The Vintage Caper

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.”