The Marseille Caper

Cecilia swayed toward them on four-inch heels, brushing her mane of tawny hair from her forehead, the better to run her eye over Elena’s outfit. “Love the shoes,” she murmured. “Louboutin?” And then, remembering her duties, “Mr. Roth has a very busy schedule today. Will you be long?”

Sam shook his head and smiled. “Just as long as it takes to write a check.”

Cecilia considered Sam’s reply for a moment before deciding it was not to be taken seriously. She returned his smile, revealing several thousand dollars’ worth of exquisitely capped teeth. “If you’d like to follow me?” She turned and swayed off down the corridor, her skirt clinging to a pair of buttocks, toned to perfection, that seemed to have a life of their own, twitching with every step. Sam was mesmerized.

Elena’s elbow dug into his ribs. “Under no circumstances are you to make any comment. Keep your mind on your work.”

Cecilia left them at the doorway of Roth’s office. He was sitting with his back to them, the dome of his hairless head gleaming in the sunlight that flooded the room. He swiveled around, taking the phone from his ear, and looked at them through narrowed, unfriendly eyes. “Will this take long?”

“I hope not, Mr. Roth.” Elena sat down and took some papers from her briefcase. “I know you have a very busy schedule. But there are one or two matters that we need to clear up.”

Roth jerked his head toward Sam. “What’s he doing here?”

“Me?” said Sam. “Oh, I’ve just come to pick up my check.”

Roth assumed a shocked expression. “Check? Check? Sure you don’t want a goddamn medal as well? Jesus.”

Elena sighed. “The finder’s fee, Mr. Roth. It’s here in the insurance contract.”

And there they stayed for almost two hours while Roth picked his way through the contract, line by line, disputing all but the most harmless clauses, his behavior just this side of apoplectic.

When they were finally through, Cecilia was summoned to escort them to the elevator. “Wow,” she said, “he normally doesn’t spend that much time with anyone. He must really like you guys.”

Elena turned up the air-conditioning in the car and settled back in her seat. “If I needed another excuse to get out of town, that was it. The man’s a monster. I’ll tell you something-Marseille’s looking better and better.”

“Well, let’s see what Reboul has to say.”

“Don’t even think of turning him down. I’ll twist one arm, and he can twist the other.” She leaned across and kissed Sam’s ear. “Resistance will be useless.”

Two

Elena and Sam were late as they hurried along the corridor toward the elevator that would take them down to the Chateau Marmont restaurant and dinner with Francis Reboul.

They had been delayed by Elena’s competitive urge, a desire to wear something that, in her words, would show Reboul that French women weren’t the only babes in the world. After several false starts and considerable discussion, she had chosen a dress that was very much the style of the moment: black, tight, and short.

As they waited for the elevator to arrive, Sam put his arm around her waist, then allowed his hand to slide gently down to the upper slopes of the finely proportioned Morales derriere. His hand stopped, moved farther down, stopped again.

“Elena,” he said, “are you wearing anything under that dress?”

“Not a lot,” she said. “A couple of drops of Chanel.” She looked up at him and smiled her most innocent smile. “It’s that kind of dress, you know? There’s only room for me.”

“Mmm.” Sam was saved from further comment as the elevator doors opened to reveal a man wearing a blazer and brick-red trousers, with matching brick-red face. He was holding a half-empty martini glass, which he raised to them. “Going to a party out there in the garden,” he said. “I thought I’d get some practice in first.” As the elevator came to a stop, he drained his glass, put it in his blazer pocket, straightened his shoulders, and set off, weaving slightly.

Reboul was already at their table, champagne bucket at his elbow, going through a sheaf of papers. At the sight of Elena he leaped to his feet and took her hand, confining himself this time to a single kiss and a murmured “Ravissante, ravissante.” Elena inclined her head prettily. Sam rolled his eyes. Their waiter poured champagne.

Reboul was a man for whom the word dapper might have been invented. Tonight he was resplendent in a black silk suit (the tiny scarlet ribbon of the Legion d’Honneur a nick of color on his lapel) and a shirt of the palest blue. A dazzling white handkerchief, also silk, was tucked into the cuff of his jacket. Like many fortunate Mediterranean men, his skin welcomed the sun, and his smooth, light-mahogany complexion provided a most flattering contrast with his perfectly white, perfectly trimmed hair. Even his eyebrows, Elena noticed, had received the skilled attentions of a master barber. Beneath the eyebrows, his brown eyes twinkled with good humor. He was living testimony to the joys of being rich. “A toast,” he said, lifting his glass. “To the success of our little venture.”

Sam paused, his glass halfway to his mouth. “I don’t want to spoil the fun,” he said, “but I like to know a lot more about my little ventures before I get too excited.”

“And so you shall, my dear Sam, and so you shall.” Reboul passed the wine list across to Sam. “But first, could I ask you to choose some wine for us? I seem to remember that you have an eye for a good vintage.” This was accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a conspiratorial nod of the head, as though Reboul were sharing a secret.

It was the first time he had referred-albeit not too directly-to Sam’s theft of several hundred bottles of the wines he had taken such trouble to acquire. And from his air of general benevolence, and the smile on his face, he appeared to find the incident amusing. Was that really how he felt? Perhaps now was not the moment, thought Sam, to pursue the subject. Without looking at the wine list, he pushed it to one side. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, “but I’ve already arranged the wine. I have a little cellar here, unfortunately nothing like yours, and I chose one or two bottles you might find interesting. There’s a Chateauneuf-du-Pape-but a white Chateauneuf-du-Pape-and one of our local wines you may not have tried yet: the Beckstoffer Cabernet from Napa. How do they sound?”

Reboul looked up from the menu. “Formidable. And now, dear Elena, what should I eat? Women always know best. I am in your hands.”

Elena patted his arm. “Leave it to me.” She studied the menu for a few moments. “Soupe au pistou? Maybe not-I guess you get plenty of that at home. The seafood is very good here, so you could start with crab cakes and a puree of avocado …”

Reboul held up his hand. “Say no more. I have a passion for crab cakes. I would kill for crab cakes.”

“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.” Elena looked up from the menu. “What are we today? Tuesday? Great- the special today is braised rabbit and pappardelle with wild mushrooms. Delicious. Trust me.”

“You amaze me,” said Reboul. “I didn’t know Americans ate rabbits.”

“This American does.”

The orders were placed, the bottles were uncorked, the champagne was given due attention, and, with a shrug of apology to Elena for bringing business to the table, Reboul started to outline the reason for his visit.

“Marseille is an extraordinary city,” he began. “It was established more than twenty-six hundred years ago, before Paris was even called Paris. And it’s big. The Marseille of today covers twice as much land as Paris. But, as you would imagine, the land along the coast of Marseille-land, as we say, with its feet in the Mediterranean-has almost all been developed.” Reboul paused to take a sip of champagne. “Except for one charming little bay, the Anse des Pecheurs, to the east of the old port. I won’t bore you with the history of why it was never developed, except to say that for a hundred and twenty years it has been fought over and disputed by generations of city politicians and construction companies. There have been bribes, counter-bribes, court cases, and, so they say, at least one killing. But two years ago, at last, a decision was made to develop the Anse des Pecheurs. It is a project very close to my heart, and I have already spent a great deal of time and money on it, but …”