Reboul listened quietly to an account of the events of the past few days, taking particular pleasure from Sam’s interview with Patrimonio. There was just the occasional murmured “tres bien” by way of interruption until Sam came to the subject of Philippe.
“You mean you told him everything? This journalist? Is he discreet? Most of them aren’t.”
“He guaranteed to keep your name out of it until the moment when you step in with rescue financing. I know him well. He’s on our side, I promise you. Trust me.”
“The two most dangerous words in the language. But”-Sam could almost hear the shrug at the other end of the line-“what’s done is done. You trust him and I trust you.”
Sam put down the phone with a silent prayer that Philippe would be as good as his word. It would be difficult, he knew, for him to keep quiet, to suppress the journalist’s visceral urge to be first with the news, but Sam was sure that Philippe was that rarity, an honorable man.
One more call, this time to Miss Perkins. Did she have everything she needed for the presentation? He needn’t have worried.
“I’ve nearly finished translating your speech, dear. Very nice, in spite of one or two rather curious words and phrases-‘lifestyle’ and so forth. But then, you’re American. In any case, everything will be ready to be printed and bound tomorrow morning. This is all quite exciting, isn’t it? Do you think it might be helpful if I came to the presentation, just in case there are complications with the French?”
“Daphne, I wouldn’t dream of trying to do it without you.”
“Very well, dear. Tomorrow it is. I’ll be with you about midday with the presentation documents. Now be sure to get a good night’s rest.”
It was three in the morning, and Brian and Dave had no trouble finding a spot to park their rented car just above the beach. Without leaving their seats, they could see the tent fifty yards away, and the faint glow of light coming from one end.
“You reckon there’s someone in there?”
“Bound to be. Some old geezer, probably.”
“Suppose he’s having a kip?”
“Well, this will wake him up, won’t it? We’ll start at the dark end. That’ll give him time to hop it. Right. Off we go.”
They got out of the car and looked up and down the deserted stretch of the Corniche before opening the trunk and taking out two twenty-liter jerricans of kerosene and two gas firelighters. Down the steps and onto the beach, their feet made no sound in the sand. They were just about to fan out on either side of the tent when Brian stopped. He turned to Dave, close enough to whisper.
“What’s that noise?”
They stood in the darkness, listening intently. They could hear a low, continuous rumble coming from inside the tent.
“They must have a generator in there.”
The rumbling became louder as the tent flap was pushed open, and two dark shapes came out onto the beach.
“Bloody hell.” Dave had forgotten to whisper. The Rottweilers heard the sound and started in their direction, wary and now silent. Without thinking, Dave and Brian dropped the jerricans and made for the steps that would take them off the beach, only to find that the dogs had circled around to block their escape. The two men retreated. The Rottweilers followed them down toward the sea, as intent and disciplined as sheepdogs patrolling their flock.
“Do you know about dogs, Dave? Can they swim?”
The dogs quickened their pace, and as they came closer there was an impressive show of teeth glinting in the moonlight. Brian and Dave waited no longer. They turned and hurled themselves into the water, where they spent a cold and nervous half hour putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the dogs.
Jules, whose turn it was to spend the night on guard duty, whistled the dogs back and gave them each a biscuit. Walking around the tent, he found the jerricans. Perhaps there would be fingerprints on them. But to hell with it. They’d still be there tomorrow. He stretched and yawned. He’d call the police in the morning.
The day had started early and badly for Lord Wapping, with the sodden and shamefaced Brian and Dave having to confess complete failure, and it wasn’t long before there was another dose of unpleasant news. Ray Prendergast had received an e-mail from Hoffman and Myers, the private bank that was Wapping’s biggest creditor, and it made uncomfortable reading.
“They’re well pissed off, Billy. Not only that. They’re sending two of their heavies over to Marseille to sort things out, ‘following your unsatisfactory response to our previous communications.’ That’s what they said.”
“Bastards. How’s a man expected to make an honest living with all this interference? Did they say when they were coming?”
“That’s a bit of a problem, Billy. They’re going to be here tomorrow unless we can put them off.”
Wapping got up from his desk and paced over to the nearest porthole. His presentation was scheduled for three days’ time, and his only chance was to keep the bankers at bay until that was over. He looked out to sea, which was as flat as a board. The sun was up, there was no wind: a perfect cruising day.
He turned back to Prendergast. “Right,” he said. “Send them an e-mail. Tell them I’m at sea for a few days, and can’t be reached. Regrets, best wishes, all that crap. And tell Tiny to get the boat ready to go as quickly as possible, OK?”
“Where are we off to, sweetie?” asked Annabel, who could never resist an open door and the chance to eavesdrop. She had appeared in the doorway draped in a towel, her hair still wet from the pool. “Can I put in a tiny request for Saint-Tropez? Sir Frank is there for the summer, and so are the Escobars from Argentina. Such fun.”
Miss Perkins had arrived as promised with the presentation documents, and had agreed to stay for lunch. Philippe, looking less jaundiced by the day, had been joined by Mimi. Sam was bringing the barbecue to a healthy glow, Elena was tossing the salad, the rose was chilling nicely, and the mood around the big table under the parasol pines was good-humored and optimistic.
There is something about eating outside on a fine warm day that brings out the raconteur in people. They sit back. They relax. They feel expansive. It soon became apparent that Miss Perkins had plenty of stories to tell, from her schooldays at Roedean, which she described as “a temple of learning for wayward middle-class girls,” to some highly indiscreet revelations about life in the British Consulate. Time passed quickly, and on glancing at his watch Sam was surprised to see that it was already two-thirty. They needed to go. The presentation was scheduled to start at four.
Fourteen
Miss Perkins and Sam arrived at the tent to find Jim, the second member of Gaston’s security team, busy behind the tiny bar, polishing glasses. Although he was half hidden behind a vast ice bucket holding two magnums of champagne, Sam could see that he was a substantial man, verging on huge, dressed in a black suit, and wearing pitch-black sunglasses. As he left the bar to greet them, Miss Perkins let out a cry of recognition.
“Jim, c’est toi! Quelle bonne surprise!”
Jim beamed, whipped off his sunglasses, and kissed Miss Perkins loudly on each cheek.
“I guess you two know each other,” said Sam.
It was Miss Perkins’s turn to beam. “Indeed we do, don’t we, Jim? We’ve been going to the same cookery course all winter, and I must tell you that this young man makes the best cheese souffle in Marseille.” She kissed her fingertips. “Such a light touch.” She bustled away and put the pile of bound presentation documents on the table. “There. Each of these has a committee member’s name on. Or, as you would say, dear, personalized.”