The Marseille Caper (22 page)

For Patrimonio, the morning was rapidly spinning out of control. One after another, the members of the committee had called him to express their grave concerns about a known criminal being involved in a municipal project of this importance. There had also been a highly uncomfortable conversation with the mayor, who had told him in the most forceful language to take urgent steps to distance himself and his colleagues from Lord Wapping. With those angry words still fresh in his mind, Patrimonio had, as the mayor instructed, called an emergency meeting of the committee.

Not surprisingly, Francis Reboul’s reaction to the story had been one of considerable satisfaction, mixed with a tinge of frustration. It seemed possible, even likely, that Wapping’s bid would be disqualified, but Reboul’s hands were tied. Officially, there was nothing he could do to encourage that decision. He needed to talk to Sam.

“How is Elena?”

“Francis, they make girls tough in California. It’s as if nothing happened. She says she’s feeling a little spacey, but otherwise fine. She’s had breakfast, she’s had a swim, and she’s already talking about lunch and a glass of wine.”

“I’m so pleased. And Sam—congratulations. You did a marvelous job. We must celebrate. But first, we need to tie up the loose ends and get the project approved, and as you know I can’t do anything publicly to help.”

Sam was already ahead of Reboul. “You know what I’d do if I were you? I’d get your friend Gaston to talk to his friend
the mayor. He’s Patrimonio’s boss, so he must know what’s going on.”

And so it was agreed. When Reboul called Sam back, it was to tell him that, after talking to Gaston, the mayor had decided to attend the emergency meeting of the committee that was scheduled for the afternoon. Gaston had thought it useful to invite the mayor to dinner that same evening at Le Petit Nice. And, since no Frenchman in his right mind declines the offer of a three-star meal, the mayor canceled a previous engagement with the Marseille chapter of the Old Rotarians. Gaston was confident that, over what would undoubtedly be a magnificent dinner, the conversation would take a turn in the right direction.

The day was passing slowly for Lord Wapping and Ray Prendergast. Requests to have their cell phones returned had been refused, despite Wapping’s plea that he needed to call his imaginary sick mother who was languishing in a London nursing home. They sat in the stateroom, their gloom only partly lifted by doses of brandy.

“Bastards,” said Wapping. “They’ve got to let us call a lawyer, haven’t they?”

“I don’t know, Billy. The trouble is, they’re French.”

“Yes, Ray. I had noticed.”

“What I mean is the rules and regs are different over here. Give you an example. They were still topping people—cutting their heads off—until 1981.”

Wapping shuddered. “Bastards.”

“That’s not all. They don’t like kidnappers, either. We’re looking at twenty to twenty-five years in the slammer.”

The two men sat in morose silence for several minutes. Wapping drained his glass and was reaching for the bottle when he stopped, his hand still in midair. “We need to get off the boat, right?”

Prendergast nodded.

“You’ve got to get me to a hospital.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Heart problems, Ray. Severe heart problems.”

“I didn’t know you had a dicky heart.”

“I will have. Leave it to me.”

The police officer on duty outside the stateroom glanced through the window just in time to see Lord Wapping topple from his chair and lie on the floor clutching his chest, his mouth gaping.

Jérôme Patrimonio called the meeting to order, somewhat inhibited by the presence of the mayor, an impassive figure at the far end of the conference table. In what he would later think of as one of his most effective performances as chairman, Patrimonio began by deploring the shocking behavior of Lord Wapping. Here was a man, he said, who had deceived them all, and had proved himself to be totally unsuitable as a partner in this vitally important project. Fortunately, his true character had been revealed before any commitments had been made. Also, Patrimonio went on, two other excellent schemes had been submitted, and the committee had already had ample
time and information to consider each of them. And so, in the interests of fairness, democracy, and complete transparency, always close to his heart, he now proposed to put the matter to a vote. A simple show of hands around the table, he suggested, should be sufficient.

He looked at the mayor, slightly less impassive now, who nodded his approval. The members of the committee adjusted their expressions—grave and responsible, as befitted important men about to make an important decision. They were reminded by Patrimonio that they had the right to abstain.

The first proposal to be put to the vote was the hotel complex put forward by Madame Dumas on behalf of Eiffel International. Patrimonio looked around the table. Two hands were raised.

It was the turn of the second proposal, presented by Monsieur Levitt on behalf of the Swiss/American consortium. One by one, five hands went up, much to Patrimonio’s relief; his decisive chairman’s vote was not going to be necessary. He could not be blamed if anything went wrong.

“Well, gentlemen, I think we can agree that the committee has sent a very clear message, and I congratulate them on their decision.” And with that, he shot his cuffs and declared the meeting closed.

Back in his office, Patrimonio made two calls: the first to a surprised Sam, the second to a senior editor at
La Provence
. Patrimonio’s day, after a dreadful start, was beginning to look more promising.

Twenty

“
Mais c’est pas possible
. I don’t believe it.” Philippe was laughing and shaking his head as he passed the morning’s edition of
La Provence
across the breakfast table to Mimi. “Take a look. That rascal Sam—he never said a word to me about this.”

Mimi put down her croissant, licked the flakes of pastry from her fingers, and spread the newspaper in front of her. There, above the fold on the front page, was a photograph of Patrimonio and Sam shaking hands and beaming into the camera. “A New Look for the Anse des Pêcheurs” read the headline, followed by several paragraphs of breathless prose that congratulated the committee on its difficult decision and emphasized the amicable and constructive relationship between Monsieur Jérôme Patrimonio and Monsieur Sam Levitt. The piece went on to announce that there would be a press conference shortly, when full details of the winning project would be revealed. The final seal of approval was provided
by Patrimonio. “I am particularly pleased with the committee’s decision,” he said, “because this project was a personal favorite of mine from the very beginning.”

On reading this, Mimi snorted, almost choking on her coffee. “
Qu’il est bestiasse!
What an idiot.”

Philippe was still grinning. “Now there’s a press conference I’d hate to miss. Want to come?”

Following the arrest of Lord Wapping and his crew, Philippe and Mimi had decided that it was safe to move back into his apartment. As a result, they had been seeing less of Sam. “Leave him alone for a minute,” said Philippe, “and he starts mixing with all kinds of weird people.” He reached for his phone and tapped in Sam’s number.

“Is that Monsieur Sam Levitt, who has an amicable and constructive relationship with that horse’s ass Patrimonio?”

Sam groaned. “I know, Philippe, I know. Don’t be too hard on me. He called and said it was important that we meet at his office. When I got there, he’d just finished an interview with one of your guys on the paper. Then the photographer comes in …”

“And the rest is history. I bet he was wearing makeup for the shot. Now tell me—when’s the press conference?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. His secretary’s calling around to the media this morning. You can come, but only if you behave yourself.”

“
Moi?
Misbehave? I shall be a perfect example of the professional journalist.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. See you tomorrow.”

“Now, my dear Monsieur Levitt, it would probably be best if I handled all the questions,” Patrimonio said, glancing around the conference room, searching the walls in vain for a mirror. He was at his sartorial best for the occasion, in a cream silk suit, pale-blue shirt, and his treasured Old Etonian tie. “Of course, if I need to consult you on a technical matter, I will. But I think it best if there is one official spokesman for the project, don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely,” said Sam, who was more than happy to let Patrimonio take the questions. He was already enjoying the delightful irony of the situation: Here was Patrimonio promoting the project of his old enemy Reboul. “Apart from anything else,” Sam said, “your French is so much better than mine.”

Patrimonio’s secretary put her head around the conference room door. “I think they’re all here,” she said.

“Show them in, my dear. Show them in.” Patrimonio went through his ritual of hair-smoothing, cuff-shooting, and tie-tweaking before assuming a welcoming smile as the media filed in. A three-man television crew from a local station was followed by half a dozen writers from the specialist press—design and architecture,
Côté Sud
magazine—and a small troop of real-estate agents anxious to get a foot in the door. Bringing up the rear was Philippe. At the sight of him, Patrimonio’s smile faltered for a second before he recovered.

In his presentation, Patrimonio was careful to allocate
credit where it was due; that is, to himself. There he was, the steady hand of guidance at every stage of the process, from choosing the short list to overseeing the final decision. It was, if you believed what you heard, the story of one man’s dedication and sound judgment. Halfway through, Sam made the mistake of catching Philippe’s eye, and was rewarded by an exaggerated wink.

When Patrimonio finally stopped, the questions, as he had hoped, were soft. How much would the project cost? What was the schedule of work, and when would it start? What were the purchase arrangements for the finished apartments? Patrimonio gave adequately optimistic answers, and was congratulating himself on the smooth progress of the meeting when Philippe cleared his throat loudly and raised his hand.

“Monsieur Patrimonio,” he asked, “what has happened to the millionaire kidnapper? I understand he was on the short list. You two were quite friendly, weren’t you? Any news about him?”

But Patrimonio, a man well versed in the art of evasion, had no intention of going anywhere near that particular subject. “For legal reasons, I can’t possibly comment on that. It’s a matter for the police.” He consulted his watch. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, unless there are any further questions, Monsieur Levitt and I have work to do.”

Reboul had decided that the decision called for a celebration. It was still too soon, he felt, to be seen publicly in Marseille
with Sam and Elena, and so he had made arrangements for what he called “a little country lunch.” Two cars would come to the house to take Elena, Sam, Mimi, Philippe, and Daphne to a discreet restaurant hidden away in the Luberon. Reboul would meet them there.

At eleven o’clock sharp, two black Mercedes pulled into the driveway of the house. The two young chauffeurs, in black suits and sunglasses, guided the passengers to their seats, and they set off. Daphne had asked to travel with Elena and Mimi—“all girls together, dear, so we can gossip about you two,” as she said to Sam—leaving the men to follow in the second car.

In little over an hour they found themselves in a completely different world. After the crowds and concrete and sea views of Marseille, the Luberon looked lush and deserted. The rains of spring had helped to give the mountains a covering of every shade of green, fresh and shining, and the sky was postcard blue. It was perfect weather for lunch, as Philippe said to Sam.

The final part of the drive took them up the narrow, twisting road that climbs to the top of the Luberon until they came to a painted wooden sign, half-obscured by ivy, that announced Le Mas des Oliviers. An arrow pointed down a stony track that wound through fields of olive trees, silver-green leaves shivering in the breeze, and ended at the high walls and open gates of the restaurant. Framed in the opening, a broad smile on his face, stood Reboul.