The Vintage Caper

irresistible combination of fresh fish, fresh air, and a glittering view of the Frioul islands and the Château d’If. It is a setting to sharpen the appetite and bring on a holiday mood, and it had an instant effect on Florian Vial’s sense of chivalry. Waving aside the waiter, he insisted on pulling out Sophie’s chair and making sure she was comfortably settled before sitting down himself.
    He rubbed his hands and took a deep breath of sea air. “Delightful, delightful. What an excellent choice, my dear madame. This is a real treat.”
    Sophie inclined her head. “Please call me Sophie. I thought perhaps we might start with a glass of champagne? But then you must choose the wine. I’m sure you have some little local favorites.”
    This set Vial off, as Sophie guessed it would, on a verbal tour of Provençal vineyards. “There have been vines here,” he began, “since 600 b.c., when the Phocians founded Marseille.” And from there, interrupted only by the arrival of champagne and menus, he took Sophie from Cassis to Bandol and beyond, going east to Palette and west to Bellet, with a lengthy detour to visit the underappreciated wines of the Languedoc. The man was a walking encyclopedia, Sophie thought, and he had an enthusiasm for his subject that she found infectious and rather endearing.
    They chose from the menu, and Vial selected a bone-dry white from Cassis to accompany the loup de mer . Sophie took advantage of the pause to ask Vial about himself, and his years with Reboul.
    It was, as Vial said, a happy story with a tragic beginning. Thirty-five years ago, when Reboul was working on his early deals, he hired Vial’s father as the financial director of what was then a fairly small company. The two men became friends. The company flourished. Young Florian, an only child, was showing signs of promise at university. The future looked rosy.
    That future disappeared, in shocking fashion, one winter’s night in Marseille. It was one of those rare years when freezing snow had fallen on the city. The roads were slick with black ice, conditions that very few Provençal drivers know how to handle. Vial’s father and mother had been to the movies, and were driving home when a truck skidded sideways into their car, crushing it against a concrete wall. The car’s occupants died instantly.
    What happened then changed Vial’s life. Reboul took his friend’s son under his wing. He encouraged his early interest in wine and paid for him to attend a six-month course in viticulture at the wine institute of Carpentras, followed by a year’s apprenticeship working for négociants in Burgundy and Bordeaux. During the year, it became apparent that the young man had an exceptional palate. This was confirmed by a final six months in Paris under the eye of the legendary Hervé Bouchon, who at the time was the best sommelier in France. Acting on Bouchon’s recommendation, Reboul decided to take young Vial on as his corporate caviste , with a mandate to put together the best private cellar in France, and gave him a generous budget to help him do it.
    “That was a long time ago,” said Vial, “nearly thirty years. I don’t know where I’d have been now if it hadn’t been for him.” His thoughtful expression brightened as the waiter came to take their orders for the last course. “If you permit, we might try with our dessert the closest thing Provence has to one of those Sauternes you Bordelais do so well. A glass of muscat from Beaumes-de-Venise. Can I tempt you?”
    Vial’s story had left Sophie feeling a little confused, and she found herself beginning to hope that Reboul wasn’t guilty. Even if he was, a small voice was telling her, it would be a shame if he didn’t get away with it. She stole a glance at her watch and wondered how Sam was getting on.
    • • •
    Philippe and Grosso, a slight, neatly dressed man with a black attaché case that he described to Philippe as his box of tricks, had arrived in an unmarked car ten minutes before one o’clock, to find Sam waiting at the door. It was Philippe’s first visit to the cellar, and the sight of row upon row of bottles stretching away beneath the vaulted ceilings of rose-pink brick rendered him almost speechless. “Merde,” was all he could say. “Merde.” Grosso let out a soft whistle.
    Sam led them over to the bin that contained the magnums of Pétrus. Grosso looked them over as he opened his attaché case and took out a halogen flashlight, a