The Marseille Caper

them to call you. His name is Gaston. You can trust him. He is extremely discreet. And if anybody should ask how you came to know him, you simply say you met him at a cocktail party.” Reboul stood up, came across to Sam, and administered the ultimate seal of approval, a kiss on each cheek. “Congratulations, my friend. Congratulations.”

Ten

“Sam, I think I have a problem.” Philippe’s voice sounded concerned and slightly breathless. “It’s business. Can we talk?”

By now, Sam was familiar enough with Philippe’s working methods to know that one could never conduct an important conversation with him over the phone; it had to be face to face. And with Philippe, there was always a little bar somewhere. “Sure. Where do you want to meet?”

“There’s a little bar in the Rue de Bir-Hakeim, near the fish market. Le Cinq a Sept. In half an hour. Is that OK?”

True to form, Le Cinq a Sept was as Sam had come to expect from Philippe’s bars-small and seedy, with the inevitable photograph, in a place of honor behind the bar, of last year’s Marseille soccer team. A scattering of old men, saving up their stubble for the weekly shave, seemed to be the only other customers. Philippe was half hidden in a dim corner. He raised a hand in greeting. “Thanks for coming. I ordered you a pastis-it’s safer here than the wine.”

Sam topped up his glass with water as Philippe started to talk.

“An hour or so ago, I was leaving the office when this guy stepped in front of me-a little runt in a sharp suit- and asked me in English if I was Mister Davin. When I told him I was, he said this could be my lucky day. Well, you never know where the next tip-off is going to come from, so I agreed to go with him to a cafe to hear what he had to say. I’m not sure what I was expecting: some story about the English and their yachts, I thought. They often get into trouble down here. Anyway, he started off by telling me he’d seen the piece I did on the Anse des Pecheurs development, and it had really offended his client.”

“Did he say who his client was?”

“He didn’t need to. After a couple of minutes it was obvious that he was working for the Englishman Wapping.”

“How did he recognize you?”

“It’s the haircut. Remember? There’s a head shot of me at the beginning of the piece. Well, I gave him the usual stuff about the freedom of opinion in the press, and that my editor would probably be happy to give equivalent space in the paper to another point of view. He looked quite pleased with that, nodding and smiling, and then he took out an envelope. A fat envelope.” Philippe paused to take a drink.

“ ‘Exactly,’ this little con said, ‘another point of view. And you’re just the man to write it. Perhaps you might like some encouragement.’ Then he slid the envelope over to me. ‘You’ll find ten thousand euros in there,’ he said, ‘and there’s more where that came from. A nice little earner, and it’s all yours for a couple of favorable pieces. This is just between you and me, you understand. Nobody else needs to know.’ ”

“Suppose you went to the police?” said Sam.

Philippe shook his head. “And tell them what-someone tried to give me ten thousand euros? They’d tell me to get lost.”

“So what did you do?”

“I told him I didn’t take bribes. Grow up, he said. This is France-everyone takes bribes. That was when I lost it. I told him to take his envelope and shove it up his ass. I said that in French, so he probably didn’t understand it, but he would have understood the tone of my voice. And then I left. What do you think I should do?”

“What else can you do? If you don’t have any witnesses, it’s your word against his. And if he works for Wapping, you can be sure there’s a crooked lawyer around somewhere who’d swear that the meeting never happened.” Sam shook his head. “No. Try to forget about it. I don’t think he’ll risk coming back, in case you’re ready for him with a recorder in your pocket. Now, I’ve got something that might cheer you up: a little scoop. I’ve got to work out the details, but here’s the idea.”

Ray Prendergast, his mission unaccomplished, fiddled nervously with the envelope on the desk in front of him while he waited for Lord Wapping to get off the phone. His lordship didn’t take kindly to failure.

The call over, Wapping poked at the envelope with a thick index finger. “So he didn’t bite?”

“Afraid not, Billy.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, the last bit was in French, so I didn’t get all of it. But basically, he told me to piss off.”

“Silly boy. Very silly boy.” Wapping sighed, as if he’d been disappointed by the foolish behavior of a close friend. “Doesn’t leave us much option, does he? You’d better talk to Brian and Dave. Tell them to teach him a lesson. But Ray?” Wapping lowered his voice. “Nothing terminal. Know what I mean? We don’t want any complications. Tell the lads to make it look like an accident.”

There are certain men, blessed from birth, whose character and appearance inspire instant liking. Gaston Poirier was such a man: an oversized cherub with a pear-shaped body, a chubby, red-cheeked face, and a mop of curly gray hair. His brown eyes twinkled, and his mouth seemed to be permanently on the brink of a grin. Reboul had said he was the best fixer in Marseille. Sam had warmed to him at first sight.

They were sitting on the terrace, a bottle of rose between them. “I haven’t been back to this house since Francis lived here,” said Gaston. “There were some parties then, I can tell you-girls, champagne, more girls. Wonderful times.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to his new project. Tell me all about it.”

As Sam went through the background, Gaston made serious inroads on the rose, dabbing his forehead between glasses with a silk handkerchief as though he found the effort of drinking to be truly thirsty work. But he proved to be a model listener, silent and attentive, and when Sam had finished, he nodded several times, an indication that he liked what he had heard.

“The tent is a good idea,” he said. “Now we must make it work. For the tent itself, pas de soucis, no problem. But the beach is uneven, so you will need a level, solid plank floor. Also electricity. We might need a generator, but I know a guy, an artist with anything electrical, who can tap us into the city’s power grid. And then a projector, a conference table and chairs, and maybe”-here Gaston paused to waggle his eyebrows-“a nice little bar with, bien sur, a nice little barmaid. Have I forgotten anything?”

Sam knew France well enough to be extremely wary of the long arm of bureaucracy. Someone, somewhere in the city’s administrative labyrinth would have to be consulted, flattered, massaged, possibly taken out to lunch. “There is one thing,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll need a permit.”

“Oh, that.” Gaston waved a dismissive hand. “Pas de soucis. The mayor is an intelligent man. He will realize that this will be good for Marseille’s image as a dynamique city, getting ready for 2013.” Gaston winked, and tapped the side of his nose. “Besides, we go hunting together in the winter. We’re friends. Maybe you should invite him to the presentation. Anyway, I think I can promise you that we won’t have any trouble with permits. When do you want to do it?”

The next two days passed slowly for Brian and Dave, but with a pleasant undercurrent of anticipation. It had been a long time since they had been given a chance to do what they did best, which was to inflict grievous bodily harm-or, as they would describe it, putting the boot in. And as a bonus, the victim was French. Like many Englishmen of their class and generation, they were ardent chauvinists. Here was an opportunity to strike a blow for Mother England against the teeming masses of foreigners who were taking over the world, including most of England’s best soccer clubs.

They were sitting in a bar on the Vieux Port, which they had chosen because it called itself a pub, a description that, for them, held out the promise of warm beer, darts, and a large TV set permanently tuned to a