The Marseille Caper (12 page)

The next two days passed slowly for Brian and Dave, but with a pleasant undercurrent of anticipation. It had been a long time since they had been given a chance to do what they did best, which was to inflict grievous bodily harm—or, as they would describe it, putting the boot in. And as a bonus, the victim was French. Like many Englishmen of their class and generation, they were ardent chauvinists. Here was an opportunity to strike a blow for Mother England against the teeming masses of foreigners who were taking over the world, including most of England’s best soccer clubs.

They were sitting in a bar on the Vieux Port, which they had chosen because it called itself a pub, a description that, for them, held out the promise of warm beer, darts, and a large TV set permanently tuned to a snooker tournament. Unfortunately, it was a pub in name only, without even a dart board. The television was tuned to a game show, with a lot of Frogs shouting the odds, and the beer was chilled. But it would have taken more than these shortcomings to blunt their enthusiasm for the task in hand.

So far, they had spent much of the past two days shadowing Philippe and learning his routine. They had followed him in their rented van as he commuted by scooter between the offices of
La Provence
on the Avenue Roger Salengro and his apartment in an old building just off the Corniche, the broad road that follows the coastline. Dave found it close to ideal, an excellent spot to stage an accident. Plenty of room to maneuver, he thought, and then there was that nasty old drop from the road to the rocks below. Landing on them would slow a man down.

“Tell you what, Bri,” said Dave. “It looks like a bike job to me—one in front of him, one behind. Crash helmets, so nobody can clock our faces. No worries.” Brian nodded sagely. He always left organizational details to Dave, content to limit his own role to the more physical side of their assignments. This time, however, there was one detail that even he could see might be a problem.

“But we haven’t got any bikes.”

“We nick ’em, Bri. We nick ’em. You have a look when we get back out on the street. There’s bikes parked all over the place. Some of them even have a helmet hanging off the handlebars. Or else the helmet will be in that box behind the saddle, and my old mum could open one of those with a nail file.”

Brian nodded again. This was what he liked about working with Dave: his grasp of the fine points. By now, Brian’s beer had become warm enough to drink. As he took a cautious swallow, he thought longingly of something tasty to go with the beer—a proper English pork pie, the kind served in his favorite pub, The Mother’s Ruin, in Stepney. Of course, the Frogs didn’t understand about these things. All the rubbish they ate, it was a miracle they were able to keep body and soul together. Snails, for God’s sake. Horsemeat. He shuddered.

“So when do you reckon we should do it?”

Dave had another swig of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Best would be after work, when he goes out for his dinner. When it’s dark.”

They left the pub and walked back to the van, pausing from time to time to consider the range of bikes on display. It was as
Dave had said. Bikes were everywhere—BMWs, Kawasakis, Hondas, Ducatis, even a highly polished Harley—and they had been left in places consistent with the cavalier French habit of parking wherever you please, regardless of regulations.

“We don’t want anything too flash,” said Dave. “Nothing that anyone would remember. And we’ll have to muddy up the number plates.” He ran his hand over a nearby Yamaha and patted the saddle. “Right. Here’s what we’ll do. Tonight, around two o’clock when it’s nice and quiet, we’ll nick the bikes and load ’em in the van. Tomorrow night we’ll do the job and dump the bikes. Piece of cake.”

Brian nodded. “Piece of cake, Dave.”

Philippe was working late, putting the final touches to the article he had spent the afternoon writing. His brush with Ray Prendergast still rankled, and this had caused him to be more than normally enthusiastic about Sam’s idea of putting a tent on the beach. It was, so he wrote, a breath of fresh air blowing into the murky, secretive, and often corrupt world of urban development. He went on to add to the complimentary remarks he’d already made about Sam’s project in a previous article, and finished off with a question: Would the other two projects show similar imagination, or was it going to be business as usual behind closed doors?

He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes, and looked at his watch. An evening of duty lay ahead—the monthly dinner with Elodie and Raoul, Mimi’s parents. If this followed its normal course, there would be discreet questions about his
career prospects and a gentle hint or two about getting rid of his scooter, buying a car, and, as Elodie always put it, “settling down.” It was a source of constant surprise to Philippe that this implacably bourgeois couple could ever have produced an unconventional daughter like Mimi. He remembered when she had dyed her hair that wonderful deep red. The parental shock—and barely concealed disapproval—had lasted for weeks. Ah, well. They were basically good, kind people, and Elodie was a magnificent cook. Philippe decided to have a shave in her honor and take her a bunch of roses.

Elena was packing. Sam had learned over the years and on many occasions that this was a sensitive ritual, never to be disturbed. Elena didn’t like to be watched when she was packing. She didn’t like to be helped. Most of all, she didn’t like to be talked to. Her relationship with her suitcase and its contents was one of mystical communion, and woe betide anyone who broke the spell. So Sam had decided to make himself scarce with a book in the living room.

Elena was off to Paris for two or three days, the result of a long and deeply apologetic phone call from her boss, Frank Knox. The Paris office was having a problem with its most important client, the CEO of a group of luxury hotels. He felt neglected, above all by the Knox head office. He felt he needed reassurance about the quality of service he was getting. He felt, in a word, unloved. Would it be possible, Frank had asked, for Elena to go up to Paris and smooth his ruffled feathers? If it seemed as though she had come all the way from Los Angeles
just to have a chat with him over dinner, so much the better. In return, Frank had said, he would insist on Elena extending her vacation by an extra week. On hearing the news, Sam had been very understanding. He was going to be busy over the next few days anyway, and her return would be a good excuse to celebrate.

He got up and went over to put his ear against the bedroom door. He was just able to make out the sound of the shower coming from Elena’s bathroom, always a sure sign that the challenges of packing had been successfully overcome. He went through to the kitchen and opened a bottle of the Domaine Ott
rosé
that Reboul had left for them. Carrying two glasses, he arrived back in the living room just as Elena, wet-haired and wrapped in a towel, came through the opposite door.

“All done?” Sam asked.

“All done.” Elena took a sip of her wine and put down her glass. “You know you said we could celebrate when I got back? Well …” She unwrapped the towel and let it drop to the floor. “How about a rehearsal?”

Eleven

“Will you miss me?”

Elena, dressed for the city in business black, was waiting for the early-evening flight to Paris to be called, and she and Sam were having a cup of coffee at the airport bar.

“How am I going to survive?” Sam’s hand, under the table, stroked her silken knee. “Seriously, I’d love to be coming with you, but there’s all kinds of stuff to get ready before the presentation. You know me—a slave to my work. I can’t resist a cozy evening with my laptop.”

Elena smiled. “Mimi taught me this great word the other day.
Blagueur
. Describes you perfectly.”

“It doesn’t sound good. What does it mean?”

“Joker. Kidder. Someone who’s full of it.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Sam looked up at the departures board. “You’d better get going. Give my love to Paris.”

A kiss, a wave, and she was gone.

Philippe took a final look at the piece he’d just finished, pressed the key that would send it through to the copy desk, and leaned back in his chair. This, for him, was one of the most satisfying moments of his job. Tomorrow, the words he had written would be history, but tonight, they still looked fresh—clear, incisive, well argued, with one or two touches of humor. He allowed himself a mental pat on the back. He had a couple of calls to make, and then he would be done for the day.

It was late, almost nine o’clock, by the time he went downstairs to pick up his scooter from the parking garage.

Reboul answered his phone on the third ring.

“Francis? Sam—I hope I’m not calling at a bad time?”

“Not at all, Sam, not at all. I’m all alone with a pile of papers from my accountant.” A gusty sigh came down the phone. “Business! One of these days I’m going to give it up, move to one of those shacks on the beach, find a brown-skinned girl, and become a fisherman.”

“Sure you will. And I’m going to enter a monastery. Meanwhile, I have a bit of good news: Philippe just called. He’s done what sounds like a useful piece about our presentation: ‘A Tent on the Anse des Pêcheurs’ is the headline. It’s going to be in the paper later this week.”

“Good. That should make Patrimonio’s day. Has he fixed the date for the presentation yet?”

“End of next week, so Gaston has plenty of time to set everything up.”

“What did you think of him?”

“Gaston? A total rogue.”

Reboul chuckled. “You’re right. But don’t forget, my dear Sam, he’s
our
rogue. Let me know if you have any problems,
d’accord?
Oh, and Sam? I thought it would be amusing to celebrate the presentation with a little dinner—very quiet, just the four of us. I’d like you to meet my new friend.”

Let’s hope we have something to celebrate, Sam thought as he put the phone down. Both Reboul and Philippe seemed to think the result was a foregone conclusion, but Sam wasn’t so sure. Wapping was a tough opponent, and Patrimonio was no fool. They weren’t about to give up quickly.

Restless and already missing Elena, Sam tried her number. Her phone was switched off. By now, she was probably sitting in some pompous restaurant with her client, doing her best to appear fascinated by his description of the problems of running a chain of hotels. Not for the first time, Sam thought how lucky he was to have a life that offered so much variety and so little routine. Consoled by this, he poured himself a glass of wine and went back to his presentation.

The atmosphere in the master’s cabin of
The Floating Pound
was not as convivial as usual. Lord Wapping was somewhat on edge. His spies had been picking up altogether too many favorable comments made by the committee about Sam’s proposal.
And so Patrimonio had been summoned for a council of war.

“I don’t like what I’m hearing, Jérôme. All this rubbish about a breath of fresh air, something for the people of Marseille—well, you’ve heard it all, I’m sure. It’s got to stop. Can’t you tell those blokes on the committee to put a cork in it?”

Wapping’s vocabulary often puzzled Patrimonio, but this time the sense was clear. His Lordship wanted his hand held. Patrimonio shot his cuffs, smoothed back his hair, and put on his most reassuring smile. “Oh, I don’t think we need to worry. I know these men, and they know I’ll take care of them. Let them have their say. In the end they will come to their senses. In any case, it’s votes that count, not a few remarks made for the benefit of the public. And votes, we must remember, are cast in secret.”

Wapping was sufficiently encouraged to pour two glasses of Krug from the bottle that stood in a crystal bucket at his elbow. Patrimonio took a first sip, raised his eyebrows in approval, and leaned forward, a frown on his face. It was his turn to be reassured. “There is a small concern.” He shrugged, as if to show how small it was. “That little
salaud
of a journalist. I hope we can be sure he won’t be writing any more of his nonsense, and I remember you said he would be taken care of.”