The Marseille Caper

Sixteen

Philippe was already in the kitchen, standing at the window and nursing his first espresso, when Sam came in-a haggard, unshaven, red-eyed Sam wearing his rumpled clothes from the day before and clutching his cell phone. He got himself a cup of coffee and sat down.

“Still no news?” asked Philippe. Sam shook his head. The night before, when Sam had told him about the phone call, Philippe had once again called the police, the hospitals, his underworld contacts, and the emergency services. As before, the result had been a series of blanks. It was time to acknowledge the ugly fact that last night’s caller had been serious; Elena had been kidnapped.

Philippe came and sat down. He put his arm around Sam’s shoulder, wincing as his cracked ribs complained. “I know it’s hard, but let’s try to be logical about this. D’accord?” Sam sighed and nodded. Philippe continued: “It’s not a normal ransom job, because nobody’s asked you for money. They’ve been very specific about what they want and how they want it done. Also, the guy spoke in English. Did he have any kind of accent?”

“Hard to tell. His voice was distorted.”

“That’s standard procedure.” Philippe shook his head. “Putain-I’m starting to talk like a cop. But did he sound English, or like a Frenchman speaking English?”

Despite the distortion, Sam remembered, the voice had sounded completely at home with English. “Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure he was English. A Frenchman nearly always has difficulty pronouncing English words that begin with an h. This guy didn’t have a problem.”

“Right. So an Englishman calls you and wants you to pull out of the project. Now who’s going to do that? Who would gain from it? Who else could it be but Wapping or one of his entourage?” Philippe got up to make some more coffee. “It has to be him.” He looked at Sam and shrugged. “That’s the easy part. Now we have to work out where he’s holding Elena. Bear in mind that he doesn’t know Marseille very well, so he’s not going to hide her in some apartment. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t involve Patrimonio in something like this. That would make Patrimonio an accomplice to a criminal act-too risky. Now put yourself in Wapping’s shoes. He needs to keep Elena somewhere secure, somewhere discreet, somewhere he has total control. Where does that lead us?”

“The boat?”

“Exactly. The Floating Pound, where there’s no chance of any outsiders seeing something they shouldn’t. Also, if he has a problem he can just sail away. Plus, he has the helicopter. So let’s assume that we know who the kidnapper is, and we know where he’s keeping Elena. Now we come to the hard part. Somehow, we have to get onto the boat.”

“Philippe, just a minute. Where are the police in all this? Why can’t we get them to raid the boat?”

Philippe shook his head slowly, and took a deep breath. “Down here, we don’t like getting on the wrong side of rich foreigners. It’s bad for business. Marseille has had enough trouble with its reputation already. But more important, much more important, there isn’t any evidence-no recording of that phone call, no witnesses, no clues. Just our little theory, our word, that’s all. No proof. And without something to go on, no cop is going to board a private vessel.”

“Don’t you have a really solid police contact we could talk to? An inspector?”

“Andreis? He retired-went off to Corsica to make cheese.”

Sam had started the morning feeling desperately worried and frustrated. Now he was getting angry. The thought of Elena being used as a bargaining chip made him crave action, preferably something that involved breaking Wapping’s neck. And with the anger came a rush of energy, all memories of a sleepless night forgotten.

“OK, so we need to search that boat. If we can’t use the police, then we have to think of something that will make the search look official. Otherwise they won’t even let us on board.”

Sam’s phone rang. He grabbed at it, nerves making him clumsy. It was Reboul, hoping in vain for good news. He was shocked to hear about the kidnap call. “Sam, I don’t know what to say. It’s my fault for getting you into this mess. I just want you to know that you can count on me for any help I can give you. Anything at all. What are you going to do?”

“I’m working on it. I’ll let you know.”

While he’d been on the phone, a tousled, yawning Mimi had joined them. She went over to Sam and put her arms round him. “Still nothing?”

Sam shook his head and bent down to kiss her forehead. It was burning hot. “Mimi, are you feeling all right? You’ve got a hell of a temperature.”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious. There’s some bug going around. I’ll be fine.”

There are times when the mind makes some curious random connections, and Mimi’s bug took Sam back to an unhealthy moment in Marseille’s history. “You two would know more about it than me, but wasn’t there a big plague in Marseille back in the eighteenth century? I remember reading about it.”

Philippe looked puzzled. “It was in 1720,” he said. “When they weren’t bothering too much with quarantine. Thousands of people died.”

“So I guess there must now be quarantine restrictions.”

“Of course. Especially now, you know, given all the problems with illegal immigration. Why do you ask?”

“Well, suppose there was a report that some contagious disease might have been brought into Marseille on a boat-let’s say, a boat from the Ivory Coast. Wouldn’t the quarantine authorities want to do some emergency health checks, to make sure it wasn’t spreading?”

For the first time that morning, Philippe grinned. “I think I can see what’s coming.”

“A team from Health and Immigration, with a couple of cops as official backup, to inspect all foreign-registry boats.”

“Starting with Wapping’s boat?”

“Exactly. But at night, when nobody’s expecting a visit.”

In ten minutes, they had worked out a shopping list, and Sam called Reboul.

“Francis, we have an idea, but to make it work we need a police speedboat, two guys who could pass as police officers, and a few medical accessories. For tonight. Can you help?”

Reboul took a moment to think. “The speedboat is no problem. Nor is the medical equipment. The police officers-ah, yes, I think I know just the men for that. Give me half an hour to set things up, and meet me in an hour at the private terminal at Marignane. Bring your passport just in case. You can tell me all about your idea while we’re on our way.”

“Where are we going?”

“Corsica, my friend. Corsica.”

Sam was shaking his head as he put down the phone. “How simple life is when you’re a billionaire. It looks like we’re all set.”

Philippe had been pacing up and down in an agony of curiosity. “Well? Well?”

“Reboul is taking me to Corsica this morning. I think we’re going to have a meeting with two fake cops.” Sam went over to Mimi, who curled up in an armchair. He kissed her burning forehead once more for luck. “I’ll never forget you gave me the idea. Now take a couple of aspirin and get back to bed.”

When Sam arrived at Marignane’s private air terminal, Reboul was already waiting, his cell phone to his ear. He finished his call and came over to embrace Sam. “I’m so sorry about this. So very sorry.”

In fact, Sam was feeling better and more positive than he’d felt for several hours. He was no longer passive, just waiting; he was doing something, and activity is a sovereign remedy for most problems. He clapped Reboul on the shoulder. “This is going to work. I know it’s going to work once we find our cops.”

“You’ll see,” said Reboul. “Let’s get on the plane and I’ll tell you about them.”

Once again, Sam was struck by the boarding process, or rather by the lack of it, when flying private. They strolled across the tarmac to the plane, where the copilot welcomed them at the top of the gangway. The steps were retracted, the pilot taxied over to the takeoff point, and they began the short hop to Calvi, on the west coast of Corsica. Boarding time: three minutes.

Coffee was served by the copilot, and Reboul began his briefing. He started with the names of the two gentlemen they were going to meet: the Figatelli brothers, Florian and Joseph, known as Flo and Jo. Reboul had known them since the two were boys, when their father ran a hotel in which Reboul had a majority interest. When the father died after a hunting accident, Reboul had taken the two young men under his wing, offering to put them through university. To their mother’s dismay and with Reboul’s wholehearted approval, they had chosen to complete their education in Las Vegas, where a small but select college offered a course in celebrity hotel management.

English, naturally, was part of the curriculum. There was also detailed instruction on the running of a hotel, even down to the pitfalls of hiring illegal immigrants, the importance of clean fingernails, the art of increasing the tip, and, not least of all, the defensive measures to be taken if a distinguished guest, such as a United States senator, should be discovered in flagrante with a couple of the local hookers.

Flo and Jo graduated with honors, and to mark the occasion they were each presented with a special T-shirt, of black silk, with the city’s motto embroidered in tasteful gold lettering: “What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas.” Ready for the real world, they returned to Calvi and took over the management of the hotel. They ran it well, and they expanded their business to include bars, a beach franchise, and one or two enterprises that were not, strictly speaking, legal.

“But they’re good boys,” said Reboul, “and I trust them to do a good job.”

“They need to look official, Francis. What about uniforms?”

Reboul tapped the side of his nose. “They already have regulation police uniforms. I can’t think why. Better not to ask.”

The plane was beginning its descent toward Calvi when Reboul leaned forward. “One thing we haven’t talked about, Sam. You mentioned a doctor. Where are we going to find our doctor?”

“You’re looking at him.”

“You? You can’t go. They’ve met you. They know you.”

“Not with a surgical mask, a pair of glasses, hospital scrubs, and one of those little hats they wear in the operating room. All they’ll see of me is my eyebrows.”

Reboul rubbed his chin in thought. “Well, maybe. But they’ll recognize your voice, your accent.”

“I won’t speak English. In fact, I won’t speak to them at all. I won’t need to. I’ll have my secret weapon.”

“What’s that?”

“A bilingual nurse.”

Calvi, according to legend the birthplace of Christopher Columbus, is one of the most beautiful sights in an island filled with beautiful sights. The six-hundred-year-old citadel, built on a promontory, dominates a town of sweeping sea views and narrow streets, and it was in a bar in one of these narrow streets that Sam and Reboul met the Figatellis.

The Pourquoi Pas looked like dozens of other Mediterranean bars: fishing nets, soccer posters, a framed and autographed snapshot of Johnny Hallyday, a flat-screen TV, and several fine old mirrors with the gray bloom of the years visible through the glass. It had been chosen for the meeting because it belonged to the Figatellis, and it had a very private back room.

“You’re a little early,” said the girl behind the bar. “They’re on their way. Please follow me.” She led them into a small room stacked with cases of pastis and Corsican whisky. A wooden table with four chairs had been set up in the middle of the room and, while they settled down, the girl came back with a tray-two coffees, two shot glasses, and a plain dark-green bottle with a handwritten label that simply said “Flo amp; Jo.”

Reboul noticed Sam looking at it. “That’s myrte,” he said, “the Corsican liqueur made with aromatic myrtle. Some people call it the fisherman’s breakfast.” He filled the glasses and handed one to Sam. “Here’s to Elena, and her quick return.”

Sam took a sip. It was thick and honey-sweet, with a powerful, slightly astringent kick that went all the way down. “That’s good. Homemade?”

Reboul was just starting to explain the mysteries of making myrte when the door opened and the Figatelli brothers appeared, each carrying a bulging bag. They descended on Reboul with terrifying enthusiasm, kissing him, patting him, squeezing him. “Eh, Sissou, it’s good to see you. Where have you been all this time? What’s going on? Who’s your friend?”

Introductions were made, and Sam’s hand was vigorously mauled by each of them. Brawny, barrel-chested, black-haired, with the blue eyes that one sometimes finds around the Mediterranean, they looked tough and competent. “Serious men” was how Reboul had described them. He looked at his watch. “We don’t have much time. Did you bring the uniforms?” The Figatellis nodded. “Good. Now let me fill you in.”

Half an hour later, the four of them were on their way back to the airport. Sam had been impressed by the way the brothers had responded to the briefing, listening intently, interrupting only to ask intelligent questions. He allowed himself to feel renewed stirrings of optimism. Now all he had to do was recruit his nurse.

He called her from the plane. “Daphne, it’s Sam. I’ve got a real problem. Could you possibly meet me at the house in an hour or so?”

“What have you been up to, you naughty boy? Of course I’ll be there.” As Daphne Perkins finished the call she experienced an agreeable tingle of anticipation. She had arranged an afternoon of whist and polite conversation with some friends, but this would undoubtedly be more interesting. Sam was always getting up to something interesting. Such a scamp.

Elena stirred, opened her eyes, and tried to sit up. She felt thick and nauseous. Her throat was dry, and she was having difficulty focusing. She was barely aware of the figure sitting at her side in the darkened cabin, barely felt the needle going into her arm. She slept again.

“If you have a bottle of stout, dear, that would do very nicely. It’s the heat.”

Sam looked in the fridge. The nearest thing to stout he could find was a bottle of German Bock, which he poured into a glass and put in front of Daphne. She took a long, thirsty swallow. “That’s much better, dear. Thank you. Those roads are so hot, and my poor old 2CV doesn’t have air-conditioning.” She took another swallow, and dabbed her lips with a lace handkerchief. “Now then. What is this problem you mentioned?”

By the time Sam had finished explaining, Daphne’s mouth was tight with anger. “Blackguards!” she said. “They should be horsewhipped. That poor, poor girl. What can I do to help?”

Sam took her through the preparations that were being made for the rescue attempt. “And I’m going to be the doctor,” he said. “But here’s the problem. I can disguise my appearance, but I can’t disguise my voice. So I’m going to pretend to be a French doctor who doesn’t speak a word of English. And that’s where I hope you come in, as an interpreter with full medical qualifications, able to pass on my instructions in English. In other words, you will be Nurse Perkins, the doctor’s right arm.” Sam looked at her, his expression quizzical, his head cocked. “That is, if you’re prepared to do it.”

The beam on Daphne’s face was answer enough. “What fun!” she said. “Of course I’ll do it.”

“You don’t happen to have a nurse’s uniform, by any chance?”

Daphne pursed her lips. “It’s been many years since a man asked me that, dear. I don’t. But I can get one from my friend who works at La Timone. It’s a big hospital, and they have everything there-plenty of uniforms. Shall I get a stethoscope as well?”

Sam was smiling with relief. “Why not? Actually, get two.”

They agreed that Daphne should come back to the house that evening around nine o’clock, and they would set off for the Vieux Port just before ten. As Sam watched her drive the old Deux Chevaux through the gate, he gave her a mental three cheers. With women like that, he thought, it was no wonder the British Empire had lasted so long.

Sam found Mimi and Philippe by the pool-Mimi wrapped up on a chaise longue under a parasol, and Philippe in the shallow end doing the exercises that had been prescribed by his nurse. He waved to Sam and climbed up the steps from the pool, wincing as he climbed. “It’s bizarre,” he said, “I can move in the water with no pain at all, but now … ouf! How did you get on?”

“We have our nurse: Miss Perkins, the lady who helped me out with the presentation. She’s terrific. She’ll be here tonight in her full nurse’s regalia. If you like, I’ll get her to take Mimi’s temperature.”

“What about your outfit?”

“Olivier’s picking it up now. And the two boys from Corsica are coming up to the house at nine. We’ll all go off together. If we get to the boat just after ten, between dinner and bedtime, that should be about right. With any luck they’ll all be drunk.”

“Is there room for a disabled journalist on the speedboat?”

“Not a chance. But look at it this way: you get the story without getting wet.”