The Marseille Caper (20 page)

Philippe raised a hand. “Let’s say everything goes according to plan,” he said, “and you find Elena. How are you going to get her off the boat? Wapping and all the crew aren’t going to just stand there and wave goodbye.”

Sam nodded. “We talked about this coming over from
Corsica. The moment we find Elena, Flo will take out that ugly big gun of his and fire a shot—into the air, into the ceiling, through a porthole, it doesn’t matter. A gunshot at close quarters does two things to people: it makes them scared and it makes them freeze. In this case, it will also be the signal for Jo to come up and join us. We will then have two armed men. I don’t think anyone would be stupid enough to try his luck with two guns pointed at him. Also, Daphne and I have half a dozen syringes filled with a powerful anesthetic—one jab would make an elephant go down. And, as I said, we’ll have surprise on our side. So we should be OK. Anything else?”

Flo raised a hand. “We need six glasses.” He reached down and produced a dark-green bottle with a handwritten label. “We must drink to our success.”

Sam laughed, and the tension left the room. “Why not?”

While Mimi was getting the glasses, Daphne asked Jo what was in the bottle. “
Myrte, chère madame, myrte
, the Corsican liqueur. Very good. I made it myself. We have a custom in the Figatelli family to drink a toast before we go out on a job. We have found it brings luck.”

The glasses were filled, the mission was toasted, and Daphne, who was drinking
myrte
for the first time, gave a little shudder of pleasure as her first sip went down. “Oh my, that’s very good indeed. Do you know, it reminds me of Owbridges.” Seeing the blank looks around the table, she added, “It’s a cough syrup I used to have as a girl at school. Delicious, and quite addictive—how we girls used to long to get a cough.” She emptied her glass, looked down at the
watch pinned to her bosom, and stood up. Sam could hear the dry whisper of starch against starch. “That did me a power of good,” said Daphne. “Now I’m ready for anything.”

Sam looked back at the house as they walked to the car. Philippe and Mimi, framed by the lighted doorway, were waving them off, and Philippe put his fist, thumb, and little finger extended, to his ear. “Call us as soon as you’ve got her.”

Tension returned as the car made the short trip down to the Vieux Port. Sam took the syringes out of his bag and passed three to Daphne. “These work very quickly, and you don’t need to find a vein. Neck, arm, wrist, anywhere there’s a patch of bare skin.” Daphne nodded, and arranged the syringes carefully in her empty breast pocket. “Mustn’t get them confused with the thermometers, must we?” she said.

The cafés opposite the Vieux Port were still busy with afterdinner customers who were sitting outside, taking advantage of the gentle night air. The quay on the other side of the road was almost deserted, quiet enough to hear the creak of rigging as the boats rode the swell in their moorings. The Figatellis were leading the way, and they had almost reached the speedboat before Sam noticed a car parked on its own at the end of the quay. The headlights flashed once, then again. The others stopped to watch as Sam went over.

The back window slid down, and Sam was able to make out the familiar face of Francis Reboul. “I shall wait here until you come back,” he said. He reached out of the window and grasped Sam’s hand. “Good luck, my friend. Good luck.”

Eighteen

“Not too fast, Jo. We’d like to get there dry.” Sam wiped the spray from his face and looked at his watch. He looked across at Daphne. She was in profile, and with her head held back and her redoubtable bosom, she made Sam think of a clipper ship’s figurehead. She turned toward him and smiled. “What an adventure,” she said, and then her face became serious. “I’ve been thinking, dear. Suppose someone asks us the name of this disease that we’re looking for. What would we say?”

“Thank God you reminded me. I’m sorry—I should have told you earlier. The technical name is tropical spastic paraparesis. I came across it a few years ago when I was in Africa. We used to call it the Congo flux, and it’s really nasty: drowsiness, fever, convulsions, vomiting, and death.”

“Splendid,” said Daphne.

“The curious thing about it is that it’s spread by breath. If
someone who is infected breathes on clothes or a handkerchief or a pillow, the virus stays contagious for several hours. In its early stages it’s invisible. You don’t know you’ve got it until the first symptoms appear.”

“Is there a cure?”

“Induced total bodily evacuation, but that only works if you catch it within forty-eight hours.”

Daphne nodded. “That should give them something to think about, if they ask. Oh, look! Isn’t that
pretty
.”

They had passed the tip of the island of Ratonneau and turned back into the Baie du Grand Soufre. There, at the end of the bay,
The Floating Pound
lay at anchor, lights blazing, a floating symbol of the capitalist dream come true. The Figatellis murmured their appreciation. “See that?” said Jo to his brother. “The helicopter parked on the stern? That is some piece of equipment.
Très sérieux
.”

Sam leaned forward. “Now, Jo. Once we’re on board, I’d like you to park somewhere you can keep an eye on the helicopter. If anyone wants to make a quick getaway, that’s what they’ll try to use.” Jo nodded, cut the engine until the boat was just making way, and glided closer to the yacht. They could see a crew member, in silhouette against the light flooding out from the main stateroom, take a final drag on his cigarette before flicking the butt over the rail and going back inside.

The speedboat eased gently up to the main gangway and came to a halt, riding easily on the swell. “OK,” said Sam. “Here we go. Give them a shout.”

Flo took the megaphone and requested permission to come aboard. They waited. No response.

“They don’t understand French, obviously,” said Daphne. “Here—let me have that.” She took the megaphone and stood up, bracing herself against the speedboat’s movement.

“Ahoy!
The Floating Pound!
Ahoy!” Her voice, a powerful instrument, bounced off the sea and echoed against the side of the yacht. “Medical emergency! I repeat, medical emergency!”

A figure appeared from a door behind the main stateroom and peered down at the speedboat.

“You there! Young man! I say again: this is a medical emergency. Now lower the gangway so the doctor can come aboard. Look sharp!”

A second figure appeared, and after a brief consultation the steps were lowered. A surprisingly nimble Daphne, followed by Sam and Flo, led the way on to the deck. She looked the two young crew members up and down, and clearly found them lacking in stature. “I need to speak to someone in authority at once,” she said. They looked back at her, bleary-eyed and uncertain.
“At once!”

The first test of Sam’s disguise was about to take place. He adjusted his face mask and glasses and reminded himself that he didn’t understand English, while a gnomelike figure, squinting in the half-light, came across the deck toward him.

“What’s all this?” Ray Prendergast was not pleased. To obtain some relief from the increasingly tense atmosphere on the boat, he had settled down to watch an old favorite, the vintage DVD in which John Wayne single-handedly conquers Iwo Jima. And now this. He thrust his head toward Sam. “Who the hell are you? And what are you doing here?”

Sam looked at Daphne and shrugged, the picture of incomprehension. She took a step toward Prendergast and looked down at him from her superior height. “This gentleman is Dr. Ginoux. He unfortunately doesn’t speak a word of English, but I can interpret for him. And I’m afraid we have some most disturbing and unpleasant news.” She turned to Sam and, in rapid French, repeated what she had just said. Sam nodded, and waved a hand for her to continue.

“There is a strong possibility that two of the deckhands on a boat that arrived here recently from the Ivory Coast are infected by tropical spastic paraparesis. This is a viral disease that culminates in a slow and painful death unless it is discovered and treated in its early stages. It is also
extremely
contagious.” Daphne paused to assess the effect her words were having on Prendergast, and was encouraged to see that his belligerent expression had been replaced by a frown.

She continued. “The quarantine authorities here in the port are treating this as an emergency, and have instructed us and several other medical teams to inspect all vessels that have recently arrived from ports outside France.”

Prendergast’s belligerent expression returned. “Wait a minute. This boat has come from England. We haven’t been anywhere near the bloody Ivory Coast.”

“I’m sorry, but the authorities are quite clear about this. It’s possible, for instance, that some of your crew members may have had some contact with crew members from the infected vessel. Could you guarantee that no fraternization has taken place?”

Prendergast was silent.

“Of course you couldn’t,” said Daphne, “which is why, I’m afraid, we must inspect every cabin for traces of contagion. Fortunately, this can be done quite quickly by Dr. Ginoux. Now, if we could start with the master’s cabin and work our way back, I think that would cause the least possible disruption.”

Prendergast stopped chewing his lip. “I’ll have to talk to the owner.” He ducked back into the stateroom, leaving them on deck.

Daphne caught Sam’s eye, and gave him a wink. “So far, so good, dear,” she whispered. Flo, who had been quietly pacing the deck, came over to ask if he should go with them as they went through the cabins.

“Yes, definitely,” said Sam. “When we find Elena, we’re going to need you and your gun.”

Five minutes turned into ten before Prendergast came back, this time with Lord Wapping, his bulk draped in a maroon silk dressing gown, brandy snifter in hand. He glanced briefly at Sam and Flo before turning his attention to Daphne. “You’re the one who speaks English, right?” Daphne inclined her head. “Well then,” said Wapping, “let’s be sensible about this. I’m sure we don’t have to get everybody out of bed at this time of night. I’m quite happy to sign something that says you’ve carried out the inspection, and then we can all get our kip.” He took a sip of his brandy, looking at Daphne over the rim of his glass.

“I’m terribly sorry, but that won’t be possible. Our instructions are …”

“Yes, yes, I know all about the instructions. Ray here told
me. But you know how the world works: a favor here, a favor there—I’m a generous man, know what I mean?”

Daphne turned to Sam and unleashed a torrent of French. When she’d finished, Sam said nothing. His index finger, wagging violently back and forth, and the emphatic shaking of his head was reply enough.

Daphne’s voice was cold. “If there are any further attempts to obstruct this inspection, they will be reported to the appropriate authorities. And now, if you don’t mind, we’ll start with your cabin.”

“Bloody waste of time.” Wapping stalked back into the stateroom, followed by the others. Sam reached in his bag and put the light meter in his pocket.

Opening the door to Wapping’s large and ornate cabin, they were greeted by the sight of Annabel sitting at her dressing table, brushing her hair. She was wearing a negligée of peach-colored silk, and at the sight of young Flo in his uniform she allowed one of the straps to slip a couple of inches down her suntanned shoulder. “What’s happening?” she said, batting her eyelashes. “I do hope I’m not going to be arrested.”

She seemed disappointed to be told that no arrest was imminent, and the team moved over to the double bed while Daphne explained the form the inspection would take. It was very simple. Dr. Ginoux would pass his detection device—a kind of Geiger counter for viral germs was how Daphne described it—over the pillows and the bathroom towels. If it indicated the signs of any infection, a reading would come up on the miniature screen; no signs of infection would be indicated by a different reading.

Watched by a glowering Lord Wapping and the pouting Annabel, Sam switched on his light meter and began to pass it across the surface of the pillows. The meter made impressive clicking noises, and tiny lights flashed on and off in a satisfying fashion each time the light density changed. Three minutes later, and the pillows were checked. Sam and Daphne moved into the bathroom, away from the view of spectators.
“C’est bon?”
They heard Daphne say,
“Pas de réaction négative? Très bien.”

She was smiling as they came back into the cabin. “There,” she said brightly. “That didn’t hurt a bit, did it? And now perhaps we can get on with the other cabins.” Wapping stood in the cabin doorway nursing his brandy, watching them as they went down the main passageway toward the part of the boat where lesser mortals slept.

Their first stop was Ray Prendergast’s cabin, where a low table showed traces of two of his passions. Recent copies of
The Racing Post
, the British horseracing bible, shared space with a comprehensive price list from Geoffrey’s of Antibes (this week’s special: Cottage Delight Tangy Orange English Breakfast Marmalade).