The Vintage Caper

me,” said Sam, “he has more money than he knows what to do with, he’s a little eccentric, and he’s a sucker for everything French. Do we know if he’s serious about wine? I guess he must be, if he has a caviste . Does he have contacts in the States? Does he collect things apart from girls and yachts? I’d like to know more about him.”
    “In that case,” said Sophie, “the one you should see is my cousin.” She nodded and picked up her glass. “Yes, my cousin Philippe. He lives in Marseille, and he works for La Provence . That’s the big newspaper of the region. He’s a senior reporter. He will know about Reboul, and what he doesn’t know he can find out. You would like him. He’s a little crazy. They all are down there. They call it fada.”
    “He sounds great. Just what we need. When shall we go?”
    “We?”
    Sam leaned across the table, his voice grave, his expression serious. “You can’t let me go without you. Marseille’s a big town. I’d get lost. I’d have nobody to eat bouillabaisse with. And besides, the people at Knox are depending on you to follow every lead, every clue, even if it means going down to the south of France. As we say in the insurance business, it’s a lousy job, but someone’s got to do it.”
    Sophie was laughing even as she shook her head. “Do you always persuade women to do what you want?”
    “Not as often as I’d like. But I keep trying. How about some of that Camembert Delphine keeps chained up in the cellar?”
    “Yes to the Camembert.”
    And, by the time they had finished the wine and the coffee and the Calvados that Delphine pressed on them, it was yes to Marseille as well.
    Sam had finished packing and was about to send himself off to sleep with a dose of CNN when his cell phone rang.
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Levitt. How are you today?” The girl’s voice sounded warm and perky and Californian. “I have Elena Morales for you.”
    Sam swallowed a yawn. “Elena, do you have any idea what time it is here?”
    “Don’t get mad at me, Sam. It’s been one of those days. I’ve had Roth on my back. He came into the office and raised hell for an hour—lawyers, the media, his buddy the governor—if he’d stayed any longer I think he’d have dragged in the Supreme Court. In other words, he wants to know what’s going on and he wants his money. He asked for your number, but I told him you couldn’t be contacted.”
    “Good girl.”
    “He’ll be back. What am I going to tell him? Have you got anything?”
    Sam recognized desperation when he heard it. Danny Roth in full cry, foaming at the mouth and spraying threats around, was enough to try the patience of a saint. It was time for what he hoped was a plausible lie.
    “Listen,” he said. “Tell Roth that I’m conducting negotiations with the authorities in Bordeaux, and I’m hopeful of a breakthrough within the next few days. But—and this is very important—these negotiations are delicate and extremely sensitive. The reputation of Bordeaux is at stake. Publicity of any sort, anywhere, will compromise everything. So no lawyers, no media, and no governor. OK?”
    He could almost hear Elena’s brain ticking over at the end of the line. “What’s really happening, Sam?”
    “Something’s come up which might or might not be important, so we’re going to Marseille tomorrow to check it out.”
    “We?”
    Sam sighed. The second time tonight he’d been asked that question. “Madame Costes is coming with me. She has a contact down there who could be helpful.”
    “What’s she like?”
    “Madame Costes? Oh, fair, fat, and fifty. You know.”
    “Yeah, right. A babe.”
    “Good night, Elena.”
    “Good night, Sam.”

Eleven

    Sam had never been to Marseille, but he’d seen The French Connection and read one or two breathless articles by travel writers, and he thought he knew what to expect. There would be villainous characters—undoubtedly trainee Mafia executives—lurking on every street corner. The fish market on the Quai des Belges would be a conduit for substances not normally found inside fish: sea bass stuffed with heroin, or grouper with a cocaine garnish. Pickpockets and voyous of all kinds would be conveniently placed to relieve the unwary tourist of camera, wallet, or handbag. In every respect, it would echo Somerset Maugham’s summing-up of the Côte d’Azur—“a sunny place for shady people.” It sounded interesting.
    Sophie, who had visited the city once, some