Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation (12 page)

‘Anyway,’ said Todd, ‘back home it’s a way of brushing problems under the carpet. Like we don’t have people being made redundant any more. They suffer an “involuntary career event” and get “uninstalled”. People don’t die in hospital; they endure “terminal living” leading to “negative patient care outcome”. It all comes down to the same thing in the end.’

‘So what is so different about the Russian Mafiya?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘What’s different about the Mafiya? I’ll tell you what it ain’t for a start. It ain’t anything like the Mafia as we used to know it. Right? The old-style Cosa Nostra was “family” in all senses of the word. It had its Godfathers and its hierarchy, but at least you knew where you stood. You knew each family’s territory, and they knew that you knew.

‘Jimmy “Jerome” Squillante had the New York garbage all sewn up until his car was put through a crusher and turned into a cube with him inside it. The Anastasio brothers looked after the waterfront. The Gambino family got a percentage of every load of mixed concrete in the Manhattan construction industry until
they had to share it with three other families; the Genovese, the Colombos and the Luccheses.

‘Pinning it on them was something else again. In the end it was the IRS – the Inland Revenue Service – who got them for non-payment of taxes. Once the IRS latch on to something they never give up.

‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m not doing a whitewash job. I’m simply saying they’re predictable. You know where you stand. Right?

‘
Everything
is different about the Russian Mafiya. They got no rules; no disciplines. They’re like a bunch of unguided missiles. In the beginning they used to arrive in a country with a suitcase full of cash and a thousand ways of getting rid of it. Paying for everything on the spot: goods, services, the man who comes to do the garden.

‘The worst thing that happened to the Western world was when Russia lifted the Iron Curtain. Everyone wanted it to happen, but nobody had given any thought to the flip side of the coin.

‘They didn’t reckon on US aid money going straight into banks owned and run by the Mafiya. Wholesale robbery of their homeland took place during perestroika.

‘The government emptied their gaols of all the worst offenders and encouraged them to leave the country. Given the carrot, a lot of them looked around and saw that Israel has no extradition facilities in place, which made it a good bolt-hole, so they took blood samples and suddenly discovered they had Jewish ancestry.
From there they moved on to other places; America first of all, then onward and outward.

‘Go to Brighton Beach, USA, and you could be in Odessa USSR. Instead of getting a few cents on every bag of cement shifted in New York, like the old style Mafia, they moved into oil. In the space of five years, bootlegging gasolene in the East Coast area was netting them a cool $8 billion dollars a year plus.

‘How did they get away with it? In one word – bureaucracy. There’s nothing like creating a lot of phoney paperwork to slow things up. They’ve gotten the best shysters in the business to set up strings of small companies that can go bankrupt overnight if need be. It’s what’s called daisy-chaining.’

‘Somehow I can’t see our own Brighton beach suffering the same fate,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘The landladies wouldn’t stand for it. They have strict rules.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse thought of the cargo ship he’d seen loading up with cement in Nice and wondered. It had been bound for Amsterdam. A consignment of drugs mixed in would probably never be found. It would be like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

‘It could happen over here,’ said Todd, reading his thoughts. ‘How many French cops speak Russian? That gives them an edge to start with.’

‘And you think our friend is dipping his toes in the water …’

‘He’s no Dudley Doorite, that’s for sure. And he
ain’t here to enjoy the sunshine. These boys don’t goof around. Right?

‘The ones that have already made the trip now have their
dachas
in the hills behind Cannes. The newcomers think nothing of renting a yacht with a full crew for $5,000 a day – cash down. Doors get held open for them.’

‘You are absolutely correct.’ Mr Pickering grew serious for a moment. ‘People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. Money-laundering has become big business. At the last count the IMF estimate was that it runs to between $600bn and $l,500bn per year. And it isn’t just the criminal element. Big corporations do it, even governments get involved.’

‘I’m surprised you make the distinction,’ said Todd. ‘Remember Oliver North and the Iranian scandal? Remember the BCCI scandal in the UK? The biggest money laundering operation ever; and all under the benevolent eye of the Bank of England. I doubt if we’ll ever hear the truth of that one.’

‘And nobody throws the book at them?’

‘Listen,’ said Todd. ‘If you’ve spent time in a Russian Gulag nothing the West can throw at you is gonna hurt. The guys who run those places had their trade handed down from the time of the Revolution when hatred bred untold atrocities.

‘Besides, crime has infiltrated all levels of Russian society. The country is full of people who want to get rich quick and they don’t care how they do it. Guns are easy to come by. And not just guns. They have
off-the-shelf helicopters, guided missiles, nuclear hardware – you name it.

‘They’ve even been known to ship a submarine complete with a full crew to their friends in Colombia.

‘People smuggling is big business. It’s the current growth industry and there’s no shortage of applicants. Bosnians, Chinese, Afghans, Iraqis – all prepared to pay any price to buy their freedom; Moscow has become a major part of the pipeline.

‘In some ways they are cruder than the old style Mafia; in others – like in electronics – they’re more sophisticated. Mixed in with the old, there is a new breed of criminal, born in an electronic age. They have the advantage of instant communication in real time and they’re into share dealing via the Internet in a big way. And I’m not talking straight dealing.

‘As for money-laundering. Take a look in the Guinness Book of Records. Worldwide, the Mafiya have control of over four hundred banks with a total annual profit of $250 billion. That gives them a hell of a lot of clout. We’re not talking peanuts.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse made the mental leap from Nice harbour to the school and its array of aerials. At least the Almighty had made sure they now had one less.

‘In real terms,’ said Mr Pickering, ‘it means that a relatively tiny group of people have it in their power to destroy a small country if they feel like it.’

‘And the bigger ones can do nothing about it?’

‘From time to time they try. Getting them together is the hardest job.’

‘I tell you something else,’ said Todd. ‘When you do get them all together what happens? Straight off you have an argument. Right?’

‘It’s as I was saying yesterday evening,’ broke in Mr Pickering. ‘Different countries have different standards. Some lean over backwards to encourage the investment of money. They don’t question where it comes from. The biggest mistake in the world is to assume we all see things in the same light or even have the same ground rules.’

‘It begins the moment you are born,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Take the simple matter of twins. In your country the first one to be born is considered to have started life first and therefore is the elder of the two. In France the second to emerge is considered to be the elder because it was conceived first.’

‘That’s the kind of concept lawyers grow fat on back home,’ said Todd.

‘It’s another way of looking at it,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘Your Gertrude Stein summed it up when she said the French are logical and the English are rational.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse was suddenly reminded of the conversation he’d overheard in the train.

‘I can give you a typical case in point. I have heard that breast feeding isn’t allowed in your Houses of Parliament on the grounds that it is forbidden to bring refreshments into the chamber.’

‘A non sequitur if ever I heard one,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘But it sounds authentic.’

‘Bring in a rule like that in the US,’ said Todd, ‘and the House of Representatives would be flooded with women baring their breasts as they bring their kids in for the morning break.’

‘Perish the thought!’ exclaimed Mr Pickering.

‘It’s the way the cookie crumbles,’ said Todd.

Mr Pickering shrugged. ‘I haven’t heard that expression for years. It’s good to know some things don’t change.’

‘The world doesn’t change either,’ said Todd, ‘even if it does get a new coat of paint from time to time. Right?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse brushed away his
croissant
crumbs. ‘In French schools,’ he said quietly, ‘children are taught that there are three alternatives for everything.’

‘So what are you saying?’ asked Todd.

‘Either the Mafiya are left to get on with it, or it is a case of waiting until governments get together, which could take forever. The third alternative could be that the local families have some ideas of their own.’ He thought of the missing daughter. The truth was that in the short term, when push came to shove, he would be tempted to put his money on Uncle Caputo.

Mr Pickering closed his guide book with a snap, jotted down an address on a scrap of paper, and handed it across the table.

‘That is the name of the restaurant I mentioned. If you do go there, give my regards to the Madame. And if you fancy a stroll afterwards, take a look at the fair
down by the harbour. There, you will be able to see the Russian Mafiya at work.’ Reaching for his pipe, he made play of looking for some matches, then seemed to think better of it.

‘
À bientôt
. It’s time for my daily dip.’ With an absent-minded wave he was gone.

‘He’s a nice guy,’ said Todd when they were alone. ‘But have you noticed something? He never lights that fire-stick of his. He even has it in his mouth when he goes in the sea. I reckon he’s got some kind of electronic gear inside it.

‘Another thing … there’s something funny about that guidebook he carries around. Guess what date it was published? 1914! I asked him about it and you know what he said? “It is the 6th revised edition, old man!”.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if Todd knew about the umbrella. ‘There is no knowing with the British what they are up to,’ he said. ‘Tell me about Antibes harbour.’

‘There’s this travelling fair. When it arrived for the summer season a few weeks ago it was run by Rumanians. Now the Mafiya get fifty per cent of the takings.’

‘Just like that?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Not just like that,’ said Todd. ‘I guess there would have been a little bit of leaning on the players beforehand. Talk of a torch job maybe. We’ll never know. Old style Omerta doesn’t just mean silence between members of the Mafia. It goes for the victims
too. Threaten the lives of their families and they dry up like a clam. Accidents can happen – especially in a fairground. The body that was washed up the other night was either a warning or a statement – and not just to the antique trade.’

‘Is it worth it?’

‘You familiar with bunjee jumping?’

‘I have seen pictures.’

‘Wait until you see it for real, but in reverse. This is state of the art stuff. You can charge the earth for a go on the Human Slingshot Ride. People queue up to pay 150 francs to be strapped in an ejector seat and projected 150 feet into the air. For another 100 francs you get a take-home video showing what it’s like to experience 3g of acceleration followed almost immediately by free fall.

‘Like I say, it’s bungee jumping in reverse, except you have two cords. Instead of acting as a brake, the elastic projects you upwards so the sky’s the limit.’

‘I can’t wait,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly. He glanced down. ‘I know someone who won’t be going on it.’

He wouldn’t receive any thanks if he let Pommes Frites loose on garlic soup. One member of the family would be deemed quite sufficient.

Their room was empty when he arrived upstairs. Doucette’s tray had been collected, the bed made. He guessed she and Mrs Pickering must have already left for their outing together.

Looking out of the window he saw Mr Pickering
enjoying a paddle. His trousers were rolled up to just below his knees and it was as Todd had said. He had his pipe firmly gripped between his clenched teeth. The business end was pointing towards the hotel. One of the penthouse suites on the top floor to judge by the angle.

The beach was beginning to fill up. A North African bearing a tray-load of assorted gifts threaded his way in and out of the recumbent bodies on his first excursion of the day. There were no takers.

With time to kill before lunch, Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly felt at a loose end. Leaving the
Bâton de Berger
just inside Pommes Frites’ kennel in case he got hungry (in the old days it had often signalled the end of a case, and the most effective way he knew of destroying evidence. Even the nuts were reprocessed beyond recognition) he set off to walk into Antibes.

Taking a short cut, he joined the main coast road near the Port de la Salis and followed it until he reached the old harbour in Antibes itself.

The restaurant turned out to be one of those places where the fare probably hadn’t changed since the Madame running it had taken over from her mother. Entering it was like taking a step back in time.

Ricard ashtrays and blue Pernod water jugs, each containing a small posy of flowers, were dotted around the room. The sun shining through net curtains made filigree patterns on the marble-topped table as he sat down near the window and took stock of his
surroundings: bent-wood chairs for those facing the wall, faded red plush banquettes for those facing outwards.

Just inside the door there was an old wooden hat-stand, and alongside that a numbered rack, presumably where regulars kept their napkins. A well-worn path in the patterned tiled floor led to a zinc bar, behind which was an etched glass mirror. Beneath the mirror there was a shelf of inverted Paris goblets and a variety of
pastis
bottles.