The Corsican Caper (6 page)

“What did you say?” asked Reboul.

“My first reaction was to tell him to get lost. Then I
thought—well, if he’s trying to screw you, it might be worth having someone in the enemy camp. Maybe he’d let something slip that would be useful.”

Reboul nodded slowly. “That’s not a bad idea.” He turned to the others. “What do you think?”

Elena and Sam agreed. There was nothing to lose.

“Tell me, Philippe,” said Reboul, “you’ve spent more time with Vronsky than we have. What did you think of him?”

“He reminded me of politicians I’ve met. You know, arrogant. Very pleased with himself. Not a man to cross, I’d say. But he does seem to love what he’s seen of Marseille. Particularly your house.”

The subject of the conversation at Peron was sitting on the VIP deck of his yacht having a serious discussion with his bodyguard. During the years they had been together, Vronsky had come to rely on Nikki’s assistance in solving stubborn problems. The Russian had found that Nikki’s solutions, practical if sometimes brutal, were always effective. This latest situation, like others in the past, would undoubtedly be resolved. But how?

Vronsky was beginning to accept that it would take more than money, however substantial, to induce Reboul to change his mind and sell his house. He was clearly rich enough not to be influenced by cash.

“How about sex?” Nikki suggested. This was a weapon he had used often to good effect. “There are dozens of good-looking hookers in Cannes for the festival. An assignation
in a hotel room—photographs, blackmail. That could be arranged.”

Vronsky shook his head. “Forget it. This is a rich man who has lived in Marseille for years. If he feels like a change from his mistress, he wouldn’t have any trouble finding someone to oblige.”

“Boys?”

“I don’t think he’s the type.” Vronsky grinned. “You should know.”

Nikki pouted.

Vronsky went over to the rail and took in the view—the flat sheen of the Mediterranean, the old port of Marseille, and, high on its own clifftop, Le Palais du Pharo. Vronsky had to admit that the house had turned into an obsession. He thought about it—and how it would be to live in it—constantly. He felt he deserved it, after all he had achieved. And, to add to his frustration, it was unique, both in its style and in its setting. He would never find another property like it. But if money, sex, and blackmail wouldn’t persuade Reboul, what would?

Nikki came over to join him. They were both aware that there was another, more certain option, one that they had used in the past. “I was thinking,” said Nikki, “about that guy in New York, the one who fell off his terrace and made such a mess on Park Avenue.”

“Tragic accident. Very sad.” There was a brief pause
while the two men struggled to control their grief. “But why do you ask? Do you have something in mind?”

“Perhaps another tragic accident. After all, accidents happen all over the world.” Nikki turned away from the view to look at Vronsky, his expression innocent, his eyebrows raised and questioning.

“Let me think about it,” said Vronsky.

“Of course, we would need to know much more about Reboul’s habits—where he goes for amusement, if he has a bodyguard, if he has any dangerous hobbies, who he sleeps with, where he eats, that sort of stuff. You never know what might be useful.”

Vronsky sighed. This would all be so much easier in Russia.

Later that evening, as the lights went on in Marseille, Vronsky was back on deck, smoking a cigar and gazing once again at Le Pharo. If anything, it looked even more seductive at night, with the façade bathed in a soft wash of light. Vronsky could imagine himself there—the genial host entertaining elegant women and their wealthy and influential escorts at dinner. And then perhaps a little dancing—there was plenty of space at Le Pharo for a ballroom. All that was standing between him and this delightful existence was that stubborn idiot of a Frenchman.

Nikki’s solution, death by accident, was, as Vronsky admitted, a last resort. But he had run out of other resorts, and now the decision was simple: either let Nikki loose or say good-bye to any chance of realizing his dream. As for the larger question—was it worth killing for something you wanted?—Vronsky had answered that many years ago, when sound business reasons had required the removal of troublesome colleagues. Any moral qualms had long since disappeared.

Vronsky yawned, stretched, and made up his mind. He slept particularly well that night.

Reboul settled into the passenger seat while Olivier, his chauffeur, put the finishing touches to the adjustment of his sunglasses before joining the early morning traffic heading toward the Vieux Port. They were going to the small, shabby building where Reboul had his office. Shabby though it might be on the outside, visitors were always astonished by the interior, which was sleek, comfortable, and modern. The only vintage item among the Eames chairs and polished teak desk and tables was Reboul’s secretary, a sixty-year-old treasure named Madame Giordano, who had been with him since he was a young man starting off in business thirty years ago. Madame G, as she was usually known, adored Reboul, ran his professional life with brisk efficiency, and generally
treated him with the patient indulgence of a mother toward a much-loved errant child.

Olivier slowed down and was about to pull up outside the office when Reboul tapped him on the shoulder. “Keep going,” he said. “There’s something I want to check out. See that white Peugeot behind us? It was parked on the road outside Le Pharo when we left. I noticed it because his side mirror is almost falling off, and it’s been repaired with black tape. It’s still with us, and that’s quite a coincidence. I have a feeling we’re being followed.”

Olivier glanced up at the rearview mirror. “You want me to lose him?”

“No—just make life a little difficult for him.”

There was nothing Olivier liked better than a chase, and he set off on a tour of the side streets, doubling back on his tracks and jumping the occasional light. The Peugeot was never more than fifty yards behind them.

“This guy knows how to drive,” said Olivier. “And you’re right. He’s following us, no doubt about it.”

They eventually lost him by turning off the Boulevard Charles Livon at the Cercle des Nageurs, a private swimming club not far from Le Pharo, where nonmembers driving grubby white Peugeots were not admitted. Reboul called Madame G to say that he wasn’t coming in, then settled at a poolside table with a cup of coffee. He was thoughtful, trying to think who might be following him, and why. Taking out
his phone, he started to call Hervé, then cut the connection, chiding himself for being a nervous old woman. Even so, he told himself, it was not surprising he felt uncomfortable.

Later, in the Vieux Port, Nikki was seated at a café table enjoying the afternoon sun—a more conventional Nikki, having replaced the hot pants and biker boots with the uniform of a gentleman on vacation: clean and well-pressed cotton trousers, a white linen shirt, and a wide-brim Panama hat. He was with a Marseillais named Rocca, a shadowy figure who made his living snooping for lawyers, or doing “legal research,” as he preferred to call it. He had been hired to follow Nikki’s invented client, a man of considerable wealth whose wife suspected him of maintaining a mistress and a love nest. Divorce and a multimillion-euro settlement were possible, but first it was necessary to find some evidence.

“Well,” said Nikki, “where did he go?”

Rocca shrugged and took a long pull at his
pastis
. “Where didn’t he go? All around the backstreets, down to the docks, and then up near Le Pharo, which is where I lost him; no, where he lost me. He went into this place, the Cercle des Nageurs—very chic, members only. They wouldn’t even let me into the parking area. So I waited outside until I came down to meet you. No sign of him.”

“Bastard,” said Nikki. “Obviously meeting his mistress.
What am I going to tell his poor wife?” Another shrug from Rocca. “Do you think he knew he was being followed?”

“Don’t think so. But if you want me to keep tailing him I’ll need another car, something that isn’t a white Peugeot falling to bits.”

Nikki nodded, and pushed an envelope across the table. “Rent another car. Make a list of where he goes, and call me at the end of every day.”

Elena and Sam had decided to spend some time house-hunting, and had made an appointment to meet a real estate agent based in the Luberon, about an hour’s drive from Marseille. It was an area, so Philippe had told them, well known for its spectacular landscapes and its charming medieval villages. And equally well known, in these days of celebrity worship, for welcoming the invasion each summer of
les people
—movie stars and directors, rock musicians, members of the Paris elite, the occasional high-ranking politician—all hoping to be recognized despite their impenetrable sunglasses. Philippe had told them that the celebrity magazine
Gala
maintained a special summer correspondent to lurk in the neighborhood, watch the rich and famous at play, and, with a bit of luck, catch them behaving badly. But, he added, if one avoids this group and their goings-on, the Luberon is a calm and beautiful spot.

“Well, it certainly is beautiful,” said Elena. They had driven through the Combe, a narrow, twisting road that cuts through the hills to link the more fashionable northern side of the Luberon with the quieter, less famous villages of the south. They were meeting the agent at her office in Gordes, sometimes called the capital of the summer
beau monde
, an absurdly picturesque arrangement of limestone buildings softened by centuries of sun and the mistral wind. The village sits on top of a hill, surrounded by long and lovely views, and it had recently come to life with a vengeance after the winter hibernation.

English, American, German, and Japanese tourists, students from the nearby art school at Lacoste—they were all there, cameras clattering as they discovered yet another quaint cobbled passageway or an obliging inhabitant to pose with. Elena and Sam threaded their way through the crowd to find the agent’s office, tucked away in one of the steep streets that lead off the Place du Château.

The office was approached through an archway that gave access to a tall, narrow house festooned with wisteria, its shutters half-closed against the sun. The polished brass plaque on the front door announced that this was the headquarters of Verrine, Immobilier de Luxe, and in a glass-fronted display case on the wall next to the door were photographs of a dozen handsome properties, none of them with any indication of price. This, as Elena and Sam were to discover, was a delicate matter best left for discreet conversation.

While they were looking at the photographs, the front door swung open, and there, in all her considerable glory, was Madame Verrine herself, the agent, who complimented Elena and Sam on their punctuality, which, as she said, was not normal in Provence. Later, Elena would describe Madame Verrine as a ship in full sail—tall, buxom, in her fifties, her considerable size draped in billows of brightly colored silk, her neck and wrists twinkling with gold jewelry, her plump face a testament to the rejuvenating properties of good cosmetic surgery.

“OK,” she said as she led the way into her office. “You are American, yes? So we speak English.” She waved them into two armchairs before arranging herself at her desk.

“That would be great for me,” said Elena.

“No problem. Here in Gordes, English is the second language. So, first I must ask if you have a budget.”

“It’s very flexible,” said Sam. “Depends on what we see. As you know, buying a house is an emotional business. If we fall in love with something—well, the sky’s the limit. Let’s not worry about money.”

Money was exactly what Madame Verrine wanted to worry about, but she bore the disappointment with a brave face, opened a thick album and placed it in front of them. “These are some of my properties,” she said, tapping the first few photographs with a crimson talon. “Stop me when you see something that interests you.” But that was easier said than done. She took off, her descriptive juices flowing, on a
sales pitch that defied interruption. As Reboul had predicted, there was
charme fou
in abundance, closely followed by houses with extraordinary potential, houses offering wonderful investment opportunities, houses owned by celebrities trading up or divorced couples trading down. They were all, without exception,
affaires à saisir
, to be snapped up before July and August, when the hot money came down from Paris and people would be fighting—literally
fighting
—over such highly desirable properties.

At the end of the morning, reeling from Madame Verrine’s nonstop barrage, they made their escape, promising to think things over and get back to her.

“Wow,” said Elena, “my first French real estate agent. Do you think they’re all like that?”

“It’s a very competitive business. I’ve seen five agencies right here in the village. So I guess you need to be pushy by nature. If you’re not, you should go into something easier, like crime. Now, shall we try that place Philippe suggested for lunch?”