The Corsican Caper (13 page)

The idea, hatched between Sam and the Figatellis during their meeting in the back room of the bar, was about to be put to the test. Once again, the brothers were paying a call on Nino Zonza. After the obligatory glass of
myrte
had been sipped and admired, Jo Figatelli opened the proceedings with a question to which he already knew the answer. But he wanted confirmation. “Tell me, Monsieur Nino, these two men you have so quickly found to work with the Oblomovs, are they local?”

Zonza nodded. “Two local boys. Very good, but very expensive. I was shocked.” He shrugged. “But one has to pay for quality.”

The Figatellis nodded their sympathy in unison. “Terrible, terrible,” said Jo. “And have they met the Oblomovs?”

“Not yet. They will be introduced tomorrow, when the Oblomovs arrive in Corsica. Why do you ask?”

“Because we have a proposition that will save you money and make life much easier for us all,” said Jo.

Zonza leaned forward, the pleasant thought of saving money adding to his curiosity. “What do you have in mind?” He allowed himself a small joke. “Nothing illegal, I hope?”

“Not at all. Just a little change in personnel. You cancel the boys, so you won’t have to pay them.”

“And?”

“You use us. We’re free.”

Zonza’s eyebrows went up, and he nodded thoughtfully. “Another glass of
myrte
, gentlemen?”

It was Vronsky’s first morning in Paris, and although he was not by nature optimistic—no Russian is, and with good reason—he was beginning to think that fate was on his side.

What could go wrong? Oblomov had just called to say that he and his cousin were taking the evening flight out of Marseille to Calvi. The following morning, they would meet the two local men recruited by Zonza and spend the day with them making detailed preparations. The day after that, Reboul was scheduled to arrive and make his way to his aunt’s house in Speloncato, where he planned to stay for two or three days—plenty of time to arrange for his disposal. Again, he thought: What could go wrong? He lit a celebratory cigar and looked at his watch. Natasha had been let loose on the boutiques of the Avenue Montaigne, for which she seemed to have an endless appetite. But even the most
hardened shopping addict needs nourishment, and Vronsky had made reservations for lunch at the Cigale Récamier, where the chef did miraculous things with soufflés. It was turning into an excellent day.

For Sam, too, events had taken a very welcome turn. Jo Figatelli had called to say that he and Flo had reached agreement with Zonza to replace the original hired thugs, and they would be meeting the Oblomovs the next day. To Jo’s disappointment, Sam had reminded him that the two Russians should not be drowned, mutilated, or even beaten up; it was essential that they be caught in the act. This would allow much more pressure to be put on them to point the finger at Vronsky. Sam and the Figatellis agreed to have one last meeting in Calvi that evening to double-check the details.

Sam, needless to say, had eventually agreed to Elena’s coming to Corsica with Reboul, but only on condition that she observe strict safety precautions. There was to be no wandering alone through the streets, no visits to hairdressers or solitary mornings on the beach. At no time was she to be unaccompanied.

On his way to the airport, Sam received another call from Jo, who had just learned that the Oblomovs would be on the same flight to Calvi. “You can’t miss them,” Jo said. “Zonza told us that they are pretty big and, according to him, very scruffy. He said they looked like two bears in need of a bath.”

And when Sam got to the airport, there they were at the check-in desk—large, unkempt, and dressed in camouflage
fatigues. A most unsavory pair, with matching bad teeth, muttering to each other in Russian. Their conversation, subdued and confidential, continued as the plane took off and headed for Calvi. They were discussing the relative merits of guns, knives, garrotes, and blunt instruments, all of which, so Zonza had told them, could be made available at a moment’s notice. The most important decision, of course, was timing, but Reboul’s planned stay of two or three days should give them plenty of opportunity to choose the perfect moment.

Six rows behind them, Sam was considering the next few days, and how Reboul would react when put in the position of human bait. There were no doubts about his willingness or his bravery, but danger—especially when one isn’t used to it—can have unpredictable effects on even the most courageous of men. It was this thought that prompted Sam to take another look at the idea he had briefly considered a couple of days before. But first, there was one crucial question to be answered.

And an hour later, once again in the back room of the Figatellis’ bar, it was.

“Are you sure about this?” said Sam. “The Oblomovs have never met Reboul? Never even seen him?”

“No. They’re relying on Zonza’s hired men—that’s Flo and me—to identify him when he arrives at the airport. Otherwise, all they will have seen are a few blurred shots from the Internet and newspaper clippings, and those don’t
give any idea of his height or build. So it’s our job to point him out.”

“Good, very good,” said Sam. “Now, we’ll need a car with darkened windows and a chauffeur, a wide-brim Panama hat, and big sunglasses, and we’ll be all set. I’ll talk to Francis when I get back and fill him in.” Two puzzled faces looked at him across the table. Jo was the first to speak.

“Fill him in?”

“Sorry—I should have said. I’ve just decided I’m going to be Francis for a day or two.”

After another half hour of detailed discussion, the three of them left the bar and went across town to a large concrete building—gray, anonymous, heavily barred, and set back from the street. This was the office and storage facility of Benny’s Business Supplies, a company specializing in weapons and accessories, from assault rifles to magnetic self-detonating grenades. The proprietor, a jovial, round-faced German named Benny Schroeder, greeted them at the massive steel front door. “Good evening, boys,” he said, while looking curiously at Sam. “Going hunting again, are you? Come in, come in.”

He led them through to his office, which might have belonged to a senior bank executive—thick carpet, tasteful prints on the walls, and not a trace of anything deadly.

Schroeder beamed at them from across his desk. “Haven’t seen you boys for a long time. What can I do for you?”

“Nothing too complicated,” said Flo. “But we’ll need it quickly—tomorrow or the next day at the latest.”

“We’ll go down to the cellar and you can see what we have in stock. But first, a little
schnapps
.” He giggled. “I never do business on an empty stomach.”

As they left Benny’s with an old canvas bag holding their purchases, Sam suddenly stopped. “There’s enough equipment in that place to start World War III. Isn’t Benny ever bothered by the police?”

Flo smiled and shook his head. “They’re his biggest customers.”

The following morning, on the dot of ten, the Figatellis arrived at Nino Zonza’s house for their first meeting with the Oblomovs. Coffee was served, and the four men inspected one another with cautious interest. Zonza began the meeting by advising them to carry out their reconnaissance of Speloncato before Reboul’s arrival. He gave them a street plan of the village with the house of Madame Lombard, Reboul’s aunt, circled in red. As part of the service, he also told them about the village’s famous grottos, where all kinds of dark deeds had been committed over the centuries.

Zonza then listened carefully while they discussed their plans for the day: a trip to the village, of course, and a thorough reconnaissance of the roads around Speloncato to see
if there were any likely spots for an ambush. Next, the question of identifying Reboul. No problem, said the Figatellis, we’ll point him out when he arrives at the airport. Finally, there was the important matter of weapons. The Oblomovs had not wanted to risk trying to bring anything through airport security, and they were very particular about what they wanted—handguns, ideally with ten-round magazines, Glocks preferably. The Figatellis, with the memory of Benny Schroeder’s cellar and its array of Glocks fresh in their minds, were able once again to say no problem. The four of them took their leave of Zonza, and set off. It was going to be a busy day.

Sam had almost lost count of the number of quick trips he had made to Calvi. He was now on his way back to Marseille for one last meeting with Reboul, to lay out his plans for the next few days. To his surprise and delight, he found Elena waiting for him at the airport.

“I was going to take a taxi,” he said, kissing Elena, “but they don’t have drivers like you.”

“I’m good, but I’m expensive,” she said. “A huge tip, plus dinner.”

They got into the car for the half-hour drive to the city, but instead of moving off, Elena sat back in the driver’s seat and folded her arms. “Right. We’re not going anywhere until you tell me what you’re up to.”

Sam sighed. “OK. But I’ll need your help, because this is going to be a tough sale.” Elena started the engine and nosed
her way into the airport traffic as Sam continued. “The more I look at this situation, the more I’m sure it’s no place for the optimistic amateur. I don’t think we should let Francis put himself on the line. Too many things could go wrong.”

Elena nodded agreement, but said nothing.

“So what I want to do is take his place. I’ve worked everything out with Flo and Jo. We know exactly what we’re going to do, and so all we have to do is persuade Francis. And you can help.” He reached over and patted her thigh. “I’m told you’re quite persuasive when you want to be.”

Elena was frowning as she took in what Sam had said, conflicting thoughts filling her head. Of course she would like to see Francis kept well away from the Oblomovs. But at what risk to Sam?

“Are you sure about this?” she said. “Isn’t there anything else we can do? Sam, I like you all in one piece.”

The rest of the drive into Marseille was taken up by what amounted to a monologue from Sam. He went through the alternatives and he described, in detail, what he and the Figatellis planned to do, and how they were going to do it. And, just as they were pulling into Le Pharo, he admitted that he was thoroughly enjoying it all. “You know how it is,” he said.
“Guys just like to have fun.”

Elena was still shaking her head as they went into the house.

Reboul’s chef, Alphonse, had insisted that the host and his guests eat that evening at Le Pharo. One of his friends, a man whom Alphonse described as a very senior person in the fish world,
“un véritable maître de poissons,”
had given him some prime lobsters from Brittany, still alive and smelling of the sea. And of course, said Alphonse, they must be cooked and eaten fresh. Anything else would be a crime.

They were on the terrace having a glass of Sancerre when Sam decided it was time to start his pitch to Reboul.

“Francis, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think I should take your place in Corsica.” Sam paused to gauge Reboul’s response, which was not immediately encouraging. “But before you tell me to get lost, let me tell you why. It’s not about courage or character or that nonsense about a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. It’s about common sense and experience. Let’s say you have a leaking bath. You don’t try to fix it yourself; you call a plumber. With the situation we have here, Vronsky’s the leaking bath and I’m the plumber. I’ve had years of experience doing this kind of thing, and you haven’t. I have two first-class helpers in Flo and Jo, and I’m confident that the plan we have will work. So what I’m suggesting is that I go over to Corsica tomorrow on your plane, the Figatellis will point me out as you when I get off, and we’ll take it from there.” Sam stopped to drink some wine. “Also, I have to admit it—I actually enjoy these little adventures. So please say yes and wish me luck.”

Reboul took a great deal more convincing. They were
having coffee before he ran out of arguments, and turned to Elena. “What do you think?”

Elena shrugged. “I think Sam’s right. You’ll be doing us all a favor if you say yes.”