The Marseille Caper

Thirteen

“I don’t believe this. He’s got permission from the mayor? Have you checked?” Lord Wapping took his half-smoked cigar-a Cohiba, he liked to tell people, fifteen quid apiece-and crushed it to death in the ashtray.

“It’s true,” said Patrimonio. “I regret infinitely, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“As per bloody usual. And I thought you had the whole thing sewn up. But no. First the journalist and now this. What about the mayor? Is he for sale?”

Patrimonio thought about the mayor’s irreproachable record, his constant efforts to reduce crime, his loathing of corruption. “I think it would be most unwise to try anything with the mayor. That would immediately destroy our chances.”

“What about that other place? Have you got that sorted out?”

“Of course. No problem.”

“That makes a change.” Wapping put down the phone and tried to relight the remains of his cigar. As soon as he had heard about the tent on the beach, he had told Patrimonio to find an equally unusual setting for his presentation, and a renovated grain silo down near the port had been suggested. It wouldn’t attract the publicity of the tent, but it was certainly better than the Parisian team’s choice of the conference room in a Marseille hotel, where their presentation was being held that afternoon.

His Lordship brooded. He was running out of time, and he was running out of excuses to fend off the banks. Desperate measures were called for. He summoned Ray Prendergast, and went over the situation with him.

Prendergast listened and nodded, looking more than ever like an attentive gnome. “What we have here, Billy,” he said as Wapping finished his tale of woe, “is an opportunity to think outside the box. Now then, when is Levitt’s presentation? Day after tomorrow, right? So there’s not time to start all over again if an accident should happen.”

“Who to?”

“Not who to, Billy. Not this time. I was thinking of something more along the lines of a natural catastrophe-Brian and Dave and a box of matches. Very careless with the matches, our Dave. And what happens? Guy Fawkes’s night with all the fireworks, that’s what. Whoops, the tent goes up in flames, and so does the presentation.”

The idea appealed to Wapping instantly. It was crude, simple, and menacing, like some of the stunts he’d pulled in the old days. Besides, time was short and there weren’t many options. He nodded. “All right, Ray. We’ll give it a go. Wait until the last minute-tomorrow night. Don’t let them have a chance to find another tent.”

In addition to all his other responsibilities, Gaston had been given the task of finding an interpreter to help with Sam’s presentation. Most of the project committee spoke some English, but Sam was anxious that nobody should miss any important details.

Two candidates had survived Gaston’s selection process, and Sam had arranged to interview them at the house. Elena was standing by, more out of curiosity than a sense of duty, to welcome the two hopefuls. The first was a young Frenchwoman in her twenties, Mademoiselle Silvestre, and it was instantly clear why Gaston had picked her. Despite the black dress and the attache case, there was more than a hint of the bedroom about her, accentuated by her perfume, the height of her heels, and the elaborate way in which she adjusted her skirt and crossed her legs after she’d sat down.

Sam swallowed hard and started to go through his list of questions. Yes, she was bilingual, and yes, she was available for the evening of the presentation. When he asked her how she had learned to speak such good English, she smiled.

“Perhaps you’d like to see my curriculum vitae,” she said, making it sound more like an invitation to a romp than a question. She took the papers from her attache case and leaned over to pass them to Sam, treating him to a heady whiff of perfume and a most unbusinesslike panorama of bosom.

“Looks good,” he said. “I’ll read this and get back to you.”

Elena came back after showing her out. “That’s the kind of girl who would sit on your lap to take dictation.”

“How can you tell?”

Elena sniffed. “Women know these things. The other one’s just arrived. Much more suitable.”

Miss Perkins, a regal woman of a certain age, had worked in the liaison department of the British Consulate in Marseille for twenty years before it was shut down. She wore a starched white blouse fastened at the neck with a cameo brooch, and what she would describe as a sensible skirt and shoes. She immediately took charge of the interview.

“Would you prefer that we talked in English or in French? I imagine you’re more comfortable if we use English.”

“You’re right. Let’s do that. I guess Gaston will have told you what we need? The project committee is not all that fluent in English, and I’d like our presentation to be as clear and professional as possible. That will obviously impact their decision.”

A pained expression appeared on Miss Perkins’s pink face. “If you will forgive my saying so, ‘impact’ is a noun. In correct English, it is never used as a verb. Rather like the persistent misuse of ‘hopefully,’ I’m afraid it is one of the many infelicities committed by our American friends.” A sweet smile took the sting out of her words. “Now then, dear. I shall need to have the text of your presentation so that I can make a written translation we can leave with the members of the committee. I hope that will be possible?”

“Of course, Miss Perkins.”

She held up a plump hand. “Please, dear. Call me Daphne. After all, we are going to be working together.”

Sam joined Elena outside the house to see Miss Perkins safely into her tiny car, a classic 2CV, and watched it clatter out through the gates.

“You were right,” said Sam. “Much more suitable. In fact, I didn’t have a chance. She just took over, which is fine with me. You know how I adore strong women.”

Elena rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

They went back into the house, to find Philippe clutching his ribs and pacing up and down as he finished talking on his cell phone. As he turned toward them, they could see that his eye, once black, was turning a mottled, jaundiced yellow. “That was Etienne,” he said, “my contact at police headquarters. He did me a favor and went through the log for the past few days. Two bikes were reported stolen the night I got hit-which is exactly what professionals would have done. They never use their own wheels. Here,” he said, opening his laptop, “take a look at this.” He read it out to them in English.

The headline on the screen got the piece off to a dramatic start: “MY BRUSH WITH DEATH ON THE CORNICHE,” and the text began by describing the attack in clinical detail, concluding that it had been a skilled, professional job. Philippe then went on to speculate. He had been careful to avoid mentioning names, restricting himself to questions: Why had this happened at this particular time? Who was behind it? What was their motive? And in the end, a few stirring words about an attack on a journalist being an attack on the freedom of the press.

“Well? What do you think?” Philippe closed the laptop and patted it. “Could you take a mug shot to go with the piece before the eye clears up?”

Elena was shaking her head. “I don’t know, Philippe. Are you sure about this? These guys aren’t playing games.”

“I think Philippe’s right,” said Sam. “They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with something like this. If Wapping’s behind it, and we’re pretty sure he is, he’ll be gone and back in England within a few days. As long as Philippe stays here, he’ll be safe. And who knows? Perhaps this kind of publicity will make Wapping behave himself. It might even help the police.”

Elena fetched her camera and photographed Philippe posing in front of a plain white wall, doing his best to look grim and disfigured. Sam looked at the image on the camera’s tiny screen, then showed it to Philippe. “Terrific. You look like a corpse. Tell the guys at the paper not to retouch a thing.”

Reboul was back in Marseille after a few days of business in London. Sam’s call was answered by a long-drawn-out grunt that could have been either pain or pleasure before Reboul’s voice took over. “Sorry about that, Sam. I’m having a massage, and she has thumbs of steel, this masseuse.”

“How was your trip?”

“A little strange. There were times when I thought I was still in France. You know, there are between three and four hundred thousand French living in London now. There’s a sort of expensive ghetto in South Kensington they call La Vallee des Grenouilles-Frog Valley-and parts of London are just like Paris with bad weather. How the world has changed. Now tell me-what’s been happening?”

Reboul listened quietly to an account of the events of the past few days, taking particular pleasure from Sam’s interview with Patrimonio. There was just the occasional murmured “tres bien” by way of interruption until Sam came to the subject of Philippe.

“You mean you told him everything? This journalist? Is he discreet? Most of them aren’t.”

“He guaranteed to keep your name out of it until the moment when you step in with rescue financing. I know him well. He’s on our side, I promise you. Trust me.”

“The two most dangerous words in the language. But”-Sam could almost hear the shrug at the other end of the line-“what’s done is done. You trust him and I trust you.”

Sam put down the phone with a silent prayer that Philippe would be as good as his word. It would be difficult, he knew, for him to keep quiet, to suppress the journalist’s visceral urge to be first with the news, but Sam was sure that Philippe was that rarity, an honorable man.

One more call, this time to Miss Perkins. Did she have everything she needed for the presentation? He needn’t have worried.

“I’ve nearly finished translating your speech, dear. Very nice, in spite of one or two rather curious words and phrases-‘lifestyle’ and so forth. But then, you’re American. In any case, everything will be ready to be printed and bound tomorrow morning. This is all quite exciting, isn’t it? Do you think it might be helpful if I came to the presentation, just in case there are complications with the French?”

“Daphne, I wouldn’t dream of trying to do it without you.”

“Very well, dear. Tomorrow it is. I’ll be with you about midday with the presentation documents. Now be sure to get a good night’s rest.”

It was three in the morning, and Brian and Dave had no trouble finding a spot to park their rented car just above the beach. Without leaving their seats, they could see the tent fifty yards away, and the faint glow of light coming from one end.

“You reckon there’s someone in there?”

“Bound to be. Some old geezer, probably.”

“Suppose he’s having a kip?”

“Well, this will wake him up, won’t it? We’ll start at the dark end. That’ll give him time to hop it. Right. Off we go.”

They got out of the car and looked up and down the deserted stretch of the Corniche before opening the trunk and taking out two twenty-liter jerricans of kerosene and two gas firelighters. Down the steps and onto the beach, their feet made no sound in the sand. They were just about to fan out on either side of the tent when Brian stopped. He turned to Dave, close enough to whisper.

“What’s that noise?”

They stood in the darkness, listening intently. They could hear a low, continuous rumble coming from inside the tent.

“They must have a generator in there.”

The rumbling became louder as the tent flap was pushed open, and two dark shapes came out onto the beach.

“Bloody hell.” Dave had forgotten to whisper. The Rottweilers heard the sound and started in their direction, wary and now silent. Without thinking, Dave and Brian dropped the jerricans and made for the steps that would take them off the beach, only to find that the dogs had circled around to block their escape. The two men retreated. The Rottweilers followed them down toward the sea, as intent and disciplined as sheepdogs patrolling their flock.

“Do you know about dogs, Dave? Can they swim?”

The dogs quickened their pace, and as they came closer there was an impressive show of teeth glinting in the moonlight. Brian and Dave waited no longer. They turned and hurled themselves into the water, where they spent a cold and nervous half hour putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the dogs.

Jules, whose turn it was to spend the night on guard duty, whistled the dogs back and gave them each a biscuit. Walking around the tent, he found the jerricans. Perhaps there would be fingerprints on them. But to hell with it. They’d still be there tomorrow. He stretched and yawned. He’d call the police in the morning.

The day had started early and badly for Lord Wapping, with the sodden and shamefaced Brian and Dave having to confess complete failure, and it wasn’t long before there was another dose of unpleasant news. Ray Prendergast had received an e-mail from Hoffman and Myers, the private bank that was Wapping’s biggest creditor, and it made uncomfortable reading.

“They’re well pissed off, Billy. Not only that. They’re sending two of their heavies over to Marseille to sort things out, ‘following your unsatisfactory response to our previous communications.’ That’s what they said.”

“Bastards. How’s a man expected to make an honest living with all this interference? Did they say when they were coming?”

“That’s a bit of a problem, Billy. They’re going to be here tomorrow unless we can put them off.”

Wapping got up from his desk and paced over to the nearest porthole. His presentation was scheduled for three days’ time, and his only chance was to keep the bankers at bay until that was over. He looked out to sea, which was as flat as a board. The sun was up, there was no wind: a perfect cruising day.

He turned back to Prendergast. “Right,” he said. “Send them an e-mail. Tell them I’m at sea for a few days, and can’t be reached. Regrets, best wishes, all that crap. And tell Tiny to get the boat ready to go as quickly as possible, OK?”

“Where are we off to, sweetie?” asked Annabel, who could never resist an open door and the chance to eavesdrop. She had appeared in the doorway draped in a towel, her hair still wet from the pool. “Can I put in a tiny request for Saint-Tropez? Sir Frank is there for the summer, and so are the Escobars from Argentina. Such fun.”

Miss Perkins had arrived as promised with the presentation documents, and had agreed to stay for lunch. Philippe, looking less jaundiced by the day, had been joined by Mimi. Sam was bringing the barbecue to a healthy glow, Elena was tossing the salad, the rose was chilling nicely, and the mood around the big table under the parasol pines was good-humored and optimistic.

There is something about eating outside on a fine warm day that brings out the raconteur in people. They sit back. They relax. They feel expansive. It soon became apparent that Miss Perkins had plenty of stories to tell, from her schooldays at Roedean, which she described as “a temple of learning for wayward middle-class girls,” to some highly indiscreet revelations about life in the British Consulate. Time passed quickly, and on glancing at his watch Sam was surprised to see that it was already two-thirty. They needed to go. The presentation was scheduled to start at four.