The Marseille Caper (7 page)

Jean-Claude explained the route they were taking. “The yacht of Lord Wapping is over there”—he pointed to an island almost straight ahead—“but we cannot see her because she is moored in a bay between the two islands of Ratonneau and Pomègues. These islands block the view from the city. They hide the yacht from anyone looking out from Marseille. It is the most private mooring one could wish for. You will see. Now we go along the north coast of Ratonneau, turn into the Baie du Grand-Soufre,
et voilà
.”

Five minutes later, they entered the bay. Jean-Claude throttled back the engine until they were barely making headway, and there she was,
The Floating Pound
in all her glory, her prow pointing out toward the bay’s entrance. Even from a distance she looked enormous, a bone-white colossus, and as they got closer she seemed to swell in size until she threatened to block out most of the sky.

“Un bon paquet, non?”
said Jean-Claude. “I’ll go completely around her so you can see some of the toys.”

They went slowly past the imposing bridge, which was flying Lord Wapping’s personal pennant, a large
W
bestriding a globe of the world. Then the radar installation, the davits—which Sam noticed were empty at the moment—that would normally hold the yacht’s speedboat, the immaculate paintwork and gleaming portholes, and, perched on the stern of the yacht like some enormous, shiny insect, a white helicopter, with large scarlet letters along the side that read
Wapping Air
.

It was while Sam was wondering how many gallons the yacht did to the mile that he realized they were being watched. A young deckhand, dressed in white, was making a thorough study of Birgitta through his binoculars.

“Birgitta?” said Sam. “Do me a favor, will you? Wave to that nice young man on deck.”

Birgitta straightened up from her position leaning against the speedboat’s windshield, took off her yachting cap and waved it vigorously back and forth, putting the upper part of her swimsuit under severe strain. After a moment’s hesitation, the deckhand grinned and waved his binoculars in reply.
Jean-Claude brought the speedboat close enough for conversation.

Sam looked up at the deckhand. “That’s a hell of a boat,” he said. “What a beauty.”

Encouraged, no doubt, by the prospect of a close-up view of Birgitta, the deckhand beckoned them nearer still. “The owner and the rest of them are all on shore. Do you want to have a quick look around?”

The deckhand introduced himself as Bob, and he was a man who had clearly missed his vocation as a tour guide. Describing, explaining, emphasizing, pointing out items of particular interest, he led the way, with Philippe, who seemed to be having a problem with his cell phone, bringing up the rear. They were shown the bridge and its navigational marvels, the padded sunbathing deck and Jacuzzi, the large dining area with a barbecue big enough for an entire flock of sheep, and the main salon. Here was a symphony in gold and white—white walls, gold lamé lampshades, white carpet, gold-framed mirrors, white leather couches and armchairs—prompting Sam to mutter, “Let’s hope nobody gets seasick in here. There’s nowhere to throw up.”

The tour ended with a pilgrimage to the helicopter, where the visitors stood in a respectful arc while Bob recited a few of the helicopter’s vital statistics. Its four-passenger capacity, its range, its speeds (both cruising and top), the silence of its engine, the ease of parking, and on and on. Finally, stunned by this surfeit of information, the visitors were allowed to make their escape and head back toward port.

Sam, aware that Philippe had been lagging behind the rest
of them, asked him if he had got what he wanted. Philippe held up his phone and grinned. “Enough to fill a photo album.”

The wind had freshened, making conversation difficult. Sam watched the waves and let his mind drift back to what he had just seen. As much as he disliked boats, and as much as he found the idea of spending a fortune on one incomprehensible, the visit had caused him to think again about the man he was up against. Despite his suspect tastes in interior decoration, Wapping was without doubt extremely rich. And, as Sam well knew, you don’t get that rich by being stupid.

The group sitting at the best table on the terrace of Peron had settled in for a long lunch. If any of them had chosen to look out over the sea at that moment, they might have noticed Jean-Claude’s speedboat coming into port, but they were too busy paying attention to their host. Lord William Wapping was holding court.

Seated on his right was a senior member of the development committee, and the main reason for the lunch: Monsieur Faure, a modest-looking man in a quiet gray suit. According to information received from Patrimonio, he was “a little unreliable”—that is, he couldn’t be guaranteed to vote as he was told when the time came. It would be helpful, Patrimonio suggested, if Monsieur Faure were to be given a little special attention and made to feel important.

Next to Faure was the only woman in the group, Wapping’s companion, Annabel Sykes. The product of a family on the fringes of the aristocracy, her role models—the Duchess
of Cornwall and Madonna—were signs of her fascination with both the British establishment and the world of glamour. Vain, good-looking, and infinitely susceptible to bribes in the form of jewelry, designer clothes, silk underwear, and abundant pocket money, she had met Lord Wapping at Ascot, and was literally swept off her feet when he gave her a lift back to town in his helicopter. She was later to describe the moment, with a coy flutter of the eyelashes, as love at first flight.

On her other side was a fellow toff, Tiny de Salis, an Old Etonian gone terribly wrong. He was the skipper of the yacht and pilot of the helicopter. A great barrel of a man (hence his nickname), he enjoyed a discreet rapport with Annabel based on their privileged social origins. Alas, these had not saved de Salis from the results of his addiction to gambling. He had met Lord Wapping, in those days a successful bookmaker, when he had run up debts that he was unable to pay. Indeed, their first meeting had also been attended by Wapping’s enforcers, on hand in case it became necessary to encourage payment by breaking one or two arms and legs. De Salis was saved by charm and his abilities with boats and light aircraft, and had ended up paying off his debts by working for his lordship.

Looking even smaller than usual next to the bulk of de Salis was Wapping’s personal lawyer, Ray Prendergast, known behind his back as “the Ferret.” The size of a jockey and with the instincts of a gangster, he had a reputation, even among his more eminent colleagues in the legal profession, of a man who should not be crossed. There were rumors of his ties to the underworld, of fixing sporting events, suborning witnesses, even of manipulating judges. But nothing had been proved,
and he had been highly effective on Lord Wapping’s behalf in the matter of tax evasion, property acquisition, stock rigging, and three potentially expensive divorces. (After the most recent of these, he had texted Lord Wapping as follows: “Wife extracted from wallet,” a phrase that had subsequently gained some currency among London divorce lawyers.)

The bodyguards, Brian and Dave, glowering at the world through pitch-black sunglasses, completed Wapping’s entourage. These two were survivors from the old days, when bookies needed some muscle from time to time, and they found their present life a little tame. As Brian had said to Dave only the other day, they hadn’t beaten anyone up for years. Still, the money was good.

Lord Wapping looked down at his empty plate approvingly. These Frogs certainly knew how to cook. He had followed the waiter’s advice and ordered the
noisette d’agneau en croûte de tapenade
without being too sure what it was, and had been delightfully surprised by the lamb in a light crust that had been flavored with olives, capers, anchovies, and herbs. Cheese was to come, and then a spot of pudding. And, as they were outside on the terrace, he could finish off with a cigar. Feeling unusually benevolent, he turned to see how his guest of honor, Monsieur Faure, was getting on.

This had been another pleasant surprise. Faure could actually speak English, and had seemed to be receptive to Wapping’s tentative first advances. These had included the offer of a trip along the coast on
The Floating Pound
, and perhaps Madame Faure might care to come too. Or perhaps not, Wapping thought, seeing the amount of attention being paid by
Faure to Annabel Sykes. She had chosen to speak to him in her best French—picked up at finishing school in Lausanne—and he was visibly charmed not only by Annabel and her
décolleté
but also by the copious amounts of
rosé
he was getting through.

With Faure happily occupied, Lord Wapping could relax while he considered his next move. Patrimonio was already counting the money he would make from his cut of the construction costs. Faure was looking very cooperative. That left the five other members of the committee, whom Wapping was going to meet at the official cocktail party later on that week. If he could put the fix on two of them, that would constitute a majority. He’d ask Patrimonio to point out a couple of soft targets. He leaned back and beckoned to the wine waiter, and asked for something special to go with the cheese. He deserved it.

Elena closed her eyes and gave in to the deep and soothing pressure, just this side of pain, applied by the fingers of the masseuse as she worked her way down the spine. This had been Mimi’s suggestion, as the fitting end to a hectic few hours of sightseeing, shopping, and lunch. She had booked an afternoon of indulgence for them both at the Château Berger spa, high on the Corniche Kennedy. Restorative poultices of warm mud, showers under tiny jets of heated sea water, and forty minutes of reflexology, finishing off with one of the specialties of the house, the
massage énergétique
. Bliss.

The day had begun at a café on the Vieux Port. As is customary with women meeting for the first time, she and Mimi
had subjected one another to a thorough, if surreptitious, investigation that included shoes, handbags, sunglasses, hair, and makeup. Each of them had been pleased to see that the other had made an effort—Elena in a sleeveless linen dress of pale lilac, Mimi in narrow black pants and a crisp white jacket.

Over coffee, they had planned their morning, and started it off with one of Marseille’s favorite views, the great sweep of city and sea that rewarded those who made the steep climb to Notre-Dame de la Garde. Another good reason for the climb was to see the basilica’s remarkable collection of ex-votos, painted by grateful sailors, fishermen, and others who had survived the perils and disasters of the sea. As Mimi said, the images of sinking ships, drowning seamen, storms, and hurricanes did little to encourage a longing for life on the ocean waves, and it was with a renewed fondness for dry land that they made their way down to the relative security of the boutiques in the Rue Paradis and the Rue de Rome.

By now, the two of them were getting on extremely well. In fact, they never stopped talking. Mimi wanted to know all about L.A.—her curiosity having been piqued by Philippe’s visit and his subsequent enthusiastic report. Elena was equally interested to hear an insider’s rundown of Marseille, Aix, Avignon, and even that distant paradise, Saint-Tropez. The morning passed so pleasantly and so quickly that they were late getting to the restaurant. By the time they arrived, their table—saved because Philippe had been a regular for years—was the only one free.

He had made reservations for them at Le Boucher, in the Rue de Village, a restaurant convincingly disguised as a
butcher’s shop. At the back of the shop, past the displays of beef, lamb, and veal, a door led to a small, crowded room, shaded from the sun despite its glass roof by the sprawl of a huge bougainvillea. “Philippe thought you’d like this place,” said Mimi, “because the meat is so good, and he thinks that red-blooded Americans love their meat.” She grinned. “I hope he’s right.”

“Absolutely.” Elena looked around the room, and failed to see anyone resembling a tourist. “I guess they’re all French.”

Mimi shook her head. “No, no. They’re all Marsellais.”

Before Elena could pursue this interesting distinction, the waiter came with menus and two flutes of champagne. “Compliments of Monsieur Philippe,” he said, “and we have his favorites on the menu today.
En plus
, he has told us to send the bill to him.”

Mimi put down her menu and looked at Elena. “Are you feeling hungry?”

Elena thought about her usual working lunch of rabbit food. “Sure. I’m one of those red-blooded Americans.”

Mimi nodded at the waiter, who smiled and bustled off to the kitchen.

Elena raised her glass. “Cheers. Do I get to know what we’re going to eat?”

“To start,
bresaola
with hearts of artichoke, sun-dried tomatoes, and Parmesan. Then, beef cheeks, with a slice of home-made
foie gras
on top. And a
fondant au chocolat
. Does that sound OK?”

“Sounds like heaven.”

The two women made a striking couple, the object of many
an appreciative glance from the mostly male clientele. Elena could perhaps have passed for a local girl, with her black, shoulder-length hair and olive complexion. Mimi, on the other hand, looked as though she were taking the day off from one of the more fashionable streets of Paris. Pale skin, with a light dusting of freckles, and hair—cut almost as short as Philippe’s—that was the dark, rich, henna-red that one only sees coming out of a top-class hairdresser. Her face, with its oversized brown eyes and full mouth, was in a constant state of animation, by turns amused, surprised, or fascinated by what Elena had to say. The conversation flowed easily from the usual topics of work, vacations, and clothes before arriving inevitably at a spirited discussion of men (in general) and Sam and Philippe (in particular). These were both judged to be works in progress, capable of further improvement. But promising, promising.

Seven