Of course it would. But how? He considered once again those two old favorites, bribery and violence, and once again rejected them. The American stood to make more money out of the project than any bribe Wapping was able to offer, and any force short of murder was unlikely to work. In any case, to be credible and effective the withdrawal had to be voluntary; it had to come from the American himself. Lord Wapping stared out of the porthole, sipping the last of his 1936 cognac and letting his mind go back to the idea that had come to him, half-formed, following Patrimonio’s call. The more he thought about it, the better it seemed. And by the time he finally braved the chilly reception that awaited him in the cabin he shared with Annabel, he was feeling a great deal more optimistic.
The following morning, back at her old Marseille mooring in the Baie du Grand Soufre,
Lord Wapping was humming the opening bars of “My Old Man’s a Dustman” as he selected his first cigar of the day. He was in the positive, benign mood that often follows the solution of a difficult problem, and he called Ray Prendergast into the stateroom to share his thoughts.
“I think I’ve cracked it, Ray-that bloody American and his beach huts. Somehow we’ve got to put him out of the running, and I think I’ve got the answer. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
As he explained his idea, Prendergast’s expression gradually changed from alarm to doubt to qualified approval. “It’s a bit dodgy, Billy, but it could work. I’ll have a chat with Brian and Dave. It’s a question of opportunity, isn’t it? Finding the right moment. But first, we need to know where he’s living. Oh, and another thing: We’re going to need a doctor, a friendly doctor. Know what I mean?”
Wapping nodded. “Leave it to me.” With a wave of his cigar, he dismissed Prendergast before reaching for the phone.
“Jerome? Couple of questions for you. I’ve been thinking about our little problem, and I need to know where our American friend is living while he’s in Marseille. Have you got his address?”
“Certainly.” Patrimonio reached into a drawer of his desk and pulled out a folder. “All the bidders had to provide contact details when they registered. Let’s see. Ah, yes, here it is: the Chemin du Roucas Blanc. Do you want the full address and the phone number?”
Patrimonio’s curiosity got the better of him while Wapping was jotting down the details. “What do you have in mind?”
“Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that, a bit of the other. Here’s the second question: I need a tame doctor-you know, someone who does what you want with no questions. That kind of doctor.”
As it happened, Patrimonio had several times needed just such a doctor himself, to help him deal with the results of some ill-advised liaisons with young ladies. He cleared his throat. “I might be able to help you there. What will you expect him to do, this doctor?”
“Jerome, you don’t want to know.”
“Of course not. No. Well, someone I can recommend is Doctor Hoffmann. German, but very good, very discreet, very-how can I put it? — very cooperative. And she speaks excellent English.”
“She?”
“Oh yes. But don’t worry-she can do anything a man can do. Would you like me to call her?”
Wapping was smiling as he put the phone down. The day was turning out better than he expected.
With the presentation over and all the committee members’ supplementary questions dealt with, there was nothing for Elena and Sam to do except keep their fingers crossed and wait for the decision. And so they had decided to take a break and look around the
They explored Provence’s most fashionable mountain ranges, the Luberon and the Alpilles, where, so it was said, movie stars, eminent politicians, and lesser celebrities haunted the hill villages and lurked behind every high stone wall. They saw the pink flamingos of the Camargue, the vast emptiness of Haute-Provence, the seething village markets, and the massed ranks of antique dealers in L’Isle-sur-Sorgue. As they went, they tasted the wines of Provence, sometimes in garages, sometimes in eighteenth-century palaces-the chilled sweetness of Beaumes de Venise, the big, voluptuous reds of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, the noble
And they ate, always well and sometimes memorably. Philippe had sent them off with a list of his favorite addresses, and they quickly slipped into the French habit of planning the day’s sightseeing around the stomach. Thus, lunchtime and the dinner hour would conveniently find them close to a little
Not surprisingly, all thoughts of presentations and projects were forgotten in the leisurely, magical haze of sunshine and shared discovery. Time seemed to have stopped. Elena was in a state of bliss, and Sam wasn’t far behind.
Meanwhile, a million miles away in Marseille, Lord Wapping was making his formal proposal to the committee. To help him-in fact, to make the presentation on his behalf-he had employed Frederic Millet, a young man with impeccable credentials, being not only bilingual but also a cousin of Jerome Patrimonio, whose taste in clothes and aftershave he had adopted.
As Frederic went through his charts and explanations, it became clear that at least two members of his audience were firmly on his side. Wapping and Patrimonio, nodding in unison at the appearance of each chart, accompanied the proceedings from time to time with murmured sounds of approval.
Frederic had barely finished when Patrimonio got to his feet to deliver the chairman’s summing-up of what they had just heard. After the obligatory cuff-shooting and hair-smoothing, he plunged in. “First, let me congratulate Lord Wapping and his colleague Monsieur Millet on a most interesting and comprehensive presentation.” The brief niceties over, the Patrimonio brow furrowed, and his face took on the sincere, serious, deeply caring expression of a salesman about to pounce. “This scheme, it seems to me, fulfills all of our requirements. From the architectural point of view, it is very much of today, and I can see that before long it will have established itself as a contemporary landmark-a building with aesthetic resonance that will add enormously to the prestige of the Marseille coastline. Next, as you have heard, the scheme will generate hundreds of new jobs, not just during the period of construction, but permanently, for the operation and maintenance of all the facilities that have been described to us. It is difficult to predict in detail the benefits this will bring to the local economy, but it is safe to say that they will be very, very substantial. And finally, let me add a comment about a matter which, as you know, I consider to be most important-you might say it is the bee in the chairman’s bonnet.” He paused, as if to allow the committee to picture the chairman in his bonnet. “Air space, gentlemen. Air space. A precious resource, so often neglected. But here we see it maximized as it should be. I have no hesitation in commending this scheme to the members of the committee.”
Later, in the bar of the Sofitel, Wapping and Patrimonio compared impressions.
“Pretty glum lot, your committee,” said Wapping. “Not much in the way of questions. What do you reckon they thought of it?”
Patrimonio took a pensive sip of his whisky. “You must remember that these people make their living by sitting on the fence. We must wait and see. These things always take a little while to sink in. But we have ten days before the final decision will be made, and I shall use the time to do some lobbying-a lunch or two, a glass of champagne after work …” Patrimonio waved a generous hand to suggest the irresistible range of inducements available to a man of his position.
Wapping said nothing. He was too busy thinking about his own lobbying.
Ray Prendergast made his way up the Rue de Rome until he came to a low white building set back from the street. One of the brass plaques next to the entrance, more highly polished than the others, had the name of Dr.
