The Marseille Caper (5 page)

“We’ll try a bottle with lunch,” Sam said to Elena, “and you can amaze me with the sensitivity of your palate and the delicacy of your powers of description.”

Normally, Elena never allowed sarcasm to pass unpunished,
but this time she was far too busy taking in the view. Cassis is thought by many to be the prettiest spot on the coast. Apart from its vineyards, it has everything: a medieval citadel, cliffs, beaches, a charming port lined with cafés and restaurants, even a casino where the Marseillais go to lose their shirts.

Olivier dropped them off and pointed them in the right direction for the port. He, too, had a lunch date, with a girl from the village, and when he wished them
bon appétit
, he hoped they wouldn’t hurry back. He had his mind on other things.

The port of Cassis, subject of a million postcards and the victim of innumerable bad amateur artists, is almost too picturesque to be true. It is small—a five-minute stroll takes you from one end to the other—and you are likely to see the occasional character, dressed in peaked cap and sleeveless vest, who might have escaped from one of Marcel Pagnol’s books. Fishermen squat in their boats, scissors flashing in the sun, as they open sea urchins and suck out the nectar, middle-aged men with flamboyant moustaches sit in cafés plying young blond women with
coupes
of champagne, the small, brightly painted ferries come and go between the port and the narrow rocky inlets the locals call
calanques
, the air is clean and salty, and the sun casts a benevolent glow over it all. Work and the other harsh realities of life seem a million miles away.

Elena and Sam found a café table with an uninterrupted view of the passing parade. This, as Elena noticed with interest, was divided into two distinct groups that could be identified by what they were wearing. Tourists were dressed for
high summer, even though it was only spring: women in flowing caftans, sandals, white sundresses, the odd cartwheel straw hat; men in T-shirts and rumpled shorts festooned with multiple bulging pockets (or, even worse, abbreviated camouflage-print trousers that ended six inches above the ankle). The local inhabitants, who clearly didn’t trust the weather, were protected from possible snowstorms by sweaters or scarves, boots for the ladies, and leather jackets for the men. It was as though the passers-by were living in two different climates.

“My father likes to hunt,” said Elena, “and he gets really mad if he sees deer or wild boar when he’s left his rifle at home. ‘Look at that,’ he always says. ‘The things you see when you haven’t got your gun.’ Well, now I know how he feels.” She nodded in the direction of the quay, where a woman with unnaturally bright red hair was posing by a bollard while her companion fussed with his camera. The woman was well into her forties. She was wearing the shortest of shorts and the highest of high heels, and her bare legs had the pallor of flesh that had spent the winter under a stone. Nevertheless, she quite obviously had a high opinion of her appearance, flouncing around the bollard, tossing her radioactive curls, and renewing her lip gloss between each shot.

“When French women get it wrong they really get it wrong,” Elena muttered, with considerable satisfaction.

They left the café and made their way through the slow drift of people until they came to the blue awning and flowered terrace that Sam remembered from his first visit to Cassis.
“This is Chez Nino,” he said. “Terrific fish and a view of the port. Wines from up there in the hills. You’ll love it.”

And so she did. For someone like Elena, whose usual lunch was cottage cheese and salad, eaten in a hurry at her desk, Nino was a sunny, self-indulgent revelation. They had
soupe de poissons
, the formidable Provençal fish soup, laced with
rouille
, a thick, garlic-loaded sauce. They had perfectly grilled scorpion fish. They had a bottle of
rosé
from the Domaine du Paternel.

They ordered coffee, and it was the moment to sit back and look around. The restaurant was full, and Elena was struck by the volume of laughter and boisterous conversation coming from the surrounding tables. “These guys make a lot more noise than Parisians,” she said. “It must be something they put in the soup.”

Sam considered the pleasing possibility that
soupe de poissons
could be a mood-enhancing substance, and had a brief vision of restaurant customers floating back to work after lunch high on fish soup. “Afraid not,” he said. “Actually, I think it’s in the genes. A lot of Provence used to be Italian. The popes were once based in Avignon. Nice was called Nizza. You look in the phone book, and you’ll find Italian names on every page: Cipollina, Fachinetti, Onorato, Mastrangelo—there are thousands of them, and they add a lot to the atmosphere down here. It’s one of the things I like about Provence; one of the things that makes it so different from northern France.”

“Sam, you’re turning into a walking guide book. I’m impressed. And you know something? I’m picking up local habits fast.”

“Siesta?” said Sam. “You’re in luck. I happen to know this is a restaurant with rooms.”

Elena shook her head. “You can wipe that leer off your face. The thought of a siesta had never crossed my mind. Like any good Frenchwoman who’s just finished a long lunch, what I really want to know is where we’re going for dinner.”

“Philippe’s taking care of that. Don’t worry. He’ll make sure we don’t starve tonight. Sure you don’t want to check out those rooms?”

Five

Sam could hear a few moments of Mozart in the background before Reboul’s voice cut in.

“
Alors
, Sam. How was your day in Cassis?”

“Good, Francis. We had a great time. Elena loved it.” Sam looked down at the notes he’d made on the back of Nino’s lunch bill. “I wanted to go over a couple of points with you before we go out this evening. We’re having dinner with a friend, Philippe Davin. He’s a journalist with
La Provence
, and I’m hoping he can give me some background on Patrimonio and the distinguished members of the selection committee.”

“A journalist?” Reboul’s voice was less than enthusiastic. “Sam, are you sure …”

“Don’t worry. I’ll stick to the plot. Your name won’t come into it. Now tell me—is there anything particular you’re interested in? Philippe’s a bloodhound. What he doesn’t know he can usually sniff out.”

“Well, whatever you can find out about the other two projects and the people behind them would be useful, but not the usual press release nonsense about their hobbies and their charitable donations. For instance, I’d love to know where they’re getting their money from. Also, don’t forget the personal side. Do they have debts? Addictions? Mistresses? A fondness for call girls? How do they stand with Patrimonio? Are there any rumors of bribery?” Reboul paused, and Sam could hear the click of a glass being put back on a table. “Not that I would dream of exploiting any of this, you understand.”

“Of course not.”

“But in business, information is like gold. You can’t have too much of it.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, Francis.”

“Have a pleasant evening, my friend.
Bon appétit
.”

Sam was smiling as he put down the phone. There had been a wistful note to Reboul’s voice, and Sam had the feeling that he would have liked to join them for dinner.

They had arranged to meet Philippe at Le Bistrot d’Edouard on Rue Jean Mermoz, which Philippe had chosen as a tribute to Elena. It was a Latin restaurant, and so La Bomba Latina would feel instantly at home. Moreover, said Philippe, she would be ravished by the huge selection of
tapas
.

In fact it was Sam who was ravished first, as soon as they had come through the door. It looked like his kind of restaurant: a series of simple, intimate rooms, plain white paper tablecloths, the painted walls—oxblood-red below, white above—hung with blackboards listing the wines and the
tapas
of the day, the early arrivals with their jackets off and their napkins tucked into shirt collars, which was always a sign of healthy appetites and good food, and a smiling welcome from the girl behind the bar.

They were led up a short flight of stairs to a corner table on the first floor, where a beaming Philippe, ice bucket already loaded and poised, jumped to his feet and crushed Elena to his bosom. Compliments and cries of delight followed, and Sam, who was by now getting used to these expressions of masculine affection, received a kiss on each cheek. Finally, slightly out of breath, Philippe sat them down and poured each of them a glass of wine.

“This is a wonderful surprise,” he said. “What are you doing here? How long are you staying? Where are you staying? But first, a toast.” He raised his glass. “To friendship.” He leaned back in his chair, still beaming, and gave Elena and Sam a chance to admire the adjustments he had made to his appearance since they had last seen him in Los Angeles.

Previously, he had favored a style of dress he liked to describe as “mercenary chic”—army-surplus pants and jackets, olive-drab fatigue caps, and paratrooper’s boots. His black hair had been abundant, and undisturbed by the comb.

All this had gone, and Che Guevara had been replaced by Tom Ford. The new version of Philippe had a closely clipped head, the hair on his scalp very little longer than the dark, three-day stubble on his face. His clothes were razor-sharp: a skinny black suit and a whiter-than-white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, with highly polished black shoes. He might have
been a fashion-conscious soccer player or a refugee from the Cannes film festival, which was currently taking place farther along the coast.

“Notice anything different?” Philippe didn’t give them time to reply. “I’ve changed
mon look
. Mimi at the office is now in charge of my personal presentation. What do you think?”

“Where are the sunglasses?” said Elena. “And how about an earring?”

“Where’s the Rolex?” said Sam.

Philippe grinned, shot his cuffs, and there it was: a great stainless-steel carbuncle, guaranteed waterproof to a depth of a thousand feet.

Sam shook his head in wonder. “Congratulations to Mimi. She’s turned you into a style icon. I hope you’ve kept the scooter.”

“
Mais bien sûr
. It’s the only way to get around Marseille. But enough of me—what are you two doing here?” He waggled his eyebrows energetically. “Honeymoon?”

“Not exactly,” said Sam. And while they drank the Quatre Vents that Philippe had chosen because, as he said, of its
rondeur
and its shimmer of green, Sam gave him an edited version of his assignment: hired by an American architect, backed by Swiss money, in town to persuade the selection committee that a three-story apartment complex would suit Marseille better than a forty-floor hotel.

Philippe listened carefully, nodding from time to time. “I’ve been hearing all kinds of things about this,” he said, “and I’ve been trying to set up interviews with your competitors, but they’re acting very shy at the moment.”

“Do you know who they are, anything about them?”

“OK.” Philippe glanced around the room before adopting the investigative journalist’s standard operating position—body tilted forward in a confidential crouch, head sunk into his shoulders, the voice low and discreet. “There are two other syndicates: one British, one French. Or perhaps I should say Parisian. The head Brit is Lord Wapping, an ex-bookmaker who bribed his way into the House of Lords with some heavy financial contributions to both of the major political parties.”

“Both of them?”

“
Mais oui
. Apparently it happens all the time in England. It’s what they call a win-win situation.” Philippe paused for a sip of wine. “The leader of the Parisian project is a woman, Caroline Dumas. Very bright, very well connected politically, used to be a junior minister until she got too friendly with a senior minister and his wife found out. Now she works for Eiffel International; it’s one of those huge conglomerates—construction, agribusiness, electronics, with a chain of hotels on the side. Personally, I don’t think she has much of a chance on this one.”

“Why not?”

“She’s Parisian.” Philippe shrugged. He clearly felt that, in Marseille, no further explanation was necessary.

Their waitress, who had been hovering patiently, took advantage of the gap in the conversation and directed their attention to the list of
tapas
on the blackboard.

That particular night in May there were fifteen to choose from:
pata negra
ham from acorn-fed pigs in Spain; tuna roe drizzled with olive oil; fried aubergines dusted with mint; tartare of salmon, with honey and dill; deep-fried zucchini flowers;
clams; artichokes; monkfish; anchovies—a selection of delights that had them in agonies of indecision. They finally agreed on three
tapas
each, followed, at Philippe’s insistence, by the specialty of the house: inkfish with blackened pasta.

Sitting back to take another look at her surroundings, Elena’s eye was caught by a frieze of oversized handwriting that ran along the top of the wall just below the ceiling. The same three words—
buvez riez chantez
—were repeated around all the walls of the upstairs room.