The Vintage Caper

Twelve

“So what we’re looking for,” said Sam, “is a cover story, something that will get us into Reboul’s cellar for long enough to see exactly what he’s got in there. He has a lot of wine, so that could take a couple of hours. Maybe more. We’ll need to take notes, and we may need to get photographs. Oh, and it has to be a story that can’t be checked quickly.” He nodded his approval to the waiter, who applied his corkscrew to the bottle. “Not easy. Are you feeling creative?”

They had decided to eat in the hotel restaurant, which offered the local fish, the local white wine from Cassis, and a front-row view of the local sunset over the Vieux Port. It was still early, and apart from a table of businessmen taking their briefcases and marketing plans out for a festive dinner they had the restaurant to themselves.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” said Sophie. “If what Philippe says is true, to see Reboul is not a problem. We could say we were doing a profile of him for a magazine…” She stopped. Sam was already shaking his head.

“He’d want to know the name of the magazine, and his people would probably want to call the magazine editor to make sure it wasn’t going to be a hatchet job. In any case, interviewing Reboul is just a smoke screen, the means to an end. It’s really the cellar we want to see. The wines.”

Sophie’s experience of deceit and bluff was limited to the occasional socially delicate dinner party in Bordeaux, but she found she was enjoying the challenge of inventing a credible piece of fiction. “I know,” she said. “You are a rich American who wants to make a wonderful cellar-in a hurry, of course, like all rich Americans-and I am your consultant. We come to Reboul for inspiration, because we have heard he has one of the best cellars in France.”

Sam was frowning. “But what’s in it for him? Why should he help two strangers?”

“Because he likes to be flattered.” Sophie shrugged. “All men do-successful men most of all.”

“Sure. But it’s not enough of a reason, not for someone who loves publicity. And we know he loves publicity. He doesn’t seem the kind of guy who does good deeds in secret.”

Sam was about to pour the wine when he paused, the bottle halfway between the ice bucket and Sophie’s glass. “What was that you said just now? About Reboul having one of the best cellars in France?”

Sophie nodded. “So?”

“You say ‘best cellar’ to me and I think of a book. You know, a best seller. Now, suppose we were putting together a book. A big, glossy, expensive book. A book that’s all about the best cellars in France-no, make that the best cellars in the world-and we wanted to include Reboul’s cellar.” Sam was so taken up with his thoughts that he was oblivious to the dripping bottle in his hand and the patient waiter at his shoulder. “And why? Because it has everything: a great collection of wines, an extraordinary setting for a cellar, a fascinating and successful owner, everything. All of which, of course-and particularly the owner-would be photographed for the book by one of the world’s top photographers. So Reboul would get his flattery, but it would be public flattery. And we’d have a reason to spend as long as we wanted in his cellar. Long enough to make notes. Long enough to take reference photographs.” Sam sat back and gave up the bottle to the hovering waiter who had been waiting to fill their glasses. “What do you think?”

“Promising,” said Sophie. “Actually, very good. But I have a big question. Who are we? I mean, which publishing company do we work for? Surely Reboul would want to know.”

Sam found himself slipping into French ways, and gave Sophie a vigorous wag of his index finger. “We’re not publishers. We’re independent book packagers. We have an idea for a book. Let’s say we call it The World’s Best Cellars. Next, we commission people to write the text and take the photographs. We make up a dummy, and then we sell publishing rights to the highest bidder among the big international publishers. Bertelsmann, Hachette, Taschen, Phaidon-companies like that.”

“How do you know all these things?”

Sam thought back to his one and only brush with the publishing business. “A couple of years ago, I happened to be on a job in Frankfurt during the book fair. It’s a zoo, but it’s a big deal-publishers from all over the world go there to buy and sell. I got to know a few of the publishing people who took over the hotel bar every night. Boy, can those guys drink. They talked. I listened. I learned a lot. It was pretty interesting.”

As Sophie and Sam made their slow and enjoyable way through sea bass with fennel, some fresh goat cheese with tapénade, and a rosemary sorbet, they bounced the idea back and forth, testing it for problems and adding a few embellishments. By the time coffee arrived, they felt they had a story that would stand up. In the morning, Sophie would get Reboul’s office number from Philippe and, with luck, make an appointment. Sam would buy a camera and polish up their presentation.

“And I’ve just thought of the perfect way to end the evening,” he said as he signed the check. “A moonlit snoop.”

Sophie gave him a sideways look. “What is snoop?”

Sam tapped his nose and winked. “A clandestine reconnaissance. I thought it might be interesting to stroll up the road and take a look at our neighbor’s house. Want to come?”

“Why not? I’ve never been on a snoop before.”

Leaving the hotel, they turned up the hill and followed the Boulevard Charles Livon until they came to a pair of massive iron gates, which had been left open. A driveway led up through the darkness toward a distant glow, presumably coming from the house.

“Now I’ve seen everything,” said Sam. “A one-man gated community.” He set off up the drive, a slightly nervous Sophie one step behind.

She tugged at his sleeve. “Sam? What do we say if someone stops us?”

“First, we stop whispering. Then we say-oh, I don’t know, perhaps we’re a couple of innocent American tourists and we thought this was a public park. But remember, we don’t speak French. Smile a lot. You’ll be fine.”

As they moved farther up the driveway, the sound of traffic from the boulevard dropped to a muted rumble. Another two hundred yards found them at the end of a clipped lawn the size of a football field, and beyond it, ablaze with lights, the home of Francis Reboul.

Sam let out a soft whistle. “This place could give the White House an inferiority complex.”

They stopped to take it in. The building in front of them at the far end of the lawn was colossal-a three-story, three-sided pile, with the two shorter sides enclosing a graveled forecourt. Almost lost in a corner of the forecourt were half a dozen black limousines parked in a precise row, and by the light streaming through the ground-floor windows they could see a knot of uniformed chauffeurs, chatting and smoking as they waited in the cool night air.

“Party time,” said Sam. He looked at his watch. “We’d better not hang around. The guests may start coming out.”

They were turning to leave when they were hit in the face by the beam of a powerful flashlight. A security guard and a German shepherd came out of the night toward them. Neither of them looked welcoming.

Sam could feel Sophie freeze beside him. He took a deep breath, held up his hands, and smiled into the glare. “Hi. We’re kind of lost. Do you speak English?”

“Que faites-vous ici?”

“No, I guess you don’t speak English.”

The dog whined softly, and pulled his leash taut.

“We’re looking for our hotel,” said Sam. “The Sofitel. Hotel Sofitel?” He waved his arms, doing his best to seem like the kind of man who could lose one of the most conspicuous hotels in Marseille.

The guard came a little closer. He looked every bit as menacing as his dog. Sam wondered if they took it in turns to bite. With a jerk of his head, the guard pointed the beam of his flashlight down the path. “Au bout du chemin. Puis à gauche.”

“Gauche-that’s left. Right? Gracias-no, wait-merci.” Sam turned to Sophie. “I’ve had it with these goddamn languages. Next year we’re going to Cape Cod.”

The guard’s scowl deepened, and he gestured again with his flashlight, as though trying to sweep them away with the beam. The dog’s teeth gleamed in the light. Sophie took Sam’s arm and started to steer him, still muttering, back down the driveway.

Safely back on the boulevard, Sophie breathed a sigh of relief and started to laugh. “Was that a good snoop? He was not at all gentil, that man.”

“Poor guy,” said Sam. “What a lousy job-walking around all night with a dog is enough to make anyone cranky. I wonder if he’s a permanent fixture, or if he’s just there for the guests. Judging by those chauffeurs, Reboul has some pretty fancy friends. And a pretty fancy house. I’m looking forward to taking a look at the inside.”

They reached the hotel and picked up their keys at the desk. Sophie tried to stifle a yawn. It had been a long day, and Bordeaux seemed a long time ago.

“Are you all set for tomorrow?” asked Sam. “It could be your first day as a book packager. This is where it could get interesting.”

“I’ve never met any book packagers. What do they wear?”

Sam grinned. “Something persuasive. Sleep tight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Bright and early?”

“Bright and early.”

Sam stood under the shower and let his thoughts go back over the day. Philippe promised to be a great asset; he was helpful, had a good sense of humor, and was smart enough to see at once the possibilities of a scoop. Also, he gave the impression of being, as Sophie had said, slightly louche. There was a touch of the rogue about him. This was a quality that Sam had no problems identifying with, and he judged it to be a sound basis for a fruitful working relationship. Tomorrow would see if Philippe could deliver the goods on Reboul.

And then there was Sophie, who was altogether more complicated. Sam felt that she was to some extent a prisoner of her background-that very proper French bourgeois background, with its rules of social behavior and strictly observed table manners, its dress code, and its reluctance to embrace anything or anyone that didn’t conform. Sophie might one day be different. She was intelligent, attractive, and a good sport, as she had shown by going with him that evening to the Palais du Pharo. She was in all respects a lovely woman. But, as Sam admitted to himself with a sigh, she wasn’t Elena Morales.

He stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and went through to the bedroom. His phone was on the night table next to his watch. He looked at the time. It was midafternoon in L.A., and Sam could imagine Elena, after one of those birdlike lunches at her desk, fending off more calls from Danny Roth and wondering what progress, if any, Sam had made. He was tempted to call. But what could he tell her? The truth? That he wanted to hear her voice? He told himself to wait until tomorrow, when there might be something solid to report.

He spent a mystifying half hour trying to follow a rugby game on French television, and fell asleep with the roar of the crowd in his ears.