The Marseille Caper

Nineteen

Elena stirred and turned over. With her eyes still half-closed, she reached out a hand, and when Sam took it, her face softened into a smile. “Oh, Sam, dear sweet Sam, where have I been? What time is it?”

“You took a day off. I’ll tell you about it later. And it’s breakfast time. Do you feel like having anything?”

“A shower. Coffee. A croissant. More coffee.”

Despite Elena’s protests, Sam insisted on helping her as she got out of bed. She stretched, kissed him, and walked into the bathroom as though she’d been through nothing more dramatic than a good night’s sleep.

Back in the kitchen, Sam found Mimi on the phone and Philippe pounding away on his laptop. “Listen to this, Sam,” he said, translating off the screen. “Millionaire Kidnap Suspect Helps Police with Their Enquiries-Beautiful Victim Rescued from Helicopter.” He looked up at Sam. “Pretty good headline, don’t you think? Mimi’s trying to get hold of the editor before he gets into the office. He’s going to love it. So will the police. They can always use some good press.” Philippe waved Sam away and resumed his pounding, humming with satisfaction as he wrote. He barely noticed Mimi put down her phone and give him the thumbs up. “He likes it,” she said, “but it’s going to have to go through the lawyers. So if you could get it to him by lunchtime, that would be great.”

Sam prepared a tray with coffee and croissants and went back into the bedroom, where Elena, in her terrycloth robe, was sitting on the edge of the bed. She inhaled the steam coming from her cafe au lait, dipped the end of her croissant in it, took a first bite, and grinned. “Now, Mr. Levitt. Tell me what happened. Did I have fun?”

The following morning saw Philippe’s article on the front page of La Provence, illustrated by a photograph of Wapping’s boat, with the helicopter on the stern clearly visible. Philippe had gone as far as the lawyers would allow, and anyone reading the piece would be left with the impression that The Floating Pound was manned by unsavory and possibly criminal foreigners. Those with a personal interest in the story were not slow in picking this up.

It completely ruined Jerome Patrimonio’s breakfast. This he liked to take in a cafe on the Vieux Port, where he was cultivating a clandestine relationship with the young wife of the elderly patron. But today there was no flirting, there were no lingering glances, no intimate moments as hands touched while the bill was being paid. The other regular customers were aware of Patrimonio’s close connection with a veritable English lord-indeed, he frequently boasted about it-and one of them had shown him the article. He read it initially with a sense of shock, and then with increasing concern; not for Wapping, of course, but for himself. What would come out of the police investigation? Would he be implicated in any way? How could he protect himself as much as possible from any unpleasant repercussions? He left to go to his office, a distracted and worried man.

For Lord Wapping, too, the day started badly. He was under house arrest on the boat, his phone confiscated, his helicopter immobilized, police uniforms wherever he looked. He was enough of a realist to accept that he had been caught en flagrant delit, as one of the police officers had informed him (or, as Ray Prendergast put it, with his trousers round his ankles). This was bad enough, but it was not the only cloud on his horizon. Ever since the arrival of the police, Annabel had been behaving as if she hardly knew him.

Poor Annabel. She didn’t need to see Philippe’s article to know that she, and everyone else on the boat, would probably be treated as an accomplice to a criminal act unless she could prove that she had no knowledge of the kidnapping. In fact, this was almost the case. During her time with Wapping, she had developed a very efficient blind eye to what she called his business interests, and she had instinctively avoided asking any questions about the sleeping figure that Brian and Dave had brought on board. Now her mind was racing. If only she could find a way to get off the boat and over to her dear friends in Saint-Tropez. They would know what to do. It was all too, too ghastly.

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.

Jerome 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.