Claudine glanced at Jacquot, smiled.
Swinging himself aboard and reaching for a towel, he shot them both a stern look, a skipper facing down a mutinous crew, then softened it into a smile.
‘Si vous voulez. Why not?’ he said, rubbing himself dry. ‘There’s enough food for our supper and breakfast. Wine and beer if Delphie hasn’t finished it all, and for lunch tomorrow there’s another little place I know, not far from here …’
96
THE SUN WAS low in the west when Dhuc and Milagro arrived at the ridge, panting from the steep climb. Léo and Zach, who’d taken turns on watch, were relieved to see them, to know that their own stint was over. Zach had taken a little too much sun and burned the bridge of his flattened nose, and Léo had spent the last hour wishing he’d brought a beer as well as the water.
‘They haven’t moved,’ said Léo. ‘Either they’ll leave in the next hour or so, or they’ll stay overnight.’
Dhuc, a wiry Vietnamese, tipped the rucksack he was carrying off his shoulders and opened it up. He’d come prepared, Léo could see. A flask of coffee, a bed roll, and one of the deck cushions from Corsaire. He took the binoculars from Léo and laid out the roll, threw the cushion at its head and settled down on his belly, resting his chest on the cushion and taking a bead on the boat far below.
Milagro pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offered them around and the three of them lit up.
‘What’s for dinner?’ asked Zach.
‘Steak. It’s good,’ Milagro replied. He was Mexican, built like a metrobus, and an ex-Legionnaire sniper who could hit a playing card from five hundred metres.
‘How long have we got?’ asked Léo.
‘The boss told us three o’clock.’
Léo took an angry swipe at his cigarette, spat out a shred of loose tobacco. Say thirty minutes down to the boat, an hour for something to eat and drink, and just a few hours’ sleep before they had to climb back up here. He was tempted to stay where he was, but the thought of steak and a couple of beers decided him.
‘See you later then. Have fun.’
‘Et toi,’ said Milagro with a grin. He reached into the rucksack and pulled out a sweater, balled it up into a back-rest and settled himself against a tree. From his pocket he took out a switchblade and started work on his nails. ‘Six hours, remember. And don’t be late.’
97
‘ALL I CAN say,’ said Delphie, ‘is that I wish your old fisherman had left Constance to me. This hard-working, dedicated Parisian journalist would have made a much more deserving case than some beat-up old Marseilles cop.’
After their long lunch, the three of them had been happy with just a light supper: a few cuts of cold meat, some bread, some cheese, and wine.
Delphie reached for the bottle and topped up her glass, passed it to Jacquot.
‘So tell me,’ she continued. ‘How well did you know the old guy? What did you have to do to get your hands on Constance?’
And there, in the light from the hurricane lamps, warmed by the wine and the company, Jacquot told them what he knew of Philo, and what he had found out since he’d taken possession of the old cutter. Everything he’d told Isabelle, he now ran the two sisters through: the bookshop, the house on Roucas Blanc, the double life.
And the gold.
‘You are kidding me?’ said Delphie, when he got to the end of his story. ‘The Gineste heist?’
‘You know about it?’
‘Doesn’t everyone? Just about the biggest goddamned haul in French criminal history. Three tons of gold, wasn’t it? It was the first big story I remember. Every newspaper was full of it. TV … everything. And you’re saying that this Niko-Philo character was involved?’
‘Everything points to that. And he got away on a boat.’
‘On this boat? On Constance?’
‘On Constance.’
‘With the gold? The gold that was never found?’
Jacquot picked at a crumb of the Banon, chewed thougthfully.
‘Until recently,’ he said at last, quietly, unable to resist, chuckling at the sisters’ reaction. Their eyes widening. All ears.
‘What do you mean … “until recently”?’ asked Delphie, voice suddenly sharp and demanding. He glanced at her, a woolly cardigan drawn over her swimsuit and sarong. She was sitting sideways to the table with her legs crossed, an espadrille swinging on the tips of her toes. The swinging had stopped abruptly. This was no longer Claudine’s sister, a guest on board his boat, engaging in idle after-dinner chatter in Calanque des Sirènes. In a matter of moments, she had turned into Delphine Baron, a by-lined columnist with Le Monde. If she’d had a notebook in her hand, Jacquot was certain she’d be scribbling away.
For a moment he wondered if he should continue. But what was the harm? It would all come out sooner or later, after Isabelle had dug up Madame Jeanne Vaillant’s terraces in Roucas Blanc and found what remained of the hoard. As he was certain she would. Where else would Philo have hidden it? Close enough to be safe. Close enough to draw on when funds were needed. Taking only what he needed when the house was sold, leaving whatever remained to history or maybe a lucky gardener who dug too deep. And what was wrong with giving Claudine’s sister a head start, if she wanted to run with it?
And so, as the stars twinkled above them, and the lights from the distant cabanon were extinguished, he told them both how he’d spent his last few days: visiting Clem in Madrague, finding the gold bar in the stockpot, establishing once and for all, with an absolute certainty, that Niko and Edina had been involved in the Gineste heist. And got away with the missing gold. How much of it, he couldn’t say.
‘Niko and Edina. Was that her name – Edina?’ asked Delphie.
‘Apparently she was known as Eddie.’
‘The Edina in the books? Her name’s in the Simenon I’m reading.’
‘That’s right. The same.’
‘And what’s with all the bookmarks?’ she asked, leaning across for her book, finding the bookmark and fluttering it between her fingers.
‘Bookmarks for books,’ replied Jacquot.
‘Surely you only need one bookmark,’ said Claudine, tugging the sleeves of her sweat-shirt around her.
‘Unless you’re reading more than one book,’ suggested Jacquot.
‘Maybe so,’ said Delphie, ‘but pretty nearly every book’s got a bookmark. Was he reading them all at the same time? And that box of yours in my cabin has a stack of them. Why so many? And what’s with the initials and numbers?’
‘Niko Emanetti. N. E. That was his name.’
‘Or Niko and Edina,’ said Claudine.
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Jacquot, surprised. ‘Why not? Makes sense.’
There was a silence then, save for the lap of water against the hull and the gentle splash of wine as Jacquot shared out the last of the bottle. He lit a cigarette, passed the pack to Delphie, but she shook her head. Her eyes were narrowed, the bookmark flicking between her fingers.
‘Or,’ she began. ‘Or … What about …?’
She waited until Jacquot and her sister turned to look at her.
‘What about … North and East?’
Claudine frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Why North and East?’
‘Because, my darling sister, if it’s North and East, and not Nico and Edina, then all these numbers here …’ she waved the bookmark like a fan.
‘… would be co-ordinates,’ whispered Jacquot.
‘We’re north of the Equator,’ explained Delphie, warming to her theme, ‘and east of the Greenwich … what do you call it? The Greenwich Meridian. It makes sense, doesn’t it?’
‘If you say so,’ said Claudine uncertainly.
‘Look,’ continued Delphie, turning the laminated strip to the light from the hurricane lamp. ‘Four numbers, one above the other: 4305, 1022, 4023, 2836. One half of the numbers under the “N”, and the other numbers above the “E”. Now, if you look closely, there’s the tiniest space, her
e, making two columns of figures … see? 43, 10, 40, 28 under the “N” – North. And under the “E” – East: 05, 22, 23, 36. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Degrees, minutes, seconds … all that nautical stuff. Or have I drunk too much wine?’
‘I don’t think you have,’ replied Jacquot. ‘Or maybe just the right amount.’ And he was up and out of his chair, heart hammering, and clambering down into the main cabin.
He couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be. And not once had he …
He came back out on deck with the hand-held GPS receiver that Philo had left in a drawer, prayed the battery was working, and switched it on.
Nothing happened immediately. No response.
And then, with a tiny whine and beep, the face of the machine lightened, the manufacturer’s name appeared on the circular screen, to be replaced by a compass heading.
Jacquot pressed a button and the compass changed to a digital clock. Time and date. He pressed again and a wavering line of green digital figures appeared on the screen.
He counted them out.
‘What have you got?’ asked Delphie.
‘Sixteen figures. Two sets of eight.’
Delphie looked at the bookmark. ‘Sixteen. Two sets of eight. It’s the same. I’m right, aren’t I? They’re co-ordinates.’
‘You’re right,’ said Jacquot. ‘They’re co-ordinates.’
‘For here?’ asked Claudine, not daring to believe it. ‘Is that why Niko and Eddie came here so often? They stashed the gold here, in the calanque?’
‘Well, let’s find out,’ said Delphie. ‘What are the numbers you’ve got for where we are now?’ she asked Jacquot.
‘North 43°, 11’, 52, 77”,’ he read out. ‘East 05°, 29’, 54, 47”. What have you got?’
Tilting the bookmark to the hurricane lamp so that she could see the figures more clearly, she said: ‘North 43°, 10’, 40, 28”; East 05°, 22’, 23, 36”.’
The two sisters looked at Jacquot.
‘What do you think?’ asked Delphie.
‘Well, they’re not the co-ordinates for here. But they’re pretty much the same latitude and longitude, give or take … I’d say we’re close. But exactly where or how far,’ he shook his head, ‘I wouldn’t like to say.’
‘So all we’ve got to do is follow the numbers?’ asked Claudine, eyes bright with excitement. ‘Is that all we’ve got to do?’
Delphie beamed. ‘That’s what it looks like, sis. And find the buried treasure.’
98
‘THERE’S SOMETHING GOING on,’ said Beni, turning to Aris and passing him the binoculars. ‘Torches. Up in the trees.’
The two men were up on Désiré’s flying bridge, its lights switched off, keeping watch on Corsaire. When they’d dropped anchor in Calanque d’En Vau, there’d been more than a dozen boats moored in the inlet. By the time the sun had sunk below the ridge, more than half of them had weighed anchor and sailed home, back to Marseilles or Cassis or wherever they had come from, their day trip to the calanques at an end. Now just five boats – three smaller cruisers and two yachts – separated Désiré from Corsaire. For the time being they had the pip on Corsaire, and Aris knew that the last thing Duclos would want was for Polineaux’s boys to spot them. They had to play their advantage, and play it sweet, or the game was up.
Aris took the glasses and looked where Beni was pointing. At first, in the darkness, he could see nothing, just the glitter of cabin lights on the anchored vessels, a wash of bright, pinprick stars high above the ridge, and between them just varying shades of black. And then two yellow beams of light flashed across his field of vision, jerking and skittering through the trees, heading down the slope for the beach, two shadowy figures briefly visible.
‘They’re sending out a launch,’ said Beni, and Aris swung his glasses back to Corsaire. There was activity on the aft deck and they both heard the distant firing of an outboard motor. A moment later the two torch beams reached level ground and a pale wash of phosphorescence marked the passage of the launch heading to the beach to pick them up.
‘What’s happening?’ It was Duclos, accompanied by the skipper, Hamid, a slim Arab in his thirties with black curling hair and luxuriant beard. He helped the old man to one of the bridge seats and settled him down.
‘Looks like two of Polineaux’s people coming down the slope,’ said Aris. ‘They’ve sent a launch to pick them up.’
‘What’s up there, Hamid?’ asked Duclos, turning to his skipper.
‘It’s a path up to the ridge. The other side it leads down to a small creek called Calanque des Sirènes. Too small for us to get into,’ he added, as though to cover himself.
‘And therefore too small for Corsaire,’ said Duclos, almost to himself. ‘But clearly there’s something of interest up there, or down in the calanque.’ He fell silent for a moment, then made a clicking sound with his tongue. ‘Hamid, get one of the jet-skis out, and Aris, get your boys ready. They’re going for a swim.’
Thirty minutes later, dressed in black neoprene wetsuits, Beni and Jo-Jo pushed away from Désiré’s stern platform and, holding the revs as low as they could, they headed for the entrance to Calanque d’En Vau, keeping Désiré and the other yachts and launches between them and Corsaire.
It was a quiet, calm night and the sea was flat to begin with, only turning to a small chop as they curved around the headland and came into open water. Keeping the cliffs a good twenty metres to their right and riding a low broadside swell that rocked the jet-ski like a baby’s cradle, they followed the line of the coast until Beni, standing over the saddle of the jet-ski, gripping the handlebars, spotted the narrow entrance to the next calanque and turned with the swell, dropping the revs to a whisper and steering between the bluffs.
For the first twenty metres, there was complete darkness, just soft starlight to see by, the inlet’s rocky slopes rising up like two black walls either side of them. Slowly, as silently as possible, just a watery burbling from the engine, they motored forward, keeping close to the left-hand wall of the calanque, Beni leaning over the handlebars to peer ahead.
It was dark enough for Sirène’s dog-leg corner to catch him by surprise, the inlet suddenly swinging left and opening up. And there, no more than fifty metres ahead of them, they could see a box-like glow of lights from the single vessel moored in the calanque.
Beni swung the jet-ski into a tight turn and brought it perilously close to the rocky side of the inlet, close enough for them to smell the pine and scrub and sun-warmed dusty stone only now beginning to cool. For a moment he didn’t think he’d make it, coming in too close, but he managed to reach out and push the craft away from any direct contact, hand against the stone, his fingers scrabbling across it.
‘Watch out,’ whispered Jo-Jo, as a gnarled branch jutting from the slope came out of the darkness, low enough to sweep him off the saddle.
Beni ducked, with just centimetres to spare, but as he passed beneath the branch, he reached up, caught hold of it and swung the jet-ski to a stop. Both men held their breath. If the limb snapped off, they knew that the sound would echo round the inlet, an unforgiving crack and wrench, maybe a skitter of loose stones splashing into the still water. But it held, creaking just a little.
‘I’ll wait for you here,’ said Beni, as Jo-Jo sat side-saddle to pull on his fins and brought the wetsuit’s rubber hood over his head. ‘The boat’s about thirty metres ahead, centre of the inlet. Keep to the side and you should be okay.’
With a thumbs up, Jo-Jo pulled on his mask, clamped a snorkel between his teeth and lowered himself into the water. With the briefest slap of a fin, he set off into the darkness until Beni lost sight of him, the back of his black wet-suit just another patch of shifting starlit water.
For the next ten minutes Beni held on to the branch, steadying the jet-ski between his legs, waiting for Jo-Jo to return. Every few minutes he swapped hands on the branch, careful not to lose his hold. And then, sooner than Beni had anticipated and with no warning, Jo-Jo was bac
k, tipping the jet-ski as he hauled himself up. He pulled the mask off his face and the snorkel from his mouth, the fins from his feet.
‘It’s her,’ he whispered, swinging a leg over the saddle, his voice low and hoarse from the salt water.
‘Her who?’ asked Beni, pushing away from the branch and setting the revs just high enough to turn and head back out to sea.
‘Constance.’
99
‘CHARTS,’ CRIED DELPHIE. ‘You must have charts. Every boat has charts.’
Jacquot knew that he did have charts, Philo’s charts, stacked below his chart table in the main cabin. He’d gone through them when he’d first taken possession of Constance, a dozen table-sized maps of the Mediterranean coast from Gibraltar to Genoa and Livorno, both large- and small-scale. But having the charts didn’t necessarily mean that he understood them, beyond the most basic information they provided, the most important of which, for Jacquot, was depths. He might know enough of the coast between Marseilles and Cassis to take the right direction when leaving port, and where to head when he wanted to come home – like the time he had sailed with Salette on his practice run to the calanques, and when he had taken Claudine to Île de Riou – but that was as far as it went. He had never once tried to plot a course according to a set of co-ordinates, never once opened a chart and set to it with ruler and dividers.
Not bothering to sort through the charts, Jacquot brought them all up on deck, a dozen or more, which he and Claudine and Delphie opened up, one after another. The best they could find were Imray Pilot guides to the approaches to Marseilles, and from Marseilles to Genoa and Calvi. Flattening this last one out and trapping its corners under the hurricane lamp, an ashtray and their wine glasses, the three of them pored over it.
‘So how do we do it?’ asked Claudine, puzzled by the lean, spare tattooing of numbers, symbols, lines and angles. So different from any kind of map she was used to.
The Dying Minutes Page 33
