impact their decision.”
A pained expression appeared on Miss Perkins’s pink face. “If you will forgive my saying so, ‘impact’ is a noun. In correct English, it is never used as a verb. Rather like the persistent misuse of ‘hopefully,’ I’m afraid it is one of the many infelicities committed by our American friends.” A sweet smile took the sting out of her words. “Now then, dear. I shall need to have the text of your presentation so that I can make a written translation we can leave with the members of the committee. I hope that will be possible?”
“Of course, Miss Perkins.”
She held up a plump hand. “Please, dear. Call me Daphne. After all, we are going to be working together.”
Sam joined Elena outside the house to see Miss Perkins safely into her tiny car, a classic 2CV, and watched it clatter out through the gates.
“You were right,” said Sam. “Much more suitable. In fact, I didn’t have a chance. She just took over, which is fine with me. You know how I adore strong women.”
Elena rolled her eyes, but said nothing.
They went back into the house, to find Philippe clutching his ribs and pacing up and down as he finished talking on his cell phone. As he turned toward them, they could see that his eye, once black, was turning a mottled, jaundiced yellow. “That was Etienne,” he said, “my contact at police headquarters. He did me a favor and went through the log for the past few days. Two bikes were reported stolen the night I got hit-which is exactly what professionals would have done. They never use their own wheels. Here,” he said, opening his laptop, “take a look at this.” He read it out to them in English.
The headline on the screen got the piece off to a dramatic start: “MY BRUSH WITH DEATH ON THE CORNICHE,” and the text began by describing the attack in clinical detail, concluding that it had been a skilled, professional job. Philippe then went on to speculate. He had been careful to avoid mentioning names, restricting himself to questions: Why had this happened at this particular time? Who was behind it? What was their motive? And in the end, a few stirring words about an attack on a journalist being an attack on the freedom of the press.
“Well? What do you think?” Philippe closed the laptop and patted it. “Could you take a mug shot to go with the piece before the eye clears up?”
Elena was shaking her head. “I don’t know, Philippe. Are you sure about this? These guys aren’t playing games.”
“I think Philippe’s right,” said Sam. “They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with something like this. If Wapping’s behind it, and we’re pretty sure he is, he’ll be gone and back in England within a few days. As long as Philippe stays here, he’ll be safe. And who knows? Perhaps this kind of publicity will make Wapping behave himself. It might even help the police.”
Elena fetched her camera and photographed Philippe posing in front of a plain white wall, doing his best to look grim and disfigured. Sam looked at the image on the camera’s tiny screen, then showed it to Philippe. “Terrific. You look like a corpse. Tell the guys at the paper not to retouch a thing.”
Reboul was back in Marseille after a few days of business in London. Sam’s call was answered by a long- drawn-out grunt that could have been either pain or pleasure before Reboul’s voice took over. “Sorry about that, Sam. I’m having a massage, and she has thumbs of steel, this masseuse.”
“How was your trip?”
“A little strange. There were times when I thought I was still in France. You know, there are between three and four hundred thousand French living in London now. There’s a sort of expensive ghetto in South Kensington they call La Vallee des Grenouilles-Frog Valley-and parts of London are just like Paris with bad weather. How the world has changed. Now tell me-what’s been happening?”
Reboul listened quietly to an account of the events of the past few days, taking particular pleasure from Sam’s interview with Patrimonio. There was just the occasional murmured
“You mean you told him everything? This journalist? Is he discreet? Most of them aren’t.”
“He guaranteed to keep your name out of it until the moment when you step in with rescue financing. I know him well. He’s on our side, I promise you. Trust me.”
“The two most dangerous words in the language. But”-Sam could almost hear the shrug at the other end of the line-“what’s done is done. You trust him and I trust you.”
Sam put down the phone with a silent prayer that Philippe would be as good as his word. It would be difficult, he knew, for him to keep quiet, to suppress the journalist’s visceral urge to be first with the news, but Sam was sure that Philippe was that rarity, an honorable man.
One more call, this time to Miss Perkins. Did she have everything she needed for the presentation? He needn’t have worried.
“I’ve nearly finished translating your speech, dear. Very nice, in spite of one or two rather curious words and phrases-‘lifestyle’ and so forth. But then, you’re American. In any case, everything will be ready to be printed and bound tomorrow morning. This is all quite exciting, isn’t it? Do you think it might be helpful if I came to the presentation, just in case there are complications with the French?”
“Daphne, I wouldn’t dream of trying to do it without you.”
“Very well, dear. Tomorrow it is. I’ll be with you about midday with the presentation documents. Now be sure to get a good night’s rest.”
It was three in the morning, and Brian and Dave had no trouble finding a spot to park their rented car just above the beach. Without leaving their seats, they could see the tent fifty yards away, and the faint glow of light coming from one end.
“You reckon there’s someone in there?”
“Bound to be. Some old geezer, probably.”
“Suppose he’s having a kip?”
“Well, this will wake him up, won’t it? We’ll start at the dark end. That’ll give him time to hop it. Right. Off we go.”
They got out of the car and looked up and down the deserted stretch of the Corniche before opening the trunk and taking out two twenty-liter jerricans of kerosene and two gas firelighters. Down the steps and onto the beach, their feet made no sound in the sand. They were just about to fan out on either side of the tent when Brian stopped. He turned to Dave, close enough to whisper.
“What’s that noise?”
They stood in the darkness, listening intently. They could hear a low, continuous rumble coming from inside the tent.
“They must have a generator in there.”
The rumbling became louder as the tent flap was pushed open, and two dark shapes came out onto the beach.
“Bloody hell.” Dave had forgotten to whisper. The Rottweilers heard the sound and started in their direction, wary and now silent. Without thinking, Dave and Brian dropped the jerricans and made for the steps that would take them off the beach, only to find that the dogs had circled around to block their escape. The two men retreated. The Rottweilers followed them down toward the sea, as intent and disciplined as sheepdogs patrolling their flock.
“Do you know about dogs, Dave? Can they swim?”
The dogs quickened their pace, and as they came closer there was an impressive show of teeth glinting in the moonlight. Brian and Dave waited no longer. They turned and hurled themselves into the water, where they spent a cold and nervous half hour putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the dogs.
Jules, whose turn it was to spend the night on guard duty, whistled the dogs back and gave them each a biscuit. Walking around the tent, he found the jerricans. Perhaps there would be fingerprints on them. But to hell with it. They’d still be there tomorrow. He stretched and yawned. He’d call the police in the morning.
The day had started early and badly for Lord Wapping, with the sodden and shamefaced Brian and Dave
