The Vintage Caper

and he judged it to be a sound basis for a fruitful working relationship. Tomorrow would see if Philippe could deliver the goods on Reboul.
    And then there was Sophie, who was altogether more complicated. Sam felt that she was to some extent a prisoner of her background—that very proper French bourgeois background, with its rules of social behavior and strictly observed table manners, its dress code, and its reluctance to embrace anything or anyone that didn’t conform. Sophie might one day be different. She was intelligent, attractive, and a good sport, as she had shown by going with him that evening to the Palais du Pharo. She was in all respects a lovely woman. But, as Sam admitted to himself with a sigh, she wasn’t Elena Morales.
    He stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and went through to the bedroom. His phone was on the night table next to his watch. He looked at the time. It was midafternoon in L.A., and Sam could imagine Elena, after one of those birdlike lunches at her desk, fending off more calls from Danny Roth and wondering what progress, if any, Sam had made. He was tempted to call. But what could he tell her? The truth? That he wanted to hear her voice? He told himself to wait until tomorrow, when there might be something solid to report.
    He spent a mystifying half hour trying to follow a rugby game on French television, and fell asleep with the roar of the crowd in his ears.

Thirteen

    Sam went out into the fresh morning air and inspected his breakfast. Neatly arranged on the crisp white cloth that covered the table on his terrace was everything a reasonable man could want at the start of the day: an aromatic pot of café filtre , a large jug of hot milk, two chubby golden croissants, and a copy of the Herald Tribune . He put on his sunglasses, checked that the view was still as fine as it had been yesterday, and sat down with a pleasant sense of well-being. His cell phone rang.
    Before answering, he looked at his watch. Sophie was acquiring American habits. “Good morning,” he said. “You’re up early.”
    “Old men can’t sleep, Sam. You’ll find out.” The voice was soft, and slightly accented. Axel Schroeder.
    Sam took a moment to get over his surprise before answering. “This is a treat, Axel. Good to hear from you. What’s happening?”
    “Oh, this and that, Sam. This and that. I thought maybe we should have a drink tonight.” There was a pause. “If you’re still in Paris.”
    Fishing, Sam thought. You’ve probably already called the Montalembert and found that I left. “Nothing I’d like better, Axel. But tonight’s not possible.”
    “That’s a shame,” said Axel. “I hate to give bad news over the phone.” Sam could hear him sigh. “I’ll make it quick. Without going into details, the word I hear is that Roth set up the wine job.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes. I’m afraid you’re wasting your time in France. You should be back in California. That’s my advice.”
    “Thanks, Axel. I’ll be sure to let you know how it goes.”
    Shaking his head, Sam poured his first cup of coffee. He liked Axel, and there were times when he could surprise you—and probably himself—by telling the truth. But not this time, Sam felt sure. It was an encouraging sign. He tore off the end of a croissant and dipped it in his coffee, another French habit he’d picked up; messy, but delicious. He felt the warmth of the sun on his shoulders, and turned to the sports section of the paper.
    Eleven o’clock found Sophie, Sam, and Philippe sitting around a table in a quiet corner of the hotel lobby. Sophie had spent the first part of the morning negotiating her way through the protective layers of Reboul’s entourage. She had finally managed to reach his private secretary, only to be told that Monsieur Reboul was with his power-yoga teacher and couldn’t be disturbed. The secretary had promised to call back.
    “What did you tell her?” asked Philippe.
    Sophie went through the cover story, with Philippe nodding his approval as she described her new incarnation as a book packager.
    “That might work,” he said when she had finished. He then took a thick folder from his weather-stained nylon backpack. “ Voilà: Reboul’s file. I printed out the interesting stuff so you don’t need a computer to read it. You’ll see from this how he loves attention, and if there’s a photograph involved he loves it even more. Just like a politician.” He stopped and