The Vintage Caper (6 page)

Sam wasn’t convinced, but he let it pass. He saw that there were a couple of glasses still left in the bottle, and he felt the need to do them justice. “Well, professor, what would you say to a little cheese?”

Sophie was smiling as she leaned forward. “I have one word for you,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “Camembert.”

And Camembert it was, delicate and salty, which they agreed was the only possible way to end the meal.

When they parted company after dinner, Sam found himself watching her walk away. A fine-looking woman, he thought. That night he dreamed of teaching Elena to eat oysters
à la française
.

Sophie had pleasant memories of her first meeting with Sam. He was good company, he seemed to know his wine, and his slightly battered appearance was not unattractive. And there were those wonderful American teeth. Perhaps this assignment wouldn’t be so dull after all.

Nine

For Sam, the next two days were pleasant, instructive, and increasingly frustrating. Thanks to Sophie’s contacts, they had access to all the châteaus, including those where visitors were not normally welcome. It was thanks to Sophie, too, that the estate managers and cellar masters went out of their way to be helpful. At château after château—from the magnificent Lafite Rothschild to the diminutive Pétrus—the two investigators had been courteously received. Their story was listened to with patient attention. Their questions were answered. They were even given the occasional glass of nectar. But Sam had to admit that the visits, while they had added to his wine education, had failed to produce any progress. It was a discouraging list: two days, six châteaus, six dead ends.

On the evening of the second day, feeling tired and flat, Sam and Sophie looked for consolation in the hotel bar. Champagne, that unfailing restorative, was ordered and served.

“Well, I guess that’s it,” said Sam, raising his glass. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Thanks for all your help. You were terrific.”

Sophie shrugged. “At least you can tell them back in Los Angeles that you saw some of the great châteaus.” She smiled at him. “Our little version of the Napa Valley.”

Her cell phone rang. She looked at it, made a face, sighed, and put down her champagne. “My lawyer. Excuse me.” She got up and walked away to take the call.

Sam had noticed this before in France, and couldn’t make up his mind whether it was due to good manners or fear of eavesdroppers. But whenever possible, the French tried not to inflict their cell phone conversations on other people, preferring to find a private corner somewhere. It was a civilized habit that he wished his compatriots would adopt.

While he was waiting for the call to finish, he went back over the notes he’d taken during the château visits. At each château, they had asked who the regular clients were, the big buyers with serious
caves
to keep stocked. For the most part, the answers they had been given were unsurprising: Ducasse, Bocuse, Taillevent, the Elysée Palace, the Tour d’Argent, one or two private banks, half a dozen billionaires (whose names, of course, were not revealed). In other words, the usual suspects.

Sam sat and stared at his notes. And as he stared, another question occurred to him, a question that they hadn’t thought of asking. He was still mentally kicking himself when Sophie came back from her call.

He leaned forward, looking as pleased as a dog that had just unearthed a previously forgotten bone. “You know those old French detective movies?”

Sophie looked blank.

“You know, when the detective remembers something he’s overlooked?”

Still no reaction from Sophie.

“There’s this moment of revelation. He smacks his forehead with the palm of his hand.” Sam suited the action to the word. “
‘Zut!’
he says. ‘But of course!’” By now, he had a broad smile on his face.

“Zut?”
said Sophie. “What is this z
ut
and the head-slapping? Are you all right?”

“Sorry. Yes, I’m fine. But it just struck me that maybe we’ve been asking the wrong questions. Maybe we should be asking if anyone has
tried
to buy those particular vintages and been disappointed, because they’ve all been sold. Maybe there’s an obsessive enthusiast out there, someone like that guy who wanted to line his cellar with vintages from 150 years of Latour, someone who’s determined to fill the gaps in his collection at any price. That’s a motive, isn’t it?” His face was a hopeful question mark.

Sophie pursed her lips and nodded slowly. “It’s possible,” she said, “but in any case, we have nothing else to try.” And besides, she thought, this was much more amusing than sitting behind a desk dealing with a
vigneron’s
insurance claim for frost damage. “Well, what do you want to do? We go again to the châteaus? It’s better than the phone, I think.”

“We go again to the châteaus. Bright and early tomorrow morning.”

Sophie looked at her watch, frowned, and picked up her handbag. “I’m going to be late for my meeting, and my lawyer charges by the minute. So tomorrow—shall I come for you at ten?”

“Is that bright and early?”

“Sam. This is France.”

Sam woke early. The night before, there had been second thoughts, worries about dragging Sophie out for another day of dead ends. But sleep had restored his optimism, and the sun was shining. A good omen. He decided to go out for breakfast, found a busy café opposite the Grand Théâtre, and settled down with a
café crème
and the
Herald Tribune
.

A glance at the headlines did little to improve the morning. It was business as usual throughout the world. There were more wildfires in southern California, a futile barrage of political name-calling in Washington, the ever-thickening fog of pollution in China, unrest in the Middle East, tub-thumping from Russia, alarm and despondency in Europe, and a dose of gloom from Wall Street. Scattered throughout this litany of woe were advertisements for watches and handbags, each one more ostentatious than the last. A reminder that no matter how bad the news, it would never overcome the primordial human urge to go shopping.

Sam put aside the newspaper and looked around him. The other customers appeared curiously cheerful. Eating their
tartines
and drinking their coffee, their fresh morning faces as yet unmarked by the rigors of the day ahead, they seemed unaware that, based on this morning’s news, the world might well come to an end before lunchtime.

He ordered another
crème
and jotted down the wines and vintages that he was searching for: ’53 Lafite, ’61 Latour, ’70 Pétrus, ’75 Yquem, ’82 Figeac, ’83 Margaux. What a list. Sam couldn’t help but feel that these treasures were wasted on Danny Roth. To him, they were merely bottled status, and slightly unsatisfactory status at that, since he couldn’t put them on the wall for all to see. What would he do with the insurance money, Sam wondered, if the wine was never found?

His musings were interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. It was Sophie, calling to say it was not even ten o’clock yet, and here she was already at the hotel. Bright and early, as agreed. But where was he? Did they usually sleep this late in California?

He hurried back to the hotel to find her in the lobby. She was clearly in good spirits—smiling, holding up her arm, and tapping the watch on her wrist, pleased to have arrived before him. This morning she was dressed as if she had come on horseback—close-fitting riding pants tucked into soft leather boots, a tweed hacking jacket, a silk scarf with a subtle horseshoe motif (undoubtedly Hermès) knotted around her neck. The height of equestrian chic. Sam wondered if he should whinny as he looked her up and down with an appreciative eye. This was something you didn’t see every day in L.A.

“Great outfit,” he said. “Too bad you forgot the spurs. Sorry to keep you waiting. Are you feeling lucky today?”

“Of course,” she said.
“Très optimiste
. Today we find something. You will see.” She slipped her arm through his as they walked to the car. “Shall we start with Lafite?”

During the drive up from Bordeaux to the Médoc, Sophie explained the reason for her buoyant mood. The previous evening, after leaving Sam, she had met with her lawyer, who had told her that the three-year squabble with her ex-husband was finally settled, and she would shortly be free to remarry. Terms had been agreed upon. Her ex would keep the boat that he ran as a charter business in Saint-Barth; Sophie would keep the apartment in Bordeaux. Maybe they could even be friends. Or maybe not. He had been trouble from the start, Sophie said, always running off somewhere on a boat, and usually ending up with some unsuitable girl.

“Hmm,” said Sam. “Sounds like a man after my own heart.”

Sophie laughed. “You like boats?”

“I prefer girls. I don’t get seasick with girls.”

Sophie had chosen a road that bisected flat, immaculate countryside, with ruler-straight lines of vines running off to the horizon. There were châteaus to the left of them, châteaus to the right: Léoville Barton, Latour, Pichon-Lalande, Lynch-Bages, Pontet-Canet. Sam felt as though they were driving through a top-class wine list.

“Have you ever been to the wine country in California?” he asked.

“Napa and Sonoma? No, never. Perhaps one day. Is it anything like this?”

Sam thought of the dry, brown hills, the vast modern wineries with their gift boutiques, and the busloads of visitors. “Not exactly. But some of the wine is pretty good.”

“You know why that is?” Sophie didn’t give him the chance to answer. “Because you have so many French making wine over there now.” She grinned at him. “I am very
chauvine
. For me, French wine is best.”

“Try telling that to an Italian.”

“Italians make clothes and shoes. And one good cheese. Their wine …” Her mouth turned down, and there was a dismissive waggle from her hand. There was clearly no room for debate. Another victory, Sam thought, for the French superiority complex.

Leaving the center of Pauillac behind them, they could now see Château Lafite, standing on a low hill well back from the road. Sophie stopped the Range Rover and turned to Sam. “It’s just the one question, yes? Has anyone during the past year tried to buy the ’53 and been disappointed?”

“That’s it,” said Sam. “Here’s hoping.”

As the day wore on, and the first two châteaus were crossed off the list, it seemed to Sam that they were going to repeat the frustrations of the last two days. Memories were consulted, brows were furrowed, shoulders were shrugged, but—
désolé, mais non—
there was no recollection of a hopeful but disappointed purchaser.

Their luck changed on their third stop. The estate manager, a native of Pauillac and a friend of Sophie’s family, thought that he remembered a visitor from the previous fall who was very specific about the vintage he was searching for; a rather stubborn gentleman, in fact, who had been reluctant to take no for an answer. He had left his business card so that he could be contacted if any bottles of that particular vintage turned up. The estate manager scratched his head and went through his desk drawers, finally fishing out an old cigar box where he kept the cards that one day he might need. He fumbled them out onto the desk—cards of customers from England and America, wine journalists from all over the world, the odd master chef, barrel makers, sommeliers—and spread them out across the desk, an impressive display of copperplate script and fine white board.

His fingers fluttered over the cards before coming to rest.
“Voilà,”
he said as he slid one card away from the others,
“un monsieur très insistant.”

Sophie and Sam leaned forward to read the card:

Florian Vial
Caviste
Groupe Reboul Palais du Pharo 13007 Marseille

Driving to the next château—the fourth of the day—Sam asked Sophie if she knew anything about the Groupe Reboul. Had she ever heard of it? Was it a wine wholesaler?

Sophie laughed. “Everyone in France knows the Groupe Reboul. It’s everywhere, involved in everything.” She frowned. “Except wine. I’ve never heard of Reboul dealing in wine. I’ll tell you about him later, but don’t get too excited. It’s probably just a chance visit.”

But perhaps it wasn’t, because at Figeac and then at Margaux they found that Monsieur Vial had been there before them, looking for the ’82 of one and the ’83 of the other, leaving his card at both châteaus.

As Sam said to Sophie, “Twice could be coincidence. But not three times. I’ll buy you dinner if you tell me all about Reboul.”

Ten

Sam had always thought of himself as something of a gastronomic adventurer, ready to eat almost anything that was put in front of him: snails, frogs’ legs, shark fin soup, chocolate-covered ants, clay-baked squirrel—he had sampled them all, and found them interesting, if not always to his taste. But his courage failed him when it came to that great panoply of guts and gizzards known as offal. The very mention of tripe induced a shudder. His was a classic case of not trying something because he was sure he wouldn’t like it, and for more years than he could remember he had managed to avoid dishes that featured entrails of any kind. This was about to change.

Sophie had insisted that they return to Delphine’s restaurant for dinner, and while they were walking there from the hotel she explained why. It was a Thursday. And every Thursday, Olivier the chef prepared his sublime
rognons de veau
—calves’ kidneys—cooked in port and served with mashed potatoes that were so light and fluffy they almost floated off the plate and into your mouth. It was without doubt her favorite dish in the world. She was starting to go into the merits of the gravy when she noticed a lack of enthusiastic response from Sam, and a hint of dismay in his expression.

She stopped and turned toward him. “Ah,” she said. “I forgot. Americans don’t eat kidneys, do they?”

Sophie watched with amusement as Sam took a deep breath. “We’re not great fans. I guess we have a problem with innards. I’ve never tried them.”

“Innards?”

“You know—internal organs. Stomachs and livers and lungs and sweetbreads and giblets …”

“… and kidneys.” Sophie gave him a pitying look. How could a man have gone through life without tasting kidneys? She tapped his shoulder with an emphatic index finger. “I’ll make you a deal. Try them. If you don’t like them, you can have
steak frites
and I’ll pay for dinner. Trust me.”

Settled at their table, Sam was reaching for the wine list when Sophie’s index finger struck again, this time wagging back and forth like an agitated metronome.
“Mais non
, Sam. How can you choose a wine to go with something you’ve never tasted?”

Sam surrendered the list and sat back as Sophie studied the pages, nibbling on her bottom lip in concentration. He wondered if she could cook, and if she did, what she wore. A silk scarf for whipping up omelettes? Pearls for dessert? Did Hermès make kitchen aprons? His thoughts were interrupted by Delphine, bearing glasses of champagne, and the two women held a murmured conference that ended with an exchange of nods and smiles.

“Bon,”
said Sophie. “To start, blinis with caviar. Then the
rognons
, with an exceptional Pomerol, the 2002 Château L’Evangile. Is that good for you?”

“I never argue with a pretty woman who knows her kidneys.”

They touched glasses, and Sophie began to tell Sam what she knew about the Groupe Reboul.

The British have Branson, she said. The Italians have Berlusconi. The French have Francis Reboul—Sissou to his friends and to the faithful journalists who have been documenting his business exploits during the past forty years. He had become a national institution, she said; or, according to some, a national treasure, a flamboyant personality, a Marseille boy made good and loving every second of his success. He was comfortable with publicity. Indeed, his critics said that he was incapable of getting dressed each morning without issuing a press release about the color of his tie and the general state of his wardrobe. This, of course, endeared him to the media; he was a walking event, always good for a story.

And he was always doing a deal of some kind, Sophie said. The business empire he had built up over the years included construction, regional newspapers and radio stations, a soccer team, water treatment plants, transportation, electronics—he seemed to have a finger in everything.

Sophie paused as the blinis arrived.

“How about wine?” asked Sam. “Does he have a château or two?”

“I don’t know. Not here, anyway.” She took a mouthful of blini and her eyes closed for a moment. “Mmm, that’s good. I hope you like caviar, Sam?”

“Love it. Doesn’t everybody?”

“No. There are some strange people who don’t eat innards of fish.” She smiled sweetly and popped more blini into her mouth.

Sam held up his hands in surrender. “OK, OK. So I like fish innards. Go on about Reboul.”

Sophie searched her memory for the odds and ends of information about Reboul that she had picked up from the press and television. He lived in Marseille, in some sort of palace. His passion, frequently and publicly declared, was France and all things French (apart from Paris, which, like every good Marseillais, he distrusted). He even made the supreme sacrifice of paying French taxes, and gave a press conference each April to tell the world what a huge contribution he made every year to the national economy. He liked young ladies, and they made regular appearances at his side in the pages of celebrity magazines, always described by an indulgent press as his nieces. He kept two yachts: one for the summer, in Saint-Tropez, the other for the winter, in the Seychelles. And, of course, he had a private jet.

“And that’s all I know,” said Sophie. “If you want any more, you’ll have to ask my hairdresser. She’s mad about him. She thinks he should be president.” She glanced over Sam’s shoulder. “Close your eyes, Sam. Here come the kidneys.”

Sam closed his eyes, but his nose told him that the kidneys had been placed in front of him. He lowered his head and inhaled the thick, gamy scent, more intense than any ordinary meat, warm and rich and infinitely appetizing. Perhaps he’d been wrong about offal. He opened his eyes. In the middle of the plate, a fragrant wisp of steam was rising from a volcano of mashed potatoes, its hollow top holding a pool of gravy. Surrounding the potatoes were four plump, deep-brown kidneys, each one about the size of a golf ball.

Sophie leaned across the table to put a small dollop of mustard on his plate. “Not too much of this, or it will fight with the wine.
Bon appétit.”
She sat back and watched him take his first mouthful.

He chewed. He swallowed. He pondered. He grinned. “You know, I’ve always said that at the end of a tough day, nothing hits the spot like kidneys cooked in port.” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “Wonderful.”

The kidneys and the excellent Pomerol worked their magic, and by the time he and Sophie had used the last of their bread to mop up the last of the gravy they were both in a mellow and optimistic mood. The connection with Reboul was interesting, possibly nothing more, but at least it was a lead that gave them something to work on.

“From what you tell me,” said Sam, “he has more money than he knows what to do with, he’s a little eccentric, and he’s a sucker for everything French. Do we know if he’s serious about wine? I guess he must be, if he has a
caviste
. Does he have contacts in the States? Does he collect things apart from girls and yachts? I’d like to know more about him.”

“In that case,” said Sophie, “the one you should see is my cousin.” She nodded and picked up her glass. “Yes, my cousin Philippe. He lives in Marseille, and he works for
La Provence
. That’s the big newspaper of the region. He’s a senior reporter. He will know about Reboul, and what he doesn’t know he can find out. You would like him. He’s a little crazy. They all are down there. They call it
fada.”

“He sounds great. Just what we need. When shall we go?”

“We?”

Sam leaned across the table, his voice grave, his expression serious. “You can’t let me go without you. Marseille’s a big town. I’d get lost. I’d have nobody to eat
bouillabaisse
with. And besides, the people at Knox are depending on you to follow every lead, every clue, even if it means going down to the south of France. As we say in the insurance business, it’s a lousy job, but someone’s got to do it.”

Sophie was laughing even as she shook her head. “Do you always persuade women to do what you want?”

“Not as often as I’d like. But I keep trying. How about some of that Camembert Delphine keeps chained up in the cellar?”

“Yes to the Camembert.”

And, by the time they had finished the wine and the coffee and the Calvados that Delphine pressed on them, it was yes to Marseille as well.

Sam had finished packing and was about to send himself off to sleep with a dose of CNN when his cell phone rang.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Levitt. How are you today?” The girl’s voice sounded warm and perky and Californian. “I have Elena Morales for you.”

Sam swallowed a yawn. “Elena, do you have any idea what time it is here?”

“Don’t get mad at me, Sam. It’s been one of those days. I’ve had Roth on my back. He came into the office and raised hell for an hour—lawyers, the media, his buddy the governor—if he’d stayed any longer I think he’d have dragged in the Supreme Court. In other words, he wants to know what’s going on and he wants his money. He asked for your number, but I told him you couldn’t be contacted.”

“Good girl.”

“He’ll be back. What am I going to tell him? Have you got anything?”

Sam recognized desperation when he heard it. Danny Roth in full cry, foaming at the mouth and spraying threats around, was enough to try the patience of a saint. It was time for what he hoped was a plausible lie.

“Listen,” he said. “Tell Roth that I’m conducting negotiations with the authorities in Bordeaux, and I’m hopeful of a breakthrough within the next few days. But—and this is very important—these negotiations are delicate and
extremely
sensitive. The reputation of Bordeaux is at stake. Publicity of any sort, anywhere, will compromise everything. So no lawyers, no media, and no governor. OK?”

He could almost hear Elena’s brain ticking over at the end of the line. “What’s really happening, Sam?”

“Something’s come up which might or might not be important, so we’re going to Marseille tomorrow to check it out.”

“We?”

Sam sighed. The second time tonight he’d been asked that question. “Madame Costes is coming with me. She has a contact down there who could be helpful.”

“What’s she like?”

“Madame Costes? Oh, fair, fat, and fifty. You know.”

“Yeah, right. A babe.”

“Good night, Elena.”

“Good night, Sam.”