The Vintage Caper

into the drive.” He could hear the clatter of the engine being started, and Philippe clearing his throat. When he replied, his voice was doing its best to sound alert and efficient. “Three minutes, mon général . I’ll bring the corkscrew. Over and out.”
    Sam grinned and shook his head. Once this was all over, he’d look around for an antique military medal—one of Napoléon’s best—that he could pin on Philippe’s chest for services above and beyond the call of duty. He’d earned it. And he’d probably wear the damn thing.
    Sam walked across the driveway and took up his position in the shadow of Empress Eugénie’s statue. Behind him was the vast sleeping bulk of the Palais, unlit except for the glimmer of two porch lights; ahead, the gates rose in silhouette against the lights of the empty boulevard. With a silent apology to Empress Eugénie for his forward behavior, he felt beneath her flowing marble robes until his hand found the button that young Dominique had used to operate the gates. He pressed it as he heard the sound of an engine laboring up the hill, and saw the gates swing slowly open. Merci, madame .
    Philippe kept his eye on the pinprick of Sam’s flashlight and pulled up next to the pile of cartons stacked outside the cellar door. He was dressed for the evening’s expedition in black from head to toe—a portly Ninja, complete with a close-fitting wool hood of the kind much in vogue with terrorists and bank robbers.
    “I checked,” he whispered with an air of satisfaction. “It’s OK. I wasn’t followed.”
    While they were loading the cartons, Sam suggested as tactfully as he could that the hood might attract the wrong kind of attention on the open road. Philippe did his best to hide his disappointment, and took it off before getting into the driver’s seat. He peered through the windshield toward the boulevard. “Merde! The gates are shut.”
    “Automatic timer,” said Sam. “Pick me up by the statue.”
    They rolled slowly through the gates, Philippe turned on the lights, and the van wheezed along deserted streets, following the signs that would lead them out of Marseille and on to the autoroute .
    Sam collapsed in his seat, feeling drugged by an overwhelming sense of relief. The serious part of the job was over. Tying up the loose ends was going to be fun. “Have you spoken to Sophie? Is she OK?”
    “I would say très OK. She called me late last night. She and Vial had drinks at the hotel and then Vial took her to dinner at Le Petit Nice, the hotel up on the Corniche. The chef there has just been given his third Michelin star—they say he’s a magician with fish. I must pay him a visit. Anyway, she said she had a great time. I think she likes Vial very much. I told her I’d call during the night if there was a problem, or in the morning if everything had gone well.” Philippe slowed down at the entrance to the autoroute to take a ticket from the toll machine. They were heading north, and they had the wide ribbon of road to themselves. “She’s a good girl, Sophie. A little bossy from time to time, but a good girl. I didn’t really know her before this—you know how it is with cousins. Even though they’re family, you only see them at weddings and funerals, with everybody on their best behavior. It must be the same in America, non?”
    But there was no answer from Sam. Sprawled in his seat, his head lolling, his arms hugging his chest, he was starting to make up for two sleepless nights. Philippe drove on in silence, his mind busy with thoughts of his scoop and the pleasant prospect of a trip to Los Angeles to interview Danny Roth. The idea of California fascinated him, as it did so many Frenchmen. Surfers, Hells Angels, square tomatoes, whales, wildfires, mudslides, Big Sur, San Francisco, Hollywood—anything could happen in a place like that. Why, they even had a European governor.
    He turned off the autoroute at Aix and followed the smaller roads that led to Rognes and across the Durance River into the Luberon. It had been some time since he’d made this trip, and he was struck by how empty and quiet the countryside seemed after the crowds and tumult he was used to in Marseille, and how dark the darkness was. He passed the villages of Cadenet and Lourmarin, both fast asleep, and entered the narrow corkscrew road that would take them through the mountain and over to the north side of the Luberon. The steep, rocky slopes of the mountain came down so close