The Marseille Caper (19 page)

“I won’t speak English. In fact, I won’t speak to them at all. I won’t need to. I’ll have my secret weapon.”

“What’s that?”

“A bilingual nurse.”

Calvi, according to legend the birthplace of Christopher Columbus, is one of the most beautiful sights in an island filled with beautiful sights. The six-hundred-year-old citadel, built on a promontory, dominates a town of sweeping sea views and narrow streets, and it was in a bar in one of these narrow streets that Sam and Reboul met the Figatellis.

The Pourquoi Pas looked like dozens of other Mediterranean bars: fishing nets, soccer posters, a framed and autographed snapshot of Johnny Hallyday, a flat-screen TV, and several fine old mirrors with the gray bloom of the years visible through the glass. It had been chosen for the meeting because it belonged to the Figatellis, and it had a very private back room.

“You’re a little early,” said the girl behind the bar. “They’re on their way. Please follow me.” She led them into a small room stacked with cases of pastis and Corsican whisky. A wooden table with four chairs had been set up in the middle of the room and, while they settled down, the girl came back with a tray—two coffees, two shot glasses, and a plain dark-green bottle with a handwritten label that simply said “Flo & Jo.”

Reboul noticed Sam looking at it. “That’s
myrte
,” he said, “the Corsican liqueur made with aromatic myrtle. Some people call it the fisherman’s breakfast.” He filled the glasses and handed one to Sam. “Here’s to Elena, and her quick return.”

Sam took a sip. It was thick and honey-sweet, with a powerful, slightly astringent kick that went all the way down. “That’s good. Homemade?”

Reboul was just starting to explain the mysteries of making
myrte
when the door opened and the Figatelli brothers appeared, each carrying a bulging bag. They descended on Reboul with terrifying enthusiasm, kissing him, patting him, squeezing him. “Eh, Sissou, it’s good to see you. Where have you been all this time? What’s going on? Who’s your friend?”

Introductions were made, and Sam’s hand was vigorously mauled by each of them. Brawny, barrel-chested, black-haired, with the blue eyes that one sometimes finds around the Mediterranean, they looked tough and competent. “Serious men” was how Reboul had described them. He looked at his watch. “We don’t have much time. Did you bring the uniforms?” The Figatellis nodded. “Good. Now let me fill you in.”

Half an hour later, the four of them were on their way back to the airport. Sam had been impressed by the way the brothers
had responded to the briefing, listening intently, interrupting only to ask intelligent questions. He allowed himself to feel renewed stirrings of optimism. Now all he had to do was recruit his nurse.

He called her from the plane. “Daphne, it’s Sam. I’ve got a real problem. Could you possibly meet me at the house in an hour or so?”

“What have you been up to, you naughty boy? Of course I’ll be there.” As Daphne Perkins finished the call she experienced an agreeable tingle of anticipation. She had arranged an afternoon of whist and polite conversation with some friends, but this would undoubtedly be more interesting. Sam was always getting up to something interesting. Such a scamp.

Elena stirred, opened her eyes, and tried to sit up. She felt thick and nauseous. Her throat was dry, and she was having difficulty focusing. She was barely aware of the figure sitting at her side in the darkened cabin, barely felt the needle going into her arm. She slept again.

“If you have a bottle of stout, dear, that would do very nicely. It’s the heat.”

Sam looked in the fridge. The nearest thing to stout he could find was a bottle of German
Bock
, which he poured into a glass and put in front of Daphne. She took a long, thirsty swallow. “That’s
much
better, dear. Thank you. Those roads are so hot, and my poor old 2CV doesn’t have air-conditioning.” She
took another swallow, and dabbed her lips with a lace handkerchief. “Now then. What is this problem you mentioned?”

By the time Sam had finished explaining, Daphne’s mouth was tight with anger. “Blackguards!” she said. “They should be horsewhipped. That poor, poor girl. What can I do to help?”

Sam took her through the preparations that were being made for the rescue attempt. “And I’m going to be the doctor,” he said. “But here’s the problem. I can disguise my appearance, but I can’t disguise my voice. So I’m going to pretend to be a French doctor who doesn’t speak a word of English. And that’s where I hope you come in, as an interpreter with full medical qualifications, able to pass on my instructions in English. In other words, you will be Nurse Perkins, the doctor’s right arm.” Sam looked at her, his expression quizzical, his head cocked. “That is, if you’re prepared to do it.”

The beam on Daphne’s face was answer enough. “What fun!” she said. “Of course I’ll do it.”

“You don’t happen to have a nurse’s uniform, by any chance?”

Daphne pursed her lips. “It’s been many years since a man asked me that, dear. I don’t. But I can get one from my friend who works at La Timone. It’s a big hospital, and they have everything there—plenty of uniforms. Shall I get a stethoscope as well?”

Sam was smiling with relief. “Why not? Actually, get two.”

They agreed that Daphne should come back to the house that evening around nine o’clock, and they would set off for the
Vieux Port just before ten. As Sam watched her drive the old Deux Chevaux through the gate, he gave her a mental three cheers. With women like that, he thought, it was no wonder the British Empire had lasted so long.

Sam found Mimi and Philippe by the pool—Mimi wrapped up on a
chaise longue
under a parasol, and Philippe in the shallow end doing the exercises that had been prescribed by his nurse. He waved to Sam and climbed up the steps from the pool, wincing as he climbed. “It’s bizarre,” he said, “I can move in the water with no pain at all, but now … 
ouf!
How did you get on?”

“We have our nurse: Miss Perkins, the lady who helped me out with the presentation. She’s terrific. She’ll be here tonight in her full nurse’s regalia. If you like, I’ll get her to take Mimi’s temperature.”

“What about your outfit?”

“Olivier’s picking it up now. And the two boys from Corsica are coming up to the house at nine. We’ll all go off together. If we get to the boat just after ten, between dinner and bedtime, that should be about right. With any luck they’ll all be drunk.”

“Is there room for a disabled journalist on the speedboat?”

“Not a chance. But look at it this way: you get the story without getting wet.”

Seventeen

A soft, warm Marseille evening held the promise of a fine, calm night. A good omen, Sam thought. You can plan just about everything else, but you can’t plan the weather. Rain and a tearing mistral in an open speedboat would have made a depressing start to the expedition, and it was an expedition that had enough problems already.

He looked at his watch: 8:30. It was time to transform himself into Dr. Ginoux, specialist in contagious tropical diseases. He went into the bedroom, where his disguise—compliments of Reboul’s contacts—had been laid out on the bed: a full set of hospital scrubs, a pair of white rubber Crocs (the discerning doctor’s footwear of choice), a close-fitting cotton operating hat, a face mask, and a well-worn Gladstone bag. Next to these were two purchases Sam had made that afternoon: a high-tech light meter of the kind used by professional photographers, and a pair of heavy, black-framed glasses with plain lenses.

Sam took off his clothes. Was the correctly dressed doctor supposed to have medically approved underwear? Too bad. He put on the scrubs, the mask, the glasses, and the close-fitting hat, and went over to inspect himself in a full-length mirror, his Crocs squeaking on the parquet. A totally unrecognizable figure peered back at him. He felt a shiver of adrenaline. It wouldn’t be long now.

He checked the contents in both sides of the Gladstone bag. There were enough thermometers to take the temperature of an entire boat’s crew, several pairs of Latex gloves, a flashlight, spare face masks, and half a dozen loaded syringes. In the bag’s other compartment, a selection of dressings, antiseptic ointment, and a stethoscope. He was ready. Now all he needed to do was to find the patient.

Mimi and Philippe, waiting for him in the living room, looked him over. Mimi pronounced Sam completely anonymous. And, she added, a little frightening.

Philippe did a tour of inspection around him, nodding as he went. “Very good,” he said. “Maybe you could have a look at my ribs? No, seriously—not even Elena would recognize you.”

Sam pushed the face mask down until it hung around his neck, took off the glasses and the hat, and looked at his watch. The hands seemed to be stuck.

“Waiting is hard, isn’t it?” said Mimi.

“Sure is.”

They heard the sound of tires on gravel and the slamming of car doors. Sam went to open the front door. The Figatelli brothers, still carrying their bulky bags, loomed large in the half-light of the entrance.

“You
en forme
, Sam? Ready to go? We’ve been down in the Vieux Port, checking the boat. Everything’s fine, and we’re lucky with the weather. The sea is like this.” Jo passed a flat hand, palm down, in front of his body, as if stroking a straight line.

Sam introduced the brothers to Mimi and Philippe and had just shown them into the bedroom to change when he heard the tinny clatter of another car, Miss Perkins’s 2CV. The final member of the team had arrived.

Nurse Perkins, as Sam would henceforth think of her, was an immaculate credit to the medical profession. A severe bun had replaced her normal, more relaxed hairstyle. Her long white jacket, starched rigid, carried a small battery of thermometers in one breast pocket. Pinned to the outside of the other pocket was a nurse’s watch attached to a black ribbon. A starched white skirt, white stockings, white shoes, and a clipboard with pen completed the outfit. Florence Nightingale would have been proud of her.

“Perfect,” said Sam. “Absolutely perfect.”

“I do hope so, dear. I’m a little late because I had to restarch everything. These young girls nowadays never use enough, and then one becomes rumpled, which would never do for me.”

Mimi and Philippe were watching, fascinated by this vision in white.

“Mimi and Philippe,” said Sam, “meet Daphne. She’s our secret weapon.” Smiles and handshakes were exchanged, and Philippe was just about to ask exactly what a secret weapon
would do on a boat when Daphne, looking over his shoulder, said, “Oh my goodness—what strapping young men.”

With the change into police uniform, Flo and Jo seemed to have grown even bigger, the pistols and handcuffs on their belts adding an extra touch of menace to their already forbidding appearance. They saluted, took off their peaked hats, and grinned.

“Florian and Joseph,” said Sam, “but I think they prefer to be called Flo and Jo.”

“So much more chummy,” said Daphne, looking from one to the other. “But how do we tell who’s who?”

“I’m the good-looking one,” they said in unison.

Sam led them through to the dining room and sat them down. “I’d like to go through a few points so we’re all on the same page tonight. Stop me if you have any questions, OK?” He looked around at the attentive faces and smiled. “First, thank you for helping me. This is a lousy situation, and I don’t know what I’d have done without you. These people have already gone after our friend here”—he nodded toward Philippe—“and when I think of them taking Elena, I feel … well, I’m sure you know how I feel. So thank you. Thank you very much.”

Sam stopped to take a breath and gather his thoughts. “Now, problem number one is getting on board Wapping’s boat. The uniforms are going to help, obviously, and then there’s the cover story of a rogue virus going around the port. I’m hoping that should do it.” He looked at the Figatellis. “There’s a megaphone on the speedboat, right?” Florian nodded
and gave him the thumbs up. “Good. Well, let’s assume that the emergency medical team has talked its way on board. Here’s where Daphne is crucial. Remember that I’m supposed to be a French doctor, and I only speak French. So, right at the start, Daphne will have to tell them that she will translate my instructions into English. If we need to, we can consult together in a corner, somewhere they can’t hear my voice. All clear so far?”

Heads were nodding around the table. “OK. I’d like one policeman, Flo, to come aboard with Daphne and me. Jo stays in the speedboat in case anyone tries to slip away. Now here’s the tricky part. We don’t know what we’re going to find on board. We don’t know the boat’s layout or where the hiding places might be. But I’m counting on the element of surprise. They won’t be expecting us, and so Elena will probably be locked in one of the cabins.” He stopped and looked around the table.

“If that’s the case, it’s possible they might refuse to unlock the door. That’s when Flo gets nasty. Through Daphne, he’ll tell them that they’re obstructing official business, and if they don’t open the door he’ll kick it down. These are Englishmen we’re dealing with, and they’re not going to argue with a foreign police officer.”