The Corsican Caper (9 page)

They were on board
The Caspian Queen
, heading east down the coast toward Cap d’Antibes. Vronsky was to have lunch with Sergei Kalinin, an old friend from Moscow who had mysterious but clearly very lucrative connections with the ministry in charge of exploiting Russia’s natural gas. He, like several of his well-heeled compatriots, had decided that
a large villa on Cap d’Antibes was in every way more attractive than a dacha in the dank and gloomy forests outside Moscow or even a palatial beach hut in Sochi. Better food, for one thing, and a wider choice of girls. It promised to be an amusing lunch.

But it was unlikely to bring Vronsky any closer to owning Le Pharo, which, he had convinced himself, he
deserved
. He was one of the most successful men in the world, and among the richest. For years he had been able to have exactly what he wanted. And now, all that stood between him and his dream was that stubborn, arrogant, pain-in-the-ass Frenchman.

Nikki had been with Vronsky long enough to have become an expert in reading his moods, and his boss’s growing frustration was increasingly obvious. Nikki too had become tired of the inactivity and lack of progress, and had even considered some extreme solutions of his own to the problem. Abduction? A car bomb? Lacing Reboul’s whisky with cyanide? But the difficulty, as he had been often reminded, was that Vronsky, once having taken possession of Le Pharo, intended to make it his base. He would be spending a great deal of time in Marseille, and attention from the local police would be most unwelcome. Scandal must be avoided. Whatever happened to Reboul must happen away from the city. But where? And what?

The Caspian Queen
cut her engines and drifted to a halt a few hundred yards offshore. One of the Rivas was lowered and made ready for the short trip to the private jetty, where Kalinin, a barrel of a man wearing camouflage shorts, an I ♥ Putin T-shirt, and a yachting cap, was waiting to greet his guests.

“Oli!”

“Sergei! It’s been so long!”

“Too long!”

The two men hugged in the enthusiastic Russian manner, for all the world like two wrestlers, each searching for the opportunity to administer a lethal cross-buttock throw. And then, still grasping one another by the shoulders, they pulled back for the ritual exchange of insults.

Vronsky to the portly Kalinin: “Oy!—I see the diet didn’t work.”

Kalinin to the shorter Vronsky: “What’s this? You’ve given up wearing those high heels?”

There was a flurry of back-slapping, Nikki was introduced, and the three men went up through a path lined with parasol pines to what Kalinin described as his “little country cottage.”

In fact, it was a mansion, built in the 1930s, the stucco faded to the color of a dusty pink. “Once Nabokov was the only Russian living here,” said Kalinin. “Now we’re all over the place. Vladimir—remember him?—has a villa just up
the road, and the Oblomov boys are taking care of the house opposite. They’re coming to lunch. Vladimir has a sweet little operation in Nice—you should see his girls!—and the Oblomovs are getting cozy with the Corsican mafia. So it’s business as usual. Now, what are you having? I can recommend the ’96 Dom Pérignon to settle the dust.”

Lunch continued in this jovial fashion, with Champagne, blinis, caviar, and lobster, bikini-clad girls drifting in from the pool, and a burst of Russian song from Kalinin with the coffee. But Vronsky, while enjoying himself, had become somewhat preoccupied. Mention of the Corsican mafia had set him thinking.

On the trip back to
The Caspian Queen
after lunch, the Riva carried two extra passengers: Sasha Oblomov and Igor, his second cousin. Although only distantly related, a shared fondness for violent crime and large amounts of money had brought them closer while they were still young, and they had been working together ever since. Now, at Vronsky’s invitation, they had agreed to come on board to discuss what Vronsky described to them as “an interesting project.”

The four of them settled into their seats on opposite sides of a low table in Vronsky’s personal stateroom while a steward bustled about taking orders for cigars and Armagnac. The dress code was clearly flexible—Vronsky in well-pressed linen, Nikki in white jeans and a black muscle shirt, and the Oblomovs looking like two rumpled bears, identically
dressed in wrinkled T-shirts and the camouflage shorts that seemed to be
de rigueur
for Russian residents of Cap d’Antibes.

Vronsky waited for the steward to leave before opening the discussion. “I have a problem in Marseille,” he said, “and our good friend Sergei suggested that you might be able to help.” He studied the glowing tip of his cigar carefully, as though looking for inspiration. “I hope he wasn’t being indiscreet, but he did mention that you have—how shall I put it?—business connections in Corsica.” He looked at the Oblomovs, eyebrows raised and questioning. They shrugged in unison, a reaction that Vronsky chose to take as confirmation. He continued, under their intent, unblinking eyes, until he had explained his problem and its possible solution, but only in general terms. Details could come later.

Leaning back in his chair, he relit his cigar. “Any questions?”

Sasha Oblomov raised his right hand, palm upward, toward Vronsky and rubbed his thumb across his index finger, the universal shorthand for money. Vronsky smiled. “Good,” he said. “Now we can talk.”

Francis Reboul was regaining his spirits after the worry and irritation caused by Vronsky’s behavior. A couple of days had passed without incident, and without any sign of his
being followed. Life seemed to have returned to normal, with Elena and Sam’s hunt for an apartment a pleasant distraction.

The blessed relief came to an end over drinks that evening, when Sam broke the news that he had heard back from his spy on Wall Street. “Gail just called,” he said. “I don’t know how she did it, but she managed to cut through all the offshore crap and fake trusts, and now we know who owns Escargot Investments.” He took a deep breath. “I’m afraid, as we suspected, that it’s Vronsky. Which means, I guess, that it was probably him who had you followed.”

Sam saw Reboul’s face tighten, the lines on either side of his mouth becoming deeper and more prominent, his face a mask of anger. Pulling himself together with a visible effort, he said, “I’d like to go through everything that’s happened, right from the beginning.” He looked at his watch, and swore. “I have an appointment this evening. Sam, could we talk first thing tomorrow?”

The morning saw Reboul still tense, a tension mixed with anger that only grew as he and Sam went over the events of the past few days, from the strafing by helicopter to Vronsky’s performance at the charity dinner, his appearance the following day in Reboul’s driveway, and his likely involvement in having Reboul’s car followed. Sam made an effort to put the situation into perspective.

“Look, he’s at best a goddam nuisance and at worst a dangerous weirdo, but he hasn’t broken any laws. All the police can do is keep an eye on him from a distance.”

Reboul paced up and down, fists clenched. “I’ve had enough,” he said. “I want to have it out with him, tell him to his face that if he doesn’t leave me alone there will be consequences.”

Sam shook his head. “Sorry, Francis, but that’s a lousy idea. All you’ll do is make him more determined. I’ve met guys like him before, and they don’t give up easily. Also, don’t forget that at least three people who got in his way died in pretty suspicious circumstances.” Sam went over to Reboul and put an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Believe me, this isn’t the time to jump in and hope for the best. You know,” Sam went on, “at the moment, Vronsky knows more about you than you know about him. It might be useful, for instance, if we knew how long he plans to stay in Marseille. Judging by his record, he’s probably less of a problem when he’s close than when he’s away. What do you think?”

“Sure. The more you know about your enemy the better. But we can hardly call him up and ask him.”

“Well,” said Sam, “I know someone who can. Our favorite journalist.”

“Philippe?”

“Who is this? What time is it?”

“Time for Marseille’s top reporter to be out reporting. It’s Sam.”

“Oh.” There was a grunt as Philippe sat up. “Is this urgent?”

“Better than that. It’s your chance to do a good deed to help your friend Francis.”

“What’s he done?”

“It’s not him, it’s Vronsky. We’re pretty sure he’s having Francis followed, and God knows what he’s going to try next. We really need to know more about him. Tell me—has he ever come back to you about his invitation to do an interview on his boat?”

“No. He said he’d call, but he hasn’t.”

“Well, I have an idea that he might fall for.”

“I’m listening.” Philippe’s voice had changed from drowsy to alert.

“It’s something to appeal to his vanity, and a chance to become better known in Marseille—which is one of his social ambitions. Here’s the plot. You have sold your editorial board on a series of in-depth profiles of Les Amis de Marseille, and who better to start with than the most generous
ami
of them all, Monsieur Vronsky.”

“But I already did him, remember? After the auction.”

“Ah,” said Sam, “but that was a mere sketch. I’m thinking of a complete portrait: the man in full—his hopes, his dreams, his indiscretions, everything. You know how these rich guys are. They’ve all got egos the size of a house, they love talking about themselves, and the big plus is that he liked the piece you did on him.”

Before there was time for an answer, Sam slipped in the bribe. Knowing Philippe’s fondness for lunch in general and Le Bistrot d’Edouard in particular, he suggested that they meet later at the restaurant, where they could discuss the matter face-to-face. Philippe bowed to the irresistible logic of Sam’s argument. Lunch it was.

Sam put down his phone and looked across the breakfast table at Elena. She was bent over the
International New York Times
, her coffee and croissant forgotten, her face intent and frowning. This, as Sam had come to know all too well, was her Do Not Disturb look. She finished the piece she was
reading, gave a dismissive snort, and pushed the paper away with the back of her hand.

“God, they make me sick, those deadbeats in Washington,” she said. “The sooner they’re kicked out and replaced by women the better.” Warming to her subject, she wagged an outraged finger at Sam. “How can you be anti-abortion and pro-gun? These idiots drone on about the sanctity of human life—even though the human hasn’t even been born—and yet they and their buddies at the NRA choose to ignore the fact that guns kill thousands of Americans every year. Does that make sense?”

Elena left Sam to ponder this interesting question while she attacked her croissant. In fact, he had for many years been immune from the charms of any politician, regardless of party, and he was still surprised that anyone could take a bunch of such self-serving windbags seriously. It was a point of view that Elena considered constitutionally irresponsible, and so he decided to drop the subject and move on to safer ground.

“How would you like to come to lunch with two admirers?” he said. “Philippe and me.”

Elena looked up at him and smiled, her mood suddenly sunny. “I think I could make myself available.”

It was a couple of years since Philippe had introduced Elena and Sam to Chez Edouard, and it had been, for both of them,
love at first bite. Elena could still remember what she had eaten, and was tempted to have the same again.
Tapas
in all their glory, from
pata negra
ham to tuna roe with a drizzle of olive oil, fried aubergine dusted with mint, tartare of salmon with honey and dill, deep-fried zucchini flowers, artichokes, anchovies, clams—there were fifteen dishes in all, and, as Elena said, she could happily try each one. But, with a small gesture to moderation, they eventually settled on four
tapas
each, with sharing privileges.

There is a special moment in a good restaurant that comes before eating a single mouthful, and it should be listed at the top of the menu. It is anticipation, in the sure and certain knowledge that you won’t be disappointed. Your order has been taken, your first glass of wine is to hand, tantalizing whiffs come through the kitchen door each time it swings open, waiters scurry, there is the moist creak of corks being eased out of bottles, and everything is as it should be. You settle back in your seat, and all’s well with the world. “Heaven,” said Elena.