The Vintage Caper

billionaires had a habit of appropriating the marvels of nature as their personal property. But he had to admit that it was an exceptional sight. The sky was on fire—a great crimson gash, fading at the edges to tones of pink and lavender, the light making a path of rippled gold on the surface of the sea. Reboul nodded at the view, as if in confirmation that it was up to the normal high standard that he expected.
    A few kilometers from the shore, there was a shadowy huddle of small islands. Sophie pointed to the nearest of them. “That’s the Château d’If, isn’t it?”
    “Quite right, my dear. You obviously haven’t forgotten your Alexandre Dumas. This is where the Count of Monte-Cristo was imprisoned. Many visitors think he really existed, you know.” He chuckled. “Such is the power of a good book.” Turning away from the window, he took Sophie’s arm. “Which reminds me of the reason for your visit. Let’s sit down, and you can tell me about it.”
    Reboul showed them to a group of nineteenth-century chairs and sofas arranged around a low table that dripped with ormolu. Before sitting down himself, he took out his cell phone and pressed a button. The young man in a dark suit, who must have been lurking outside, appeared with a tray that he set down on the table. He took a bottle of champagne from its ice bucket and presented it for Reboul’s approval before opening it. The cork came out with a gentle sigh. The young man poured, served, and disappeared.
    “I hope you like Krug,” said Reboul. He settled back in his chair and crossed his legs, exposing black crocodile loafers and a pair of trim, deeply tanned bare ankles. “You must forgive the lack of socks,” he said, “but I detest them. I never wear them at home.” He raised his glass to Sophie and smiled. “To literature.”
    When Sam and Sophie were planning their pitch, they had agreed that Sophie’s Bordeaux background made her the natural choice for the part of editorial director, in charge of selecting the cellars to be included in the book. With a sip of champagne to moisten a suddenly dry throat, she started by giving Reboul a general overview of the project, sprinkling her explanation with names of the eminent professional cellars under consideration—the grand restaurants and hotels of the world, and, of course, the Elysée Palace. Reboul listened with polite attention, his eye occasionally wandering from Sophie’s face to a discreet appreciation of her legs.
    As she moved on to what she called the major part of the book—the world’s finest private cellars—Reboul’s interest increased. He asked who else besides himself would be approached. It was a question that Sophie had anticipated, and without hesitation she reeled off the names of a handful of English aristocrats, some well-known American industrialists, Hong Kong’s richest man, a reclusive Scottish widow who lived in a castle on thirty thousand acres of the Highlands, and two or three of the better-known families in Bordeaux and Burgundy.
    Sophie was warming to her task, and Reboul was clearly warming to Sophie as she leaned toward him to emphasize the point she was about to make. Candidates for the book, she said, had to satisfy three requirements. First, they had to be people with sufficient taste and money to have put together a truly remarkable collection of wines. Second, they had to be interesting for reasons other than their love of wine—people who had, in Sophie’s words, a life beyond the cellar. And third, the cellars themselves had to be, in one way or another, out of the ordinary. She cited two examples of what she meant: the English earl who kept his wines in a towering Victorian folly, complete with humidity-controlled elevator, at the end of his garden; and the American who had put aside an entire floor of his Park Avenue triplex for his collection. Without having seen the cellars of the Palais du Pharo, she said, she couldn’t imagine that they were anything short of extraordinary.
    Reboul nodded. “Indeed they are. And quite large. In fact, Monsieur Vial, my cellar master, keeps a small bicycle down there to get from one end to the other.” He raised a hand, and the young man materialized to refill their glasses. “It is an interesting project, and most charmingly explained.” He inclined his head toward Sophie. “But tell me a little about the—how can I put it?—the nuts and bolts. How does one prepare such a book?”
    It was