The Marseille Caper

having to confess complete failure, and it wasn’t long before there was another dose of unpleasant news. Ray Prendergast had received an e-mail from Hoffman and Myers, the private bank that was Wapping’s biggest creditor, and it made uncomfortable reading.

“They’re well pissed off, Billy. Not only that. They’re sending two of their heavies over to Marseille to sort things out, ‘following your unsatisfactory response to our previous communications.’ That’s what they said.”

“Bastards. How’s a man expected to make an honest living with all this interference? Did they say when they were coming?”

“That’s a bit of a problem, Billy. They’re going to be here tomorrow unless we can put them off.”

Wapping got up from his desk and paced over to the nearest porthole. His presentation was scheduled for three days’ time, and his only chance was to keep the bankers at bay until that was over. He looked out to sea, which was as flat as a board. The sun was up, there was no wind: a perfect cruising day.

He turned back to Prendergast. “Right,” he said. “Send them an e-mail. Tell them I’m at sea for a few days, and can’t be reached. Regrets, best wishes, all that crap. And tell Tiny to get the boat ready to go as quickly as possible, OK?”

“Where are we off to, sweetie?” asked Annabel, who could never resist an open door and the chance to eavesdrop. She had appeared in the doorway draped in a towel, her hair still wet from the pool. “Can I put in a tiny request for Saint-Tropez? Sir Frank is there for the summer, and so are the Escobars from Argentina. Such fun.”

Miss Perkins had arrived as promised with the presentation documents, and had agreed to stay for lunch. Philippe, looking less jaundiced by the day, had been joined by Mimi. Sam was bringing the barbecue to a healthy glow, Elena was tossing the salad, the rose was chilling nicely, and the mood around the big table under the parasol pines was good-humored and optimistic.

There is something about eating outside on a fine warm day that brings out the raconteur in people. They sit back. They relax. They feel expansive. It soon became apparent that Miss Perkins had plenty of stories to tell, from her schooldays at Roedean, which she described as “a temple of learning for wayward middle-class girls,” to some highly indiscreet revelations about life in the British Consulate. Time passed quickly, and on glancing at his watch Sam was surprised to see that it was already two- thirty. They needed to go. The presentation was scheduled to start at four.

Fourteen

Miss Perkins and Sam arrived at the tent to find Jim, the second member of Gaston’s security team, busy behind the tiny bar, polishing glasses. Although he was half hidden behind a vast ice bucket holding two magnums of champagne, Sam could see that he was a substantial man, verging on huge, dressed in a black suit, and wearing pitch-black sunglasses. As he left the bar to greet them, Miss Perkins let out a cry of recognition.

“Jim, c’est toi! Quelle bonne surprise!”

Jim beamed, whipped off his sunglasses, and kissed Miss Perkins loudly on each cheek.

“I guess you two know each other,” said Sam.

It was Miss Perkins’s turn to beam. “Indeed we do, don’t we, Jim? We’ve been going to the same cookery course all winter, and I must tell you that this young man makes the best cheese souffle in Marseille.” She kissed her fingertips. “Such a light touch.” She bustled away and put the pile of bound presentation documents on the table. “There. Each of these has a committee member’s name on. Or, as you would say, dear, personalized.”

“How do you know their names?”

Miss Perkins looked at Sam as though he were a backward child. “I made inquiries at the project office. Now let’s see. The project model is up at the far end, where everyone can see it. I suppose we have to put that ghastly chairman here, at the head of the table.”

“You know him too?”

“I met him at the consulate many years ago, when he was a very junior dogsbody. A shifty little monkey, even then. Not to be trusted, dear, mark my words.”

Jim had positioned himself at the entrance to welcome any early arrivals, and Sam made a final tour of the tent, which looked crisp, professional, and inviting under the golden glow of filtered sunlight. He felt a surge of hope. There would be opposition from Patrimonio, that was inevitable, but he was confident of finding a few open minds among the members of the committee. A pity Reboul couldn’t be here.

Shortly after four o’clock the first members of the committee arrived, putting up the merest token resistance to a welcoming glass of champagne. By 4:15 all seven of them had been seated at their places around the table, each with his glass and his copy of the presentation document. The atmosphere quickly became relaxed.

The chairman’s chair remained conspicuously empty for another ten minutes, and Sam was considering a reward for patience in the form of a further distribution of champagne when there was a flurry at the entrance of the tent. It was Patrimonio, shooting his cuffs, smoothing his hair, and announcing that he had been delayed by a very important phone call. He was in black today-a silk suit-with a white shirt and a sober, blue-striped tie.

This immediately caught the attention of Miss Perkins. “I cannot believe he went to Eton,” she whispered to Sam, “but that’s an Old Etonian tie he’s wearing.” She sniffed. “The impertinence of the man.”

With Patrimonio finally seated, the presentation could begin. Miss Perkins delivered a few words in her excellent French, explaining the purpose of the documents and instructing the committee members to raise their hands if Sam said anything they didn’t understand.

As he began, Sam reminded himself of the advice he had been given by one of the old partners when working many years ago in corporate law. “Don’t get complicated. Tell them what you’re going to tell them. Tell them. Then tell them what you’ve told them.”

He soon felt that he had a sympathetic audience, and he was right. The previous day they had endured the presentation of Madame Dumas and her team from Paris, who had bombarded the committee for several hours with forecasts, feasibility studies, estimates, cost analyses, charts, graphs, and occupancy predictions. Sam’s presentation, helped no doubt by the occasional refill of champagne, was a complete contrast: simple and easy to understand. Looking around the table, it appeared that some members of the committee had actually found it enjoyable.

With one exception. The chairman remained wooden-faced throughout Sam’s performance, declining champagne, heaving the occasional sigh, and consulting his watch frequently. But he was the first to speak when Sam had finished and invited questions.

Rising to his feet and clearing his throat, Patrimonio launched into his remarks. “Land, as we all know, is very limited in Marseille, particularly land overlooking the sea. And yet here we have a proposition that ignores this basic fact. We find an extravagant amount of room being taken up by a nonessential garden and a marina of doubtful usefulness. This is bad enough. But even worse, by keeping the height of the buildings to only three stories, there is a waste of air space that I can only call reckless. Developments of this sort may be acceptable in America”- Patrimonio jerked his head toward Sam-“where there is almost unlimited land, but here we must be aware of the restrictions imposed by local resources. We can no longer afford horizontal expansion. The way forward is upward.” He paused and nodded, as if pleased with his little bon mot. “Yes, the way forward is upward. I’m sure my colleagues will agree.” And with that, he looked around the table, eyebrows raised, as he waited, if not for applause, then at least for support.

Sam broke an embarrassing silence by repeating the benefits of his scheme, principally that it would provide shelter and enjoyment for the people of Marseille rather than for tourists. This prompted several nods around the table.

Patrimonio scowled. “I hope you will excuse me. I have another meeting to attend. I will discuss this later with members of the committee.”

With Patrimonio gone, the mood in the tent lightened. With another glass of champagne all around, it lightened even more, and it was nearly an hour before the last member of the committee drifted off.

Miss Perkins had spent that hour chatting to members of the committee. “Well, dear,” she said, “you should