The Marseille Caper

too picturesque to be true. It is small-a five-minute stroll takes you from one end to the other-and you are likely to see the occasional character, dressed in peaked cap and sleeveless vest, who might have escaped from one of Marcel Pagnol’s books. Fishermen squat in their boats, scissors flashing in the sun, as they open sea urchins and suck out the nectar, middle-aged men with flamboyant moustaches sit in cafes plying young blond women with coupes of champagne, the small, brightly painted ferries come and go between the port and the narrow rocky inlets the locals call calanques, the air is clean and salty, and the sun casts a benevolent glow over it all. Work and the other harsh realities of life seem a million miles away.

Elena and Sam found a cafe table with an uninterrupted view of the passing parade. This, as Elena noticed with interest, was divided into two distinct groups that could be identified by what they were wearing. Tourists were dressed for high summer, even though it was only spring: women in flowing caftans, sandals, white sundresses, the odd cartwheel straw hat; men in T-shirts and rumpled shorts festooned with multiple bulging pockets (or, even worse, abbreviated camouflage-print trousers that ended six inches above the ankle). The local inhabitants, who clearly didn’t trust the weather, were protected from possible snowstorms by sweaters or scarves, boots for the ladies, and leather jackets for the men. It was as though the passers-by were living in two different climates.

“My father likes to hunt,” said Elena, “and he gets really mad if he sees deer or wild boar when he’s left his rifle at home. ‘Look at that,’ he always says. ‘The things you see when you haven’t got your gun.’ Well, now I know how he feels.” She nodded in the direction of the quay, where a woman with unnaturally bright red hair was posing by a bollard while her companion fussed with his camera. The woman was well into her forties. She was wearing the shortest of shorts and the highest of high heels, and her bare legs had the pallor of flesh that had spent the winter under a stone. Nevertheless, she quite obviously had a high opinion of her appearance, flouncing around the bollard, tossing her radioactive curls, and renewing her lip gloss between each shot.

“When French women get it wrong they really get it wrong,” Elena muttered, with considerable satisfaction.

They left the cafe and made their way through the slow drift of people until they came to the blue awning and flowered terrace that Sam remembered from his first visit to Cassis. “This is Chez Nino,” he said. “Terrific fish and a view of the port. Wines from up there in the hills. You’ll love it.”

And so she did. For someone like Elena, whose usual lunch was cottage cheese and salad, eaten in a hurry at her desk, Nino was a sunny, self-indulgent revelation. They had soupe de poissons, the formidable Provencal fish soup, laced with rouille, a thick, garlic-loaded sauce. They had perfectly grilled scorpion fish. They had a bottle of rose from the Domaine du Paternel.

They ordered coffee, and it was the moment to sit back and look around. The restaurant was full, and Elena was struck by the volume of laughter and boisterous conversation coming from the surrounding tables. “These guys make a lot more noise than Parisians,” she said. “It must be something they put in the soup.”

Sam considered the pleasing possibility that soupe de poissons could be a mood- enhancing substance, and had a brief vision of restaurant customers floating back to work after lunch high on fish soup. “Afraid not,” he said. “Actually, I think it’s in the genes. A lot of Provence used to be Italian. The popes were once based in Avignon. Nice was called Nizza. You look in the phone book, and you’ll find Italian names on every page: Cipollina, Fachinetti, Onorato, Mastrangelo-there are thousands of them, and they add a lot to the atmosphere down here. It’s one of the things I like about Provence; one of the things that makes it so different from northern France.”

“Sam, you’re turning into a walking guide book. I’m impressed. And you know something? I’m picking up local habits fast.”

“Siesta?” said Sam. “You’re in luck. I happen to know this is a restaurant with rooms.”

Elena shook her head. “You can wipe that leer off your face. The thought of a siesta had never crossed my mind. Like any good Frenchwoman who’s just finished a long lunch, what I really want to know is where we’re going for dinner.”

“Philippe’s taking care of that. Don’t worry. He’ll make sure we don’t starve tonight. Sure you don’t want to check out those rooms?”

Five

Sam could hear a few moments of Mozart in the background before Reboul’s voice cut in.

“Alors, Sam. How was your day in Cassis?”

“Good, Francis. We had a great time. Elena loved it.” Sam looked down at the notes he’d made on the back of Nino’s lunch bill. “I wanted to go over a couple of points with you before we go out this evening. We’re having dinner with a friend, Philippe Davin. He’s a journalist with La Provence, and I’m hoping he can give me some background on Patrimonio and the distinguished members of the selection committee.”

“A journalist?” Reboul’s voice was less than enthusiastic. “Sam, are you sure …”

“Don’t worry. I’ll stick to the plot. Your name won’t come into it. Now tell me-is there anything particular you’re interested in? Philippe’s a bloodhound. What he doesn’t know he can usually sniff out.”

“Well, whatever you can find out about the other two projects and the people behind them would be useful, but not the usual press release nonsense about their hobbies and their charitable donations. For instance, I’d love to know where they’re getting their money from. Also, don’t forget the personal side. Do they have debts? Addictions? Mistresses? A fondness for call girls? How do they stand with Patrimonio? Are there any rumors of bribery?” Reboul paused, and Sam could hear the click of a glass being put back on a table. “Not that I would dream of exploiting any of this, you understand.”

“Of course not.”

“But in business, information is like gold. You can’t have too much of it.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, Francis.”

“Have a pleasant evening, my friend. Bon appetit.”

Sam was smiling as he put down the phone. There had been a wistful note to Reboul’s voice, and Sam had the feeling that he would have liked to join them for dinner.

They had arranged to meet Philippe at Le Bistrot d’Edouard on Rue Jean Mermoz, which Philippe had chosen as a tribute to Elena. It was a Latin restaurant, and so La Bomba Latina would feel instantly at home. Moreover, said Philippe, she would be ravished by the huge selection of tapas.

In fact it was Sam who was ravished first, as soon as they had come through the door. It looked like his kind of restaurant: a series of simple, intimate rooms, plain white paper tablecloths, the painted walls-oxblood-red below, white above-hung with blackboards listing the wines and the tapas of the day, the early arrivals with their jackets off and their napkins tucked into shirt collars, which was always a sign of healthy appetites and good food, and a smiling welcome from the girl behind the bar.

They were led up a short flight of stairs to a corner table on the first floor, where a beaming Philippe, ice bucket already loaded and poised, jumped to his feet and crushed Elena to his bosom. Compliments and cries of delight followed, and Sam, who was by now getting used to these expressions of masculine affection, received a kiss on each cheek. Finally, slightly out of breath, Philippe sat them down and poured each of them a glass of wine.

“This is a wonderful surprise,” he said. “What are you doing here? How long are you staying? Where are you staying? But first, a toast.” He raised his glass. “To friendship.” He leaned back in his chair, still beaming, and gave Elena and Sam a chance to admire the adjustments he had made to his appearance since they had last seen him in Los Angeles.

Previously, he had favored a style of dress he liked to describe as “mercenary chic”-army-surplus pants and jackets, olive-drab fatigue caps, and paratrooper’s boots. His black hair had been abundant, and undisturbed by the comb.

All this had gone, and Che Guevara had been replaced by Tom Ford. The new version of Philippe had a closely clipped head, the hair on his scalp very little longer than the dark, three-day stubble on his face. His clothes were