The Corsican Caper (7 page)

La Vieille Grange, after fifty years of service as a storage barn and tractor garage, had been taken over by a young couple, Karine and Marc, and transformed into a restaurant of the old-fashioned kind: a short, modestly priced menu of fresh, local produce, local wines and cheeses, and a total absence of pretension. Any waiter wearing white gloves would have felt deeply uncomfortable. In fact, the waiter’s job was already taken by Karine’s uncle Joseph.

The building, long and low, was at the end of a narrow dirt track that led off the road linking the villages of Lourmarin and Lauris, on the more peaceful south side of the Luberon. A frequent passer-by might have noticed that every lunchtime the field next to the barn was crowded with cars, which spoke well of Marc’s cooking.

Sam parked the car next to an elderly Renault and noticed, as they made their way toward the barn, the absence of large shiny cars or foreign license plates. It seemed that this was very much a place for locals. And it was a boisterous babble of thick local accents that greeted them as they pushed open the door. Although it was barely past noon, the restaurant was already almost full. A smiling Karine found them a corner table for two, gave them each a small menu, and recommended a carafe of
rosé
, as it was such a hot day.

The long rectangular room was pleasant and uncluttered, devoid of the fussy touches of the interior decorator, with ambience and décor being provided by the customers. The tables and chairs were plain and functional, the tablecloths were paper, the wineglasses were sturdy tumblers. “My kind of place,” said Sam. “I’m sure a lot of these people are regulars—they all seem to know each other.”

Elena poured their wine from a glazed jug, beaded with moisture. “I haven’t heard anyone speaking English,” she said. “Do you get the feeling we’re the only foreigners here?”

Sam was nodding as he looked up from the menu. “This is
definitely
my kind of place. See? They have
velouté
d’asperges
—and this is the best time of year for asparagus. And then there’s roasted duck breast stuffed with green olives. That’s it for me.” He put down the menu, picked up his glass, and raised it to Elena. “Who needs a kitchen when there are places like this?”

Elena smiled. Sam’s enthusiasm, when he was having one of his
bon viveur
moments, was infectious. “You sold me,” she said. “I’ll have the same.”

With those vital decisions made, their conversation turned to Madame Verrine and her seemingly inexhaustible supply of properties. It only took a few minutes before Elena, somewhat hesitantly, leaned across the table to take Sam’s hand. “I hope this isn’t going to be a big disappointment,” she said, “but looking at all those houses on their own in the countryside suddenly made me realize something: I’m a city girl—I need people and streets and activity, the sounds of a city, the buzz. I don’t know if I could deal with all that peace and quiet. I know it’s beautiful, and I think it would be great for weekends, but …” She paused, squeezing Sam’s hand. “Well, you know what I mean.”

Before Sam could reply, Uncle Joseph came with a basket of warm bread, the first course, and a murmured
bon appétit
as he placed two deep soup bowls in front of them. In fact, soup would have been too modest a word to describe the contents, subtly perfumed and visibly smooth, like pale-green velvet, decorated with a generous swirl of cream.

“First things first,” said Sam, who didn’t look too surprised
by Elena’s confession. “Eat this while it’s warm, and then we’ll get back to real estate.” He bent his head over the bowl, inhaled, raised his eyes to heaven, stirred in the cream, and took his first spoonful. “Sublime. Not only sublime, but as this is your first taste of asparagus this year, you’re allowed to make a wish. Old Provençal tradition.”

Elena was too busy to reply, and it wasn’t until their bowls were empty and the last drops wiped up with bread that she spoke. “You don’t
seem
too disappointed, Sam. Are you?”

“No. No, I’m not. The way I look at it, Provence is the treat of a lifetime, but it has to be
our
treat. I’m fine in a city, as long as we can get out to places like this once in a while. So, how would you feel about an apartment in Marseille?”

Elena’s expression was all the answer Sam needed, and for the rest of the meal—the admirable duck breast, the smooth, slightly moist goat cheese, the feather-light apple tart—Marseille was all they talked about. Or rather, Elena talked and Sam listened. The city, so she said, was perfectly placed: only an hour away from wonderful countryside, right next door to Cassis, which they both loved, not too far from Saint-Tropez and the Riviera if they felt like a dose of glamour and, as a huge bonus, Francis and Philippe were there to show them the ropes.

With that settled, they drove back to Marseille in the highest of high spirits that often accompany the making of an extravagant decision while under the influence of an excellent lunch and a glass or two of
rosé
.

“Guess what, Francis—we’re going to be neighbors.” Reboul looked up from his desk as an excited Elena burst into the room and bent over to kiss him on the forehead. “We’ve decided to look for a place in Marseille. Isn’t that great?”

Reboul rose to his feet, a broad smile lighting up his face, and returned the kiss. “That makes me very happy,” he said. “And, by an amazing coincidence, there is a bottle of Champagne out on the terrace waiting to be drunk. Where’s Sam?”

By the time Sam joined them on the terrace the bottle had been opened and the glasses filled. “A toast,” said Sam, raising his glass. “To Marseille, to good times, and most of all, to our friendship. Thank you, Francis.”

“It’s my pleasure,” said Reboul. “I’m delighted, but tell me—whatever happened to life in the Luberon?”

“Ah. Well, there’s no doubt it’s the most beautiful spot,
really lovely. But we’ve realized that we’re not cut out for the country. We’re city people. Elena’s absolutely right—a quiet life in a remote farmhouse watching the lavender grow would probably drive us crazy.”

Reboul nodded. “I know what you mean. My old farm in the Camargue is bliss for three days. After that, I start inviting the horses in for a drink.”

As they continued to talk about their plans—and Elena had at least a hundred questions to ask about everything from the absolute necessity of a sea view to the merits of various neighborhoods—it became apparent that Reboul had something on his mind. He had become preoccupied, and more and more subdued, so much so that Elena stopped in midsentence.

“Francis, are you OK?”

Reboul shook his head and sighed. “Forgive me. It’s that idiot Russian—I’ve just had a report back from the people in Paris who have been doing a background check on him and his business methods, and it’s not good news.” He got up and went inside, returning with a slim folder. “All the details are in here, but what seems to happen is that most of his deals have had fatal consequences for someone.”

He opened the folder and spread the pages out on the table. “It’s not just those so-called accidents in Africa and Russia—I remember we made a joke of it at first—but it’s also happened in the Amazon and the Arctic. Competitors in both places suffered severe side-effects.” He looked up and
drew the side of his hand across his throat. “And then there was the incident in New York.” He paused to take a sip of Champagne.

Sam was frowning. “Where were the police when all this was going on?”

Reboul tapped the page in front of him. “Investigations were carried out, or so it says here. But there was a problem, and it was always the same problem: in every case, Vronsky was never in the same country at the time these fatalities occurred, sometimes not even on the same continent.” Reboul shrugged. “So how do you prove a crime has been committed by someone who wasn’t there? You can have as many suspicions and theories as you like, but that’s not enough. You need proof.”

Elena took the Champagne from its ice bucket and topped up their glasses. “These guys who did the report—what do they recommend you do?”

“Stay away from him. And don’t forget that he seems to be at his most dangerous when he’s somewhere a long way away.” Reboul closed the folder and did his best to smile. “So I’d better keep an eye on his travel arrangements.”

It was only later, over dinner, that Reboul mentioned the car that had followed him in the morning. He tried to make light of it, but there were three worried people who went up to bed that night.

Optimism returned with the morning sun, to Sam at least. He was careful not to seem too cheerful in front of
Reboul, but he wasted no time putting forward his idea. “Let’s change places for the morning,” he said. “Lend me Olivier and your car, and we’ll see if our friend in the Peugeot wants to play hide-and-seek today. If he does, I’d like to have a word with him.”

Reboul leaned across and patted Sam’s cheek. “You’re a dear friend, Sam. Thank you, but no. It’s my problem, and I don’t want you getting involved.”

“Francis, you don’t understand—a little challenge like this is something I enjoy. Besides which”—he wagged a finger at Reboul—“it gets me off the hook with Elena. She and Mimi have planned a fun-filled day with Marseille’s real estate agents, and after Madame Verrine I don’t think I can take any more enthusiasm. A pleasant, peaceful drive would do me a world of good.” He paused, and thought he could see that Reboul’s resistance was beginning to weaken. “So, do we have a deal?”

“But won’t this fellow know it’s not me in the car?”

“Not a chance. All he’s seen is the back of your head from thirty or forty yards away. It’s the car he’ll recognize.” Sam grinned. “Admit it—you’ve run out of arguments.”

Reboul stood up and stared out the window. “Very well. But Sam, you must promise me you won’t do anything dangerous.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Olivier was delighted at the prospect of a break from his normal shuttle service to and from Reboul’s office.

“If this guy does follow us,” said Sam, “I want to find a place where we can stop and have a chat with him. Can you think of somewhere that would work?”

Olivier adjusted his sunglasses while he thought. “
Pas de souci
, not a problem. I have an idea,” he said, taking out his phone. “Just give me a minute.”

When he’d finished he explained his idea. The call had been to Ahmed, Le Pharo’s large and intimidating gardener. If they were followed, he would call Ahmed again, give him detailed instructions as to where they could meet, and tell him to follow the follower, who would then become the filling in a three-car sandwich. “After that,” said Olivier, “it’s just a question of picking a suitable spot,
et voilà
.”

Sam was impressed. “Have you done this sort of thing before?”

“Oh, once or twice. Before working for Monsieur Francis, I was a cop. In fact,” he said, putting a finger to his lips, “I’ve still got my gun. But that’s strictly
entre nous
.”

As they pulled out of the driveway, Sam peered around the newspaper he was using to hide his face to see if there was any sign of a white Peugeot. “I don’t see him,” he said.

“Don’t worry. If he’s a pro, he’ll have changed cars. And he wouldn’t have waited in the same place.”

By now, Olivier had turned off into the labyrinth of small streets behind the Vieux Port, his eyes flicking up every
few seconds to the rearview mirror. With a sudden nudge of the accelerator, he crossed an intersection as the lights were changing before slowing down. “Ah, there you are, you bastard. Don’t look around,” he said to Sam. “It’s a gray Renault with rental plates, about twenty meters behind us.” Olivier took out his phone, called Ahmed, and told him to be outside the Banque de France on the Rue Paradis in ten minutes, and to follow the gray Renault that would be a few meters behind them.

“Now,” said Olivier, “I don’t want to lose him, and we’ve got a few minutes to kill. We’ll take the long way around to the Rue Paradis, and that should do it.”

They arrived to find that Ahmed, who had double-parked in front of the Banque de France, was looking under the hood of his pickup for some imagined mechanical fault. Olivier flashed his lights. Ahmed closed the hood, got back into the pickup, and pulled into the traffic two cars behind the Renault.