory.
Nino Zonza was experiencing an unusual moment of indecision. Normally a man who made up his mind quickly, he found himself torn between the lucrative deal he had made with the Oblomovs and his natural instinct to side with the Figatellis, who were, like him, good Corsicans.
To add to his difficulties, there was the problem of what to do with the losers. If he should decide in favor of the Figatellis, the Oblomovs would be sure to look for revenge. And if he should choose the Oblomovs? Well, Calvi is a small town, and there are precious few secrets. The Figatellis would undoubtedly find out that he had taken a decision against them. They would be displeased, and a displeased Corsican on your doorstep is a very dangerous man.
Eventually, it was this consideration that helped him reach a solution that he found satisfactory: give the winners the problem, and let them take care of the losers. Yes. That would do very well. He summoned his chauffeur and gave him a scribbled note to be delivered to the Figatellis’ bar in the Rue de la Place.
The meeting was set for the following evening. As before, the Figatellis were picked up near the Citadelle and deposited at Zonza’s house by the mute chauffeur. But this time, the old man showed signs of hospitality, with a tray, three glasses, and a bottle of myrte on the low table in front of his armchair when his guests arrived. He waved the brothers to sit down opposite him.
“As I put in my note,” he said, “certain information has come my way that may be of interest to you. I shall be more specific, but first”—he smiled his gold-tooth smile—“perhaps you would care for some refreshment.” He filled the three glasses, holding the bottle with both hands to compensate for the tremors of old age.
He raised his glass. “To you, my fellow Corsicans.” They sipped the peppery, sweet liquid. Zonza dabbed his lips with a silk handkerchief, settled back in his chair, and began to speak.
The call came through later that evening, as Reboul was stepping out of the shower. By the time it had finished, he had dripped dry. He dressed quickly, and went downstairs to find Sam having a glass of wine with Elena before dinner. Ignoring them, he went straight to the bar and poured himself a large brandy.
“Francis, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Sam went over and patted his friend on the shoulder. “What’s the matter?”
Reboul took a long swig of brandy before answering, and Sam noticed that the hand holding the glass was trembling. “I’ve just had a call from Jo Figatelli in Calvi.” Another swig of brandy. “There’s a contract out to have me killed.”
“What?”
“Jo says it’s being set up by two voyous—Russians, both of them—and that can’t be a coincidence; it’s got to be that bastard Vronsky. He’s behind it, I’m sure.”
Elena and Sam watched as Reboul drained his glass and went back for more. “Is this real?” asked Sam. “Not just a rumor from a bar?”
Reboul shook his head. “Jo’s smarter than that. And besides, he got this from an old crook called Zonza, who runs most of the crime in Calvi. He’s been approached by these two Russians, the Oblomovs, who are looking for some local help to carry out the contract with them. They’ve promised Zonza a lot of money if he can find a couple of reliable men—Corsicans, obviously—to work with them setting things up. That’s not a problem, but there’s a complication: part of the deal is that the job must be done in Corsica, and not mainland France.”
“Why?” asked Elena, and then the penny dropped. “Oh, I get it. If it is Vronsky, he won’t be anywhere near Corsica when the job’s done. That’s his usual alibi, isn’t it? He’ll be a long way away, and he’ll have witnesses to prove it. Clean hands, no worries.”
Reboul had started to look a little better. Shock had been replaced by anger, and he was seething with outrage. “What can we do to get rid of this lunatic?”
“Well,” said Sam, “without some hard evidence, it’s no good going to the police, and so far he’s covered his tracks pretty well. Short of blowing up his boat or bribing his bodyguard to dump him overboard, it’s not easy to see how to get at him. But we’ll find a way. There’s always a way.” And, as the evening wore on, Sam came up with a suggestion that they all agreed had possibilities.
“This is a long shot,” he said. “But if we could catch the Oblomovs red-handed, that would give us some serious pressure to put on them. If their choices were a bullet in the head, a lifetime in jail, or cooperation, they might be persuaded to turn state’s evidence, spill the beans on Vronsky, and leave him facing a charge of conspiracy to commit murder. That should be enough to put him away for a very long time, safe and sound in a Marseille prison. The big problem, of course, is catching them red-handed, and that particular trap needs to be baited.”
Sam paused, and turned to Reboul. “In other words, the Oblomovs need to know you’re in Corsica before they’ll make their move.”
It was getting late, and it wasn’t a decision to be taken lightly. They agreed to sleep on it, but before going to bed Sam made a quick call to Philippe.
The next morning was gray and drizzly, rare for Marseille, and the weather matched the somber expressions of the group having breakfast while waiting for Philippe. Reboul looked haggard after a night with little sleep, and it took large doses of coffee and sympathy from Elena and Sam to lift his spirits.
Philippe arrived, wet and concerned. Sam’s call had given him the bare bones of the bad news, but no details. “Tell me everything,” he said, and Reboul repeated the conversation of the previous night, with Philippe shaking his head in disbelief. “This is crazy,” he said. “Are you sure it’s true?”
“Jo’s a good man. He doesn’t scare easily and he doesn’t make things up. I believe him.”
“And you think Vronsky would do this just because you won’t sell him your house?”
Reboul leaned forward, tapping the table for emphasis. “He has a history, remember? His partner in Africa? His partner in Russia? A business contact in New York? All dead. That’s his solution for dealing with people who get in his way. Vronsky has no rules. He thinks he can do anything he wants, and so far he’s been right. Why should it be any different this time? So yes, I do believe Jo.”
There was silence around the table until Reboul left his seat and started pacing up and down. “I’ve had enough,” he said. “I’ve never in my life run away from problems, and I’m not going to start now.” He stopped in front of Sam. “Call Jo, and work out a plan with him. I’m going to Corsica.”