The Vintage Caper

semaphore, fresh from the Salon d’Erotisme.
    “Alors? Alors? How did it go?”
    Sam gave two thumbs up. “Sophie was fantastic. We’ve got a date to visit the cellar tomorrow morning. How about you? Did you have an erotic afternoon?”
    The big man grinned. “You would be amazed. Many novelties—you should see what they do with latex nowadays. For instance—”
    “Philippe! Enough.” Sophie was shaking her head all the way to the bar.
    Over drinks, they brought Philippe up to date. It had been a promising start, they all agreed, but tomorrow would be key, and there was a lot of ground to cover. From Reboul’s description, his cellar was gigantic, a bicycle ride from one end to the other. Not only that. They would be looking for a mere five hundred bottles among thousands. It was going to be a long day.
    Sam finished his drink and stood up. “I think I’d better go and make a few calls. The folks in L.A. will be wanting to know what’s going on, and it’s best to get them before lunch. But I’m sure you two have a lot of family gossip to catch up on.”
    Philippe looked disappointed. “Don’t you want to hear about the Salon d’Erotisme?”
    “With a passion,” said Sam. “But not tonight.”
    It was eleven a.m. in Los Angeles, and Elena Morales was beginning to wonder if she might find any entries in the Yellow Pages under “Human Disposal.” Danny Roth’s calls—whether snide, abusive, or threatening—were getting her down to the extent that she was having frequent daydreams about arranging for his extermination. Added to that was her irritation at Sam’s prolonged silence and the frustration of not knowing what, if any, progress was being made in France. And so when her secretary announced that Mr. Levitt was on the line, she was ready to bite his head off.
    “Yes, Sam. What is it?” The tone of her voice was several degrees below freezing.
    “One of the many things I love about you,” said Sam, “is your telephone manner. Now listen.”
    It took him five minutes to go through all the events leading up to the meeting with Reboul and the next day’s visit to his cellar. Elena let him finish before she spoke.
    “So your underworld buddy Axel Schroeder told you that it was Roth who organized the robbery?”
    “That’s right.”
    “But you didn’t believe him. And you don’t know if this Reboul guy has the wine?”
    “That’s right.”
    “And if he does, how are you going to prove it?”
    “I’m working on that.” Silence from the other end. “Elena, you sound less than excited.”
    “I had the Paris office send over Sophie Costes’ C.V.”
    “And?”
    “There’s a photograph. It’s not exactly how you described her.” Sam could almost feel the chill coming down the line. “Good night, Sam.” The phone went dead before he had a chance to reply.

Fifteen

    Sam was up early, still at odds with himself about the previous night’s phone call. He should have called Elena back and explained. No, he shouldn’t. To hell with it. If she wanted to jump to conclusions, let her jump. He paced up and down, feeling a strong sense of déjà vu . This was how their fights had often started in the old days: suspicion from her, pigheadedness from him. It had made for a stormy relationship—but, it must be said, for some spectacular reconciliations. He shrugged the memories away and turned his attention to the Reboul dossier that Philippe had left with him.
    Sam’s French was far from fluent, but as he plodded through the articles he managed to pick up the gist of much that had been written. One recurring theme—no matter what role Reboul was playing, whether newspaper czar or pirate of the Mediterranean—was the greatness of France and all things French. Culture, language, cuisine, wines, châteaus, couture, French women, French soccer players, and on and on. Even the TGV high-speed trains, although Reboul admitted never actually having traveled on one, were given a ringing endorsement. And somehow he made it sound as though he had played a vital part in the creation of it all.
    Reboul’s only concession to the possibility that France might be less than an earthly paradise was his disdainful opinion of the fonctionnaires , that gray army of bureaucrats that infests every area of French life. Here was a hobbyhorse he mounted in public each spring when he gave his income-tax press conference, to mark what he called the fête des fiscs , or the festival of the tax man. Not