Grand Cru Heist (8 page)

10

Along the ridge, the thick forests of the Landes blocked the horizon. The ashen sky darkened suddenly in a call for night to come. Cooker was happy to let his assistant drive the Mercedes. Their long discussion had exhausted him. He asked Virgile to put on the high beams. “The roads are treacherous here,” he said.

Saint-Émilion was only three-quarters of an hour away. As they drove through Saint-Germain-de-Grave, Cooker pointed out the former Sisters of the Assumption convent, which had been converted to a wine estate a century earlier.

“The Château des Mille Anges—château of a thousand angels,” Cooker said.

“Did you count them?” Virgile asked.

“A lot of them didn’t show up, apparently. But you know as well as I do that angels never miss out on taking their share of drink.”

Virgile rolled his eyes at this vintner reference to the portion of wine that evaporates in oak barrels. He stepped on the gas pedal.

“Virgile, we’re not in any hurry. Stop here, would you?”

Before the shadows took hold of the hills and valleys that outlined the Bordeaux Premières Côtes, Cooker pointed his elegant index finger at the line of cypress trees that led to Malagar, a home that author François Mauriac had held dear.

“Look, there is the Maromé castle, which Toulouse-Lautrec liked so much,” Virgile said, glancing at Cooker with a smirk.

Cooker was blown away.
Who was being the professor now?
His assistant was no angel and took an evil pleasure in rebuffing people who were too full of themselves. Virgile continued: “And there is the Domaine du Cheval Blanc, which shouldn’t be confused with the Château Cheval-Blanc, which belongs to your friends Bernard Arnaud and Albert Frère. Isn’t that right, master?”

“It won’t be so much fun if I have nothing left to teach you.”

“But you did teach me a lot today.”

Virgile looked up at the sky, which was sadly lacking stars. But lights were shimmering at Génisson, Grand Housteau, Âtre Étoilé, and Grang Garron, estates whose wines Cooker knew well, not only because he had tasted them, but also because he had made some of them. The winemaker had a respectful word for each of these domains shining on the hills. As the night slowly took possession of the acres of vineyards, they shared a moment of wordless private pleasure. Was it still a decent hour to be visiting Angélus?

Cooker’s cell phone rang, interrupting the moment of grace and satisfaction the two men were enjoying.

“Cooker here.”

“It’s Welling. Am I bothering you?”

“Yes, I mean no. What’s new?”

“I have to see you. It’s urgent.”

“Okay. In my office, tomorrow, around, say, eleven.”

“What about tonight?”

“Listen, James, I’m in the middle of an assessment.”

“Can I come and join you?”

“Well, actually—”

Virgile could see that his employer was becoming entangled in ridiculous lies. Annoyed, Cooker finally said, “Okay, listen, be at the Café Français in an hour. No, I will not be alone. Yes, that’s right, my assistant will be with me.”

He hung up, angry with his caller. “What a bore.”

Virgile waited for his boss to give some explanation. It was long in coming, but then Cooker told the story of Welling’s visit to the office, from beginning to end. He recounted every detail. The winemaker had believed what the strange man had said.

“Why, then, did he lie to you at La Tortinière?” Virgile asked.

“For love of wine!”

“That’s a little simplistic.”

“He’s a collector, Virgile. A fabulous collector. He has tasted the best wines the world has to offer. I suspect he is rich and passes much of his time traveling the globe, putting together the best wine collection one could ever imagine.”

“Is that an end in itself?”

“You’re becoming philosophical, Virgile.”

“You’re contagious, sir.”

Cooker furrowed his brow, which in him was an indication that he was pleased. He liked the compliment.

“What exactly is he doing in Bordeaux?” Virgile asked.

“I admit that I didn’t ask him,” Cooker confessed, uncomfortable at being found out by his own student.

“It can’t be an auction that’s on his mind. That’s for sure,” Virgile said, still a little annoyed by the previous day’s assignment.

“We’ll know in less than an hour.”

“Unless he serves up another one of stories he’s so good at when he sits down to eat,” Virgile said.

“I promise you, Virgile, you’ll want to make his acquaintance.”

“If you say so, sir.”

§ § §

Cooker wondered why he didn’t go to the Café Français more often. This Bordeaux brasserie had the kind of old-world charm that had captivated him when he was an art student in the capital, cultivating refined idleness on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. The copper work was as shiny as it could get. The booths were comfortable, and the staff was friendly without overdoing it.

As an aesthete, Cooker chose the moleskine booth without hesitation. He could see the proud Saint André cathedral from there. Each of its dizzying pinnacles was lit up like a Christmas tree. In the middle of this extravagance of light, the Tour Pey-Berland was not to be outdone. The statue of the Virgin Mary on its steeple had been covered in gold leaf. This stone theater was outrageously flashy. Bordeaux had suffered far too long from the plague that had eaten away at its eighteenth-century façades and had every reason to be happy with its recent face-lift. The city shone anew and was experiencing a renaissance. Cooker was among those who were pleased. The city was like its wines and deserved to have its reputation supported at all cost, even if it meant a little artifice.

Welling did not spoil the scene. He was wearing a duffle coat that, with his graying hair, made him appear somewhat lost in the modern world. He removed it with such a pronounced British flair, the effect was almost theatrical. Welling gave Virgile his best smile and shook Cooker’s hand warmly. They each said they were dying of hunger and unrolled their napkins without waiting. Straight out, the Englishman ordered a 1988 Canon la Gaffelière. Then the waiter sent an order for three
entrecôtes
, rare, to the kitchen.

“Perhaps some mineral water?” the waiter asked.

“I think I was clear, young man,” Welling answered.

“Could there be a teetotaler among us?” Cooker added.

The waiter put on a poker face and held up his order pad.

“A what?” Virgile asked, hardly fooled by his boss’s act.

“A teetotaler,” Cooker pontificated. “A race of individuals not to be recommended, incapable of communicating about wine, with a natural repugnance for alcohol.”

The three diners broke out laughing. The waiter timidly joined in.

He filled their glasses with Saint-Émilion, which exhaled Oriental spices. Cooker noted aromas of cooked cassis. Virgile added cedar, while Welling, who chose his words carefully and spoke with affectation, mentioned smoked oak. What followed was a tasting by experts that intrigued the couple sitting to their left. The woman looked like she was soaking up Cooker’s words. She and her companion did not appear well-suited for each other, but this evening, they shared curiosity. Restaurants always seemed to be full of bored couples who enjoyed eavesdropping.

“Welling, you are looking well since you gave yourself up to the police.”

“Did you know that they weren’t even looking for me? I wasn’t even a suspect.”

“Thanks to your feet,” Cooker said.

“What do you mean?” Welling asked, pausing his knife above his steak.

Virgile was wolfing down his shallot-topped meat between mouthfuls of grand cru classé. The winemaker, distilling his deductions like an old rusty alembic, did not say much. His astuteness excited Welling, who emptied his glass of Canon-la-Gaffelière rather quickly. As Cooker explained how he had been exonerated in the Oksana case and then in the disguised suicide of the concierge, Welling tossed in “that’s right” after each forkful.

“There’s no hiding anything from you, Benjamin. It’s as if you were there when I talked to that cops. Do you know the captain?”

“A little,” the winemaker said evasively, eyeing his seemingly passive assistant. “But tell me, James, you didn’t really invite me here to tell me what I already know.”

“No, but to let you in on a good deal. It’s the least I can do for you. A private sale tomorrow. Nothing but treasures. Marvels, I assure you.”

“Like what?” Cooker asked.

“For starters, 1955 and 1975 Pétrus, 1983 Margaux, 1989 and 1995 Latour, 1995 Ducru-Beaucaillou, 1989 Cos d’Estournel, 1998 Calon-Ségur, 1996 Pichon-Longueville, 1970 Conseillante, 1977 Pape Clément, 1990 Talbot, among others.”

“Stop, stop, my cellar is already full,” Cooker said, trying to conceal the disillusionment in his voice. This list was worthy of a forger. “A private sale, you say?”

“Yes, I’m in cahoots with the Belgian broker I stood up on the night Oksana walked out on me. We have an appointment tomorrow morning at the Hôtel de Villesèque.”

Virgile, who had so far been quiet, nervously pulled off his sweater, as though the Canon-la-Gaffelière was making him too hot. He asked the waiter for water.

“Mineral water, please.”

Welling and Cooker both stared at him. Virgile responded, “Sirs, I now am joining the teetotalers.”

“You know, Virgile, that could get you fired,” Cooker said.

“Wait until tomorrow afternoon before doing the paperwork,” Virgile said with youthful arrogance. “Mr. Welling, could I tag along tomorrow?”

“Why would you like to do that?” the Englishman asked.

“To see those labels.”

“I’m afraid that will not be possible,” Welling answered, looking very sorry. “This kind of event requires the greatest confidentiality, and Mr. Wolvertem, my Belgian broker, would certainly not want you there.”

“Tell me, James, how did you meet this, well, this broker of the finest and rarest wines?” Cooker asked, articulating each word.

“On the Internet, Benjamin. I may be driving a Morgan, but I am a modern man. I take only the best from the past. That is my philosophy.”

“I have no doubt,” Cooker said.

“How many customers like you does your Mr. Wolvertem have in Bordeaux?”

“I’m his only one.”

“You mean he came here just for you?”

“Sort of.”

“Tell me, Mr. Morton,” Virgile said, “sorry, Mr. Welling—I can’t get your name straight. Please excuse my ignorance, but how does a private sale like this work?”

“It’s really very simple,” the Englishman explained. “You go to the host’s hotel suite. You tell him what you would like to order and how much, and so on. He gives you a price. You can sometimes negotiate a little, but not always. There’s a man in the hotel parking garage who will have what you purchased in a vehicle.”

“You get it on the same day?”

“About an hour after you’ve made the purchase.”

“Nothing written.”

“We are among men of honor, Virgile.”

“Certainly, but we don’t know this Mr. Wolvertem, and apparently he plans to keep his identity a secret.”

“You’re right,” Welling said, looking a little embarrassed.

Cooker was relishing this discussion. But only a tremor in his nostrils divulged his delight.

No, he would not have any dessert. “Just a coffee. A double espresso for the young man.”

Welling declined an after-dinner drink proposed by his friend. He was very focused on satisfying Virgile’s somewhat aggressive and unrelenting curiosity.

“What do you intend to buy Mr., uhm, Welling?”

“Ask Benjamin. He knows my weakness for Saint-Émilion. I won’t forbid myself a few Médocs or Pomerols.”

“So you’ll buy out the Angélus.”

“Yes, for sure. If there is any, I wouldn’t hesitate. Generally speaking, the prices are a good deal, compared with what I’ve seen recently at the auction houses.”

“Which means?” Virgile asked.

“Fifty to sixty euros a bottle for very good years. More, of course, for historic years,” Welling whispered.

Cooker took a pen from his jacket and jotted a few figures on the paper tablecloth. Then he ripped off the corner and slipped it to Welling.

“I’ll take all the Angélus for the years noted, no matter how much. Then we can split them fifty-fifty if you want.”

Welling rubbed his chin, then sighed and sneaked a self-righteous look in Virgile’s direction before giving Cooker a wink.

“Do you want a check tonight?” Cooker asked.

“I believe Mr. Wolvertem prefers cash. Actually, I’m sure of it.”

“That should be expected, considering his job—if you can call it a job,” the winemaker said, drinking the last of his coffee, which was now cold.

“It’s what I said, nothing written down,” Virgile said, slightly irritated that his boss was condoning this black market.

“Virgile, I’ll see you at the office tomorrow around noon,” Cooker said, turning to address Welling. “That is, unless you change your mind and accept that he come along for the sale. He knows how to be discreet, you know.”

“Benjamin, don’t insist,” Welling said with some authority. “It’s better for our transaction this way.”

“You are the best judge of that,” Cooker said, taking out his credit card.

“No, let me get this,” Welling said, snatching the bill away from Cooker.

Cooker and Virgile said good night to Welling in front of the gates of the city hall without any excess politeness.

“Bye, old chap,” Cooker mumbled, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

“Good-bye, Mr. Morton,” Virgile said.

As Cooker pulled out his phone to call Elisabeth, a freezing breeze had chased the last night owls away from the Place de Rohan. The cafés had turned off their signs. The Bar de l’Hôtel de Ville was the only place still open, attracting hybrid techno animals who also milled in the deserted Rue de Ruat. High up, the Pey Berland Madonna had to be shivering. Cooker and Virgile would not yet be going home...