“What about that other place? Have you got that sorted out?”
“Of course. No problem.”
“That makes a change.” Wapping put down the phone and tried to relight the remains of his cigar. As soon as he had heard about the tent on the beach, he had told Patrimonio to find an equally unusual setting for his presentation, and a renovated grain silo down near the port had been suggested. It wouldn’t attract the publicity of the tent, but it was certainly better than the Parisian team’s choice of the conference room in a Marseille hotel, where their presentation was being held that afternoon.
His Lordship brooded. He was running out of time, and he was running out of excuses to fend off the banks. Desperate measures were called for. He summoned Ray Prendergast, and went over the situation with him.
Prendergast listened and nodded, looking more than ever like an attentive gnome. “What we have here, Billy,” he said as Wapping finished his tale of woe, “is an opportunity to think outside the box. Now then, when is Levitt’s presentation? Day after tomorrow, right? So there’s not time to start all over again if an accident should happen.”
“Who to?”
“Not who to, Billy. Not this time. I was thinking of something more along the lines of a natural catastrophe-Brian and Dave and a box of matches. Very careless with the matches, our Dave. And what happens? Guy Fawkes’s night with all the fireworks, that’s what. Whoops, the tent goes up in flames, and so does the presentation.”
The idea appealed to Wapping instantly. It was crude, simple, and menacing, like some of the stunts he’d pulled in the old days. Besides, time was short and there weren’t many options. He nodded. “All right, Ray. We’ll give it a go. Wait until the last minute-tomorrow night. Don’t let them have a chance to find another tent.”
In addition to all his other responsibilities, Gaston had been given the task of finding an interpreter to help with Sam’s presentation. Most of the project committee spoke some English, but Sam was anxious that nobody should miss any important details.
Two candidates had survived Gaston’s selection process, and Sam had arranged to interview them at the house. Elena was standing by, more out of curiosity than a sense of duty, to welcome the two hopefuls. The first was a young Frenchwoman in her twenties, Mademoiselle Silvestre, and it was instantly clear why Gaston had picked her. Despite the black dress and the attache case, there was more than a hint of the bedroom about her, accentuated by her perfume, the height of her heels, and the elaborate way in which she adjusted her skirt and crossed her legs after she’d sat down.
Sam swallowed hard and started to go through his list of questions. Yes, she was bilingual, and yes, she was available for the evening of the presentation. When he asked her how she had learned to speak such good English, she smiled.
“Perhaps you’d like to see my curriculum vitae,” she said, making it sound more like an invitation to a romp than a question. She took the papers from her attache case and leaned over to pass them to Sam, treating him to a heady whiff of perfume and a most unbusinesslike panorama of bosom.
“Looks good,” he said. “I’ll read this and get back to you.”
Elena came back after showing her out. “That’s the kind of girl who would sit on your lap to take dictation.”
“How can you tell?”
Elena sniffed. “Women know these things. The other one’s just arrived. Much more suitable.”
Miss Perkins, a regal woman of a certain age, had worked in the liaison department of the British Consulate in Marseille for twenty years before it was shut down. She wore a starched white blouse fastened at the neck with a cameo brooch, and what she would describe as a sensible skirt and shoes. She immediately took charge of the interview.
“Would you prefer that we talked in English or in French? I imagine you’re more comfortable if we use English.”
“You’re right. Let’s do that. I guess Gaston will have told you what we need? The project committee is not all that fluent in English, and I’d like our presentation to be as clear and professional as possible. That will obviously impact their decision.”
A pained expression appeared on Miss Perkins’s pink face. “If you will forgive my saying so, ‘impact’ is a noun. In correct English, it is never used as a verb. Rather like the persistent misuse of ‘hopefully,’ I’m afraid it is one of the many infelicities committed by our American friends.” A sweet smile took the sting out of her words. “Now then, dear. I shall need to have the text of your presentation so that I can make a written translation we can leave with the members of the committee. I hope that will be possible?”
“Of course, Miss Perkins.”
She held up a plump hand. “Please, dear. Call me Daphne. After all, we are going to be working together.”
Sam joined Elena outside the house to see Miss Perkins safely into her tiny car, a classic 2CV, and watched it clatter out through the gates.
“You were right,” said Sam. “Much more suitable. In fact, I didn’t have a chance. She just took over, which is fine with me. You know how I adore strong women.”
Elena rolled her eyes, but said nothing.
They went back into the house, to find Philippe clutching his ribs and pacing up and down as he finished talking on his cell phone. As he turned toward them, they could see that his eye, once black, was turning a mottled, jaundiced yellow. “That was Etienne,” he said, “my contact at police headquarters. He did me a favor and went through the log for the past few days. Two bikes were reported stolen the night I got hit-which is exactly what professionals would have done. They never use their own wheels. Here,” he said, opening his laptop, “take a look at this.” He read it out to them in English.
The headline on the screen got the piece off to a dramatic start: “MY BRUSH WITH DEATH ON THE CORNICHE,” and the text began by describing the attack in clinical detail, concluding that it had been a skilled, professional job. Philippe then went on to speculate. He had been careful to avoid mentioning names, restricting himself to questions: Why had this happened at this particular time? Who was behind it? What was their motive? And in the end, a few stirring words about an attack on a journalist being an attack on the freedom of the press.
“Well? What do you think?” Philippe closed the laptop and patted it. “Could you take a mug shot to go with the piece before the eye clears up?”
Elena was shaking her head. “I don’t know, Philippe. Are you sure about this? These guys aren’t playing games.”
“I think Philippe’s right,” said Sam. “They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with something like this. If Wapping’s behind it, and we’re pretty sure he is, he’ll be gone and back in England within a few days. As long as Philippe stays here, he’ll be safe. And who knows? Perhaps this kind of publicity will make Wapping behave himself. It might even help the police.”
Elena fetched her camera and photographed Philippe posing in front of a plain white wall, doing his best to look grim and disfigured. Sam looked at the image on the camera’s tiny screen, then showed it to Philippe. “Terrific. You look like a corpse. Tell the guys at the paper not to retouch a thing.”
Reboul was back in Marseille after a few days of business in London. Sam’s call was answered by a long-drawn-out grunt that could have been either pain or pleasure before Reboul’s voice took over. “Sorry about that, Sam. I’m having a massage, and she has thumbs of steel, this masseuse.”
“How was your trip?”
“A little strange. There were times when I thought I was still in France. You know, there are between three and four hundred thousand French living in London now. There’s a sort of expensive ghetto in South Kensington they call La Vallee des Grenouilles-Frog Valley-and parts of London are just like Paris with bad weather. How the world has changed. Now tell me-what’s been happening?”