The Corsican Caper (12 page)

Reboul shook his head. “Jo’s smarter than that. And besides, he got this from an old crook called Zonza, who runs most of the crime in Calvi. He’s been approached by these two Russians, the Oblomovs, who are looking for some local help to carry out the contract with them. They’ve promised Zonza a lot of money if he can find a couple of reliable men—Corsicans, obviously—to work with them setting things up. That’s not a problem, but there’s a complication: part of the deal is that the job must be done in Corsica, and not mainland France.”

“Why?” asked Elena, and then the penny dropped. “Oh, I get it. If it is Vronsky, he won’t be anywhere near Corsica when the job’s done. That’s his usual alibi, isn’t it? He’ll be a long way away, and he’ll have witnesses to prove it. Clean hands, no worries.”

Reboul had started to look a little better. Shock had been replaced by anger, and he was seething with outrage. “What can we do to get rid of this lunatic?”

“Well,” said Sam, “without some hard evidence, it’s no good going to the police, and so far he’s covered his tracks pretty well. Short of blowing up his boat or bribing his bodyguard
to dump him overboard, it’s not easy to see how to get at him. But we’ll find a way. There’s always a way.” And, as the evening wore on, Sam came up with a suggestion that they all agreed had possibilities.

“This is a long shot,” he said. “But if we could catch the Oblomovs red-handed, that would give us some serious pressure to put on them. If their choices were a bullet in the head, a lifetime in jail, or cooperation, they might be persuaded to turn state’s evidence, spill the beans on Vronsky, and leave him facing a charge of conspiracy to commit murder. That should be enough to put him away for a very long time, safe and sound in a Marseille prison. The big problem, of course, is catching them red-handed, and that particular trap needs to be baited.”

Sam paused, and turned to Reboul. “In other words, the Oblomovs need to know you’re in Corsica before they’ll make their move.”

It was getting late, and it wasn’t a decision to be taken lightly. They agreed to sleep on it, but before going to bed Sam made a quick call to Philippe.

The next morning was gray and drizzly, rare for Marseille, and the weather matched the somber expressions of the group having breakfast while waiting for Philippe. Reboul looked haggard after a night with little sleep, and it took large doses of coffee and sympathy from Elena and Sam to lift his spirits.

Philippe arrived, wet and concerned. Sam’s call had given him the bare bones of the bad news, but no details. “Tell me everything,” he said, and Reboul repeated the conversation of the previous night, with Philippe shaking his head in disbelief. “This is crazy,” he said. “Are you sure it’s true?”

“Jo’s a good man. He doesn’t scare easily and he doesn’t make things up. I believe him.”

“And you think Vronsky would do this just because you won’t sell him your house?”

Reboul leaned forward, tapping the table for emphasis. “He has a history, remember? His partner in Africa? His partner in Russia? A business contact in New York? All dead. That’s his solution for dealing with people who get in his way. Vronsky has no rules. He thinks he can do anything he wants, and so far he’s been right. Why should it be any different this time? So yes, I do believe Jo.”

There was silence around the table until Reboul left his seat and started pacing up and down. “I’ve had enough,” he said. “I’ve never in my life run away from problems, and I’m not going to start now.” He stopped in front of Sam. “Call Jo, and work out a plan with him. I’m going to Corsica.”

The Figatelli brothers stood at the entrance to their bar, consulting their watches as the early evening parade of tourists strolled up and down the Rue de la Place. In the small room behind the bar that served as an office, a bottle of Clos Capitoro, a fine red wine from Porticcio, had been opened and left to breathe. Sam had just called from Sainte-Catherine, the local airport; he’d landed, he was on his way, and the Figatellis were impatient to see him. If past experience was anything to go by, there was never a dull moment when Sam had one of his ideas.

A taxi pulled up outside the bar and the Figatellis took up their positions on either side of the entrance. The elaborate salutes they performed as Sam left the taxi turned into enthusiastic hugs before they went through the bar and into their office.

“Well, my friends,” said Sam, “this is just like old times. Do you want to start, or shall I?” He accepted the glass of wine that Flo gave him and took a thoughtful sip. “Mmm. I could get to like this.”

“Made it myself,” said Flo. “We have some news, but why don’t you start? How’s Francis?”

“He’s OK, but he’s pretty mad at Vronsky. And he’s hell-bent on coming to Corsica. He’s even worked out a reason to come. Did you know he has an aunt who lives here? She has a house in a village called Speloncato, and he’s putting out a story that she’s getting over an operation, and he wants to check that she’s getting proper care. I’m not happy about him being here, but we’ll talk about that later. If he really does come, we need to work out a way to keep him safe.”

“Here’s something that might help,” said Jo. “When we were with Zonza, we asked him for the names of the two guys he lined up to help the Oblomovs. They’re local boys, and we have friends who know them. So, there are a couple of interesting possibilities.” He paused to refill their glasses. “First, we might be able to persuade these two guys to change sides, and tell us what the Oblomovs plan to do about Francis—how they’re going to do the job and when. And second, if we have that information, we could use it to ambush the Oblomovs before they have a chance to do anything dangerous.”

“That’s great, and it’s certainly a help,” said Sam, “but don’t forget this is all about nailing Vronsky. We need to
have proof that he set it up. We need confessions from the Oblomovs.”

The plotting continued well into the bottle of wine, and then over dinner. By the time Sam left the following morning, a plan had been agreed, with only one final detail left to be resolved: a way of letting the Oblomovs know, without causing suspicion, when and where Reboul’s visit would take place. But the Figatellis had no doubt that Zonza could be used to pass the information on.

Sam, reviewing the plan during the fifty-five-minute flight back to Marseille, felt that it had been a very worthwhile trip.

Patience had never been one of Oleg Vronsky’s virtues, and, now that the decision had been made to dispose of Reboul, he was becoming increasingly anxious to make progress. The regular calls from one of the Oblomovs, always in the evening, had so far ended in disappointment. The same problem—how they were to get Reboul over to Corsica—was the subject of daily discussion. Plans had been made, examined, discarded. It was all very frustrating.

And so when Sasha Oblomov broke the pattern and called in the morning, Vronsky had a feeling that his luck might have changed.

“You have news?” he asked.

“The best,” said Oblomov. “My contact in Calvi just called. He told me that Reboul is coming over to Corsica for
a couple of days next week. There is some old aunt he wants to see. And this is where it gets really interesting. She lives in a village called Speloncato—not too far from Calvi, but remote, surrounded by wild country. It sounds perfect. We can get him going in or coming out.”

“Good. Very good. Call me when you’ve worked out a plan.”

In high good humor, Vronsky called Philippe to explain that the photographic session arranged for the following week would have to be postponed. An urgent business problem required Vronsky’s presence in Paris. Philippe was the soul of understanding, and wished him a successful trip. All that remained for Vronsky to do was to ask his secretary to reserve his usual suite in the Bristol,
et voilà
. His alibi would be established.

Philippe’s journalistic experience had made him suspicious of evasive action taken by his interview subjects at the next-to-last moment, and, smelling a Russian rat, he called Sam.

“It’s happened to me a few times before,” Philippe said. “Usually politicians who have just been caught with their pants down and don’t need any more publicity. This time, I don’t know.”

“I do,” said Sam. “It means they’re getting ready to make a move. Can you get away from work early so we can talk to Francis?”

When Philippe arrived at the end of the afternoon, he found Reboul surprisingly relaxed for a man whose life was
under threat, opening a bottle of Champagne before the three of them settled down to business.

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I have you two, I have the Figatelli boys and all their contacts, and, most important, we have advance information. We know what they’re going to try before they try it. The fact that Vronsky is running off to Paris is proof that he’s arranged it all. It’s what he’s always done—he’s never there when accidents happen.” He raised his glass.
“Bon voyage!”

Sam had plans for Reboul, but they could wait until later; he didn’t want to dampen his friend’s optimistic mood. They had a pleasant half hour before Philippe had to leave to cover one of his less thrilling assignments—a cocktail party marking the opening of the new branch of a local bank. “Warm white wine and a lot of back-slapping,” he said. “But they’re regular advertisers in the paper, so someone has to go.” He sighed, finished his Champagne, looked sadly at what remained in the bottle, and left.

“Well, I think I should come too.”

“Absolutely not.”

Elena and Sam were in their suite, making leisurely preparations before going down to join Reboul for dinner. Elena had suggested that she should accompany Sam and Reboul to Corsica, an idea that had not found any favor with Sam.

“It’s too dangerous.”

“Nonsense. There’ll be you, Francis, the Figatelli boys, and half the Corsican underworld to hide behind. And besides, I think Francis needs a woman’s support. And besides that, I’d like to come.”

“Not a chance.”

The argument continued until Elena slipped off to the bathroom, only to reappear dressed in the cobwebs of silk that did duty as her underwear.

“Why is it,” asked Sam, “that whenever you start losing an argument you take off your clothes? Could that be coincidence?”

“That’s not coincidence, baby. That’s tactics. Get your body over here.”

The argument was adjourned.

They came down to dinner, a little late and a little flushed, to find Reboul restless, and bubbling with good humor. He had clearly come to terms with the situation, and was confident that Sam and the Figatellis could handle it. And he was finding the whiff of danger rather stimulating. Should he arm himself? he asked Sam. What about a bulletproof vest?

Sam recognized this as a typical first-timer’s reaction. There is a heightened awareness, excitement mixed with a squirt of adrenaline, that often accompanies physical risk. And so, to humor Reboul, Sam decided to give him some advice about preparing for his moment of skullduggery.

“First,” he said, “don’t shoot until you see the whites of
their eyes. Second, if you need to go into what might be a dangerous area, send your chauffeur in first to check it out. Third, never answer your phone when someone’s pointing a gun at you.”

Reboul was laughing and shaking his head. “OK, OK. I was only asking.”

Over dinner, the conversation turned to Vronsky. He, as they had heard from Philippe, was going to be well out of the way in Paris. But they still had to implicate him beyond doubt if they were to succeed in having him convicted and imprisoned.

“Do we know where he’s staying in Paris?” asked Reboul.

“Good point,” said Sam. “I’ll get Philippe to find out. He can say he needs to be in touch to fix another date for the photographic session. And on the subject of Paris, does your police buddy Hervé have some good contacts up there? Vronsky might need to be persuaded not to leave France.”

“Of course. I’ll call Hervé tomorrow.”

Elena was well aware that Sam had no intention of putting Reboul in harm’s way, but curiosity was getting the better of her. “These two Russian thugs, the Oblomovs—what’s going to make them agree to blow the whistle on Vronsky?”

“I’m working on it,” said Sam. “We’ve had an idea that might solve the problem, but I’m superstitious. I don’t want to talk about it until it’s set up.”