The Marseille Caper sl-2

by Peter Mayle

  This time, they were to make no mistakes. But as they had agreed after the briefing from Prendergast, this was their kind of job: a bit of detective work, some shadowing, and just a touch of the nasty at the end. No worries. They rented a nondescript Peugeot, bought a street map of Marseille, and set off one morning for the Chemin du Roucas Blanc, parking a comfortable distance away from the gated entrance.

  With painful slowness, the hours went by. People came and went, but not the people they were interested in. The Peugeot, despite its place in the shade of a tree, became intolerably hot. Dave nearly got himself arrested when a resident saw him responding to a pressing call of nature up against a garden wall.

  They quickly learned to recognize those who came and went on a regular basis: Nanou the maid on her Mobylette, Claudine the housekeeper in her Fiat 500, Olivier the chauffeur in the big black car-sometimes with passengers, sometimes without. But not once did they see the solitary figure they were hoping to see. Tedious hours turned into tedious days, broken up by shadowing Olivier from time to time as he went off to carry out some errand in the city.

  Their patience was finally rewarded one bright afternoon by the arrival of a taxi that roused Dave from his afternoon doze by sounding its horn at the gate.

  “It’s empty,” said Brian. “Come to pick someone up.”

  Dave focused his binoculars on the gate a hundred yards away, saw the taxi appear and pull out onto the road with a single female passenger in the back. “Right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  At a safe distance, they followed the taxi back down the winding Chemin du Roucas Blanc, closing the gap when the traffic thickened as they reached the center of town. They went along the side of the Vieux Port, through a narrow side street, and emerged into the Rue Paradis. The taxi came to a halt outside a tinted glass facade, and they saw Elena Morales get out and go through the entrance marked “Studio Celine Coiffure.”

  “Gone for a hairdo, it looks like,” said Dave. “This could do us nicely if we can find somewhere to park.”

  After ten minutes of automotive infighting, Brian managed to shoehorn the Peugeot into a spot opposite the salon, provoking a barrage of shouts and horn-blowing from frustrated drivers backed up behind him. A young man in a battered Renault extended his hand in the classic single-digit salute as he passed. “And the same to you, mate,” said Brian. “No bleeding manners, these French.”

  “Not long now,” said Dave. “Got your syringe?”

  Brian nodded. “Got yours?”

  They waited a few minutes more, then left the car, crossed the street, and appeared to find something that fascinated them in the window of a menswear boutique two doors away from the salon.

  Elena came out into the bright sunshine of the street and was putting on her sunglasses when Brian, holding a map, went up to her. “Excuse me, miss,” he said. “Do you speak any English?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m a bit lost.” He moved around to be beside her, holding the map so that she could see it. Dave came up behind her and jabbed the needle of his syringe into the bicep of her bare arm. The effect was instant. Her head slumped forward, her legs started to give way. They had to stop her from collapsing and almost had to carry her across the street before putting her into the back seat of the Peugeot. Passers-by took one look and hurried on. In Marseille one didn’t interfere in such situations.

  Brian was grinning as he started the engine. “Works a treat, that stuff, doesn’t it?”

  Sam checked his watch. Six-thirty, that time of day when stomachs all over Marseille start to rumble in anticipation. He and Elena had arranged to have dinner with Mimi and Philippe, but where was she? How long could a haircut take? Or had shopping caused her to lose track of the time?

  He called her cell phone, but there was no answer. He called again twenty minutes later, and again ten minutes after that. Still no answer. By 7:30 he was worried enough to call Reboul. An hour later, Reboul called back. “My people have checked with the police, and with the hospitals and clinics. There have been no reports of any accidents or emergencies involving anyone of Elena’s description. I’m very sorry, my friend, but so far we’ve drawn a blank. We’ll keep trying.”

  Sam passed a miserable evening with Philippe and Mimi. They made more unsuccessful calls to Elena’s number. Philippe called all his contacts-the informers, the night people, bar and club owners, a friend who owned a private ambulance service. Nothing. Evening stretched into what would prove to be a long, black, sleepless night for Sam.

  Tired of pacing the bedroom, and more in desperation than hope, he tried Elena’s number. This time there was an answer.

  “We were hoping you’d call.” The voice at the other end sounded tinny and slightly distorted, as if speaking through some kind of baffle, but it was distinct enough.

  Sam made an effort to stay calm. “Where’s Elena?”

  “Oh, she’s fine.”

  “Let me speak to her.”

  “That won’t be possible, I’m afraid. She’s catching up on her sleep. It would be a shame to disturb her.”

  “Where is she? Who are you?”

  “That needn’t concern you. Now listen carefully. Miss Morales will be returned to you unharmed as soon as you withdraw your bid for the development on the Anse des Pecheurs, officially and unconditionally. You may give any excuse you want-apart, of course, from the real one. Is that clear? You can call me on this number when you’ve made the necessary arrangements. I’d advise you not to waste any time.”

  “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

  “You don’t.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “What other options do you have?”

  There was a click, and the line went dead.

  Sixteen

  Philippe was already in the kitchen, standing at the window and nursing his first espresso, when Sam came in-a haggard, unshaven, red-eyed Sam wearing his rumpled clothes from the day before and clutching his cell phone. He got himself a cup of coffee and sat down.

  “Still no news?” asked Philippe. Sam shook his head. The night before, when Sam had told him about the phone call, Philippe had once again called the police, the hospitals, his underworld contacts, and the emergency services. As before, the result had been a series of blanks. It was time to acknowledge the ugly fact that last night’s caller had been serious; Elena had been kidnapped.

  Philippe came and sat down. He put his arm around Sam’s shoulder, wincing as his cracked ribs complained. “I know it’s hard, but let’s try to be logical about this. D’accord?” Sam sighed and nodded. Philippe continued: “It’s not a normal ransom job, because nobody’s asked you for money. They’ve been very specific about what they want and how they want it done. Also, the guy spoke in English. Did he have any kind of accent?”

  “Hard to tell. His voice was distorted.”

  “That’s standard procedure.” Philippe shook his head. “Putain-I’m starting to talk like a cop. But did he sound English, or like a Frenchman speaking English?”

  Despite the distortion, Sam remembered, the voice had sounded completely at home with English. “Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure he was English. A Frenchman nearly always has difficulty pronouncing English words that begin with an h. This guy didn’t have a problem.”

  “Right. So an Englishman calls you and wants you to pull out of the project. Now who’s going to do that? Who would gain from it? Who else could it be but Wapping or one of his entourage?” Philippe got up to make some more coffee. “It has to be him.” He looked at Sam and shrugged. “That’s the easy part. Now we have to work out where he’s holding Elena. Bear in mind that he doesn’t know Marseille very well, so he’s not going to hide her in some apartment. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t involve Patrimonio in something like this. That would make Patrimonio an accomplice to a criminal act-too risky. Now put yourself in Wapping’s shoes. He needs to keep Elena somewhere secure, somewhere discreet, somewhere he has total con
trol. Where does that lead us?”

  “The boat?”

  “Exactly. The Floating Pound, where there’s no chance of any outsiders seeing something they shouldn’t. Also, if he has a problem he can just sail away. Plus, he has the helicopter. So let’s assume that we know who the kidnapper is, and we know where he’s keeping Elena. Now we come to the hard part. Somehow, we have to get onto the boat.”

  “Philippe, just a minute. Where are the police in all this? Why can’t we get them to raid the boat?”

  Philippe shook his head slowly, and took a deep breath. “Down here, we don’t like getting on the wrong side of rich foreigners. It’s bad for business. Marseille has had enough trouble with its reputation already. But more important, much more important, there isn’t any evidence-no recording of that phone call, no witnesses, no clues. Just our little theory, our word, that’s all. No proof. And without something to go on, no cop is going to board a private vessel.”

  “Don’t you have a really solid police contact we could talk to? An inspector?”

  “Andreis? He retired-went off to Corsica to make cheese.”

  Sam had started the morning feeling desperately worried and frustrated. Now he was getting angry. The thought of Elena being used as a bargaining chip made him crave action, preferably something that involved breaking Wapping’s neck. And with the anger came a rush of energy, all memories of a sleepless night forgotten.

  “OK, so we need to search that boat. If we can’t use the police, then we have to think of something that will make the search look official. Otherwise they won’t even let us on board.”

  Sam’s phone rang. He grabbed at it, nerves making him clumsy. It was Reboul, hoping in vain for good news. He was shocked to hear about the kidnap call. “Sam, I don’t know what to say. It’s my fault for getting you into this mess. I just want you to know that you can count on me for any help I can give you. Anything at all. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m working on it. I’ll let you know.”

  While he’d been on the phone, a tousled, yawning Mimi had joined them. She went over to Sam and put her arms round him. “Still nothing?”

  Sam shook his head and bent down to kiss her forehead. It was burning hot. “Mimi, are you feeling all right? You’ve got a hell of a temperature.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing serious. There’s some bug going around. I’ll be fine.”

  There are times when the mind makes some curious random connections, and Mimi’s bug took Sam back to an unhealthy moment in Marseille’s history. “You two would know more about it than me, but wasn’t there a big plague in Marseille back in the eighteenth century? I remember reading about it.”

  Philippe looked puzzled. “It was in 1720,” he said. “When they weren’t bothering too much with quarantine. Thousands of people died.”

  “So I guess there must now be quarantine restrictions.”

  “Of course. Especially now, you know, given all the problems with illegal immigration. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, suppose there was a report that some contagious disease might have been brought into Marseille on a boat-let’s say, a boat from the Ivory Coast. Wouldn’t the quarantine authorities want to do some emergency health checks, to make sure it wasn’t spreading?”

  For the first time that morning, Philippe grinned. “I think I can see what’s coming.”

  “A team from Health and Immigration, with a couple of cops as official backup, to inspect all foreign-registry boats.”

  “Starting with Wapping’s boat?”

  “Exactly. But at night, when nobody’s expecting a visit.”

  In ten minutes, they had worked out a shopping list, and Sam called Reboul.

  “Francis, we have an idea, but to make it work we need a police speedboat, two guys who could pass as police officers, and a few medical accessories. For tonight. Can you help?”

  Reboul took a moment to think. “The speedboat is no problem. Nor is the medical equipment. The police officers-ah, yes, I think I know just the men for that. Give me half an hour to set things up, and meet me in an hour at the private terminal at Marignane. Bring your passport just in case. You can tell me all about your idea while we’re on our way.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Corsica, my friend. Corsica.”

  Sam was shaking his head as he put down the phone. “How simple life is when you’re a billionaire. It looks like we’re all set.”

  Philippe had been pacing up and down in an agony of curiosity. “Well? Well?”

  “Reboul is taking me to Corsica this morning. I think we’re going to have a meeting with two fake cops.” Sam went over to Mimi, who curled up in an armchair. He kissed her burning forehead once more for luck. “I’ll never forget you gave me the idea. Now take a couple of aspirin and get back to bed.”

  When Sam arrived at Marignane’s private air terminal, Reboul was already waiting, his cell phone to his ear. He finished his call and came over to embrace Sam. “I’m so sorry about this. So very sorry.”

  In fact, Sam was feeling better and more positive than he’d felt for several hours. He was no longer passive, just waiting; he was doing something, and activity is a sovereign remedy for most problems. He clapped Reboul on the shoulder. “This is going to work. I know it’s going to work once we find our cops.”

  “You’ll see,” said Reboul. “Let’s get on the plane and I’ll tell you about them.”

  Once again, Sam was struck by the boarding process, or rather by the lack of it, when flying private. They strolled across the tarmac to the plane, where the copilot welcomed them at the top of the gangway. The steps were retracted, the pilot taxied over to the takeoff point, and they began the short hop to Calvi, on the west coast of Corsica. Boarding time: three minutes.

  Coffee was served by the copilot, and Reboul began his briefing. He started with the names of the two gentlemen they were going to meet: the Figatelli brothers, Florian and Joseph, known as Flo and Jo. Reboul had known them since the two were boys, when their father ran a hotel in which Reboul had a majority interest. When the father died after a hunting accident, Reboul had taken the two young men under his wing, offering to put them through university. To their mother’s dismay and with Reboul’s wholehearted approval, they had chosen to complete their education in Las Vegas, where a small but select college offered a course in celebrity hotel management.

  English, naturally, was part of the curriculum. There was also detailed instruction on the running of a hotel, even down to the pitfalls of hiring illegal immigrants, the importance of clean fingernails, the art of increasing the tip, and, not least of all, the defensive measures to be taken if a distinguished guest, such as a United States senator, should be discovered in flagrante with a couple of the local hookers.

  Flo and Jo graduated with honors, and to mark the occasion they were each presented with a special T-shirt, of black silk, with the city’s motto embroidered in tasteful gold lettering: “What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas.” Ready for the real world, they returned to Calvi and took over the management of the hotel. They ran it well, and they expanded their business to include bars, a beach franchise, and one or two enterprises that were not, strictly speaking, legal.

  “But they’re good boys,” said Reboul, “and I trust them to do a good job.”

  “They need to look official, Francis. What about uniforms?”

  Reboul tapped the side of his nose. “They already have regulation police uniforms. I can’t think why. Better not to ask.”

  The plane was beginning its descent toward Calvi when Reboul leaned forward. “One thing we haven’t talked about, Sam. You mentioned a doctor. Where are we going to find our doctor?”

  “You’re looking at him.”

  “You? You can’t go. They’ve met you. They know you.”

  “Not with a surgical mask, a pair of glasses, hospital scrubs, and one of those little hats they wear in the operating room. All they’ll see of me is my eyebrows.”


  Reboul rubbed his chin in thought. “Well, maybe. But they’ll recognize your voice, your accent.”

  “I won’t speak English. In fact, I won’t speak to them at all. I won’t need to. I’ll have my secret weapon.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A bilingual nurse.”

  Calvi, according to legend the birthplace of Christopher Columbus, is one of the most beautiful sights in an island filled with beautiful sights. The six-hundred-year-old citadel, built on a promontory, dominates a town of sweeping sea views and narrow streets, and it was in a bar in one of these narrow streets that Sam and Reboul met the Figatellis.

  The Pourquoi Pas looked like dozens of other Mediterranean bars: fishing nets, soccer posters, a framed and autographed snapshot of Johnny Hallyday, a flat-screen TV, and several fine old mirrors with the gray bloom of the years visible through the glass. It had been chosen for the meeting because it belonged to the Figatellis, and it had a very private back room.

  “You’re a little early,” said the girl behind the bar. “They’re on their way. Please follow me.” She led them into a small room stacked with cases of pastis and Corsican whisky. A wooden table with four chairs had been set up in the middle of the room and, while they settled down, the girl came back with a tray-two coffees, two shot glasses, and a plain dark-green bottle with a handwritten label that simply said “Flo amp; Jo.”

  Reboul noticed Sam looking at it. “That’s myrte,” he said, “the Corsican liqueur made with aromatic myrtle. Some people call it the fisherman’s breakfast.” He filled the glasses and handed one to Sam. “Here’s to Elena, and her quick return.”

  Sam took a sip. It was thick and honey-sweet, with a powerful, slightly astringent kick that went all the way down. “That’s good. Homemade?”

  Reboul was just starting to explain the mysteries of making myrte when the door opened and the Figatelli brothers appeared, each carrying a bulging bag. They descended on Reboul with terrifying enthusiasm, kissing him, patting him, squeezing him. “Eh, Sissou, it’s good to see you. Where have you been all this time? What’s going on? Who’s your friend?”