“The boat?”
“Exactly. The Floating Pound, where there’s no chance of any outsiders seeing something they shouldn’t. Also, if he has a problem he can just sail away. Plus, he has the helicopter. So let’s assume that we know who the kidnapper is, and we know where he’s keeping Elena. Now we come to the hard part. Somehow, we have to get onto the boat.”
“Philippe, just a minute. Where are the police in all this? Why can’t we get them to raid the boat?”
Philippe shook his head slowly, and took a deep breath. “Down here, we don’t like getting on the wrong side of rich foreigners. It’s bad for business. Marseille has had enough trouble with its reputation already. But more important, much more important, there isn’t any evidence-no recording of that phone call, no witnesses, no clues. Just our little theory, our word, that’s all. No proof. And without something to go on, no cop is going to board a private vessel.”
“Don’t you have a really solid police contact we could talk to? An inspector?”
“Andreis? He retired-went off to Corsica to make cheese.”
Sam had started the morning feeling desperately worried and frustrated. Now he was getting angry. The thought of Elena being used as a bargaining chip made him crave action, preferably something that involved breaking Wapping’s neck. And with the anger came a rush of energy, all memories of a sleepless night forgotten.
“OK, so we need to search that boat. If we can’t use the police, then we have to think of something that will make the search look official. Otherwise they won’t even let us on board.”
Sam’s phone rang. He grabbed at it, nerves making him clumsy. It was Reboul, hoping in vain for good news. He was shocked to hear about the kidnap call. “Sam, I don’t know what to say. It’s my fault for getting you into this mess. I just want you to know that you can count on me for any help I can give you. Anything at all. What are you going to do?”
“I’m working on it. I’ll let you know.”
While he’d been on the phone, a tousled, yawning Mimi had joined them. She went over to Sam and put her arms round him. “Still nothing?”
Sam shook his head and bent down to kiss her forehead. It was burning hot. “Mimi, are you feeling all right? You’ve got a hell of a temperature.”
“Oh, it’s nothing serious. There’s some bug going around. I’ll be fine.”
There are times when the mind makes some curious random connections, and Mimi’s bug took Sam back to an unhealthy moment in Marseille’s history. “You two would know more about it than me, but wasn’t there a big plague in Marseille back in the eighteenth century? I remember reading about it.”
Philippe looked puzzled. “It was in 1720,” he said. “When they weren’t bothering too much with quarantine. Thousands of people died.”
“So I guess there must now be quarantine restrictions.”
“Of course. Especially now, you know, given all the problems with illegal immigration. Why do you ask?”
“Well, suppose there was a report that some contagious disease might have been brought into Marseille on a boat-let’s say, a boat from the Ivory Coast. Wouldn’t the quarantine authorities want to do some emergency health checks, to make sure it wasn’t spreading?”
For the first time that morning, Philippe grinned. “I think I can see what’s coming.”
“A team from Health and Immigration, with a couple of cops as official backup, to inspect all foreign-registry boats.”
“Starting with Wapping’s boat?”
“Exactly. But at night, when nobody’s expecting a visit.”
In ten minutes, they had worked out a shopping list, and Sam called Reboul.
“Francis, we have an idea, but to make it work we need a police speedboat, two guys who could pass as police officers, and a few medical accessories. For tonight. Can you help?”
Reboul took a moment to think. “The speedboat is no problem. Nor is the medical equipment. The police officers-ah, yes, I think I know just the men for that. Give me half an hour to set things up, and meet me in an hour at the private terminal at Marignane. Bring your passport just in case. You can tell me all about your idea while we’re on our way.”
“Where are we going?”
“Corsica, my friend. Corsica.”
Sam was shaking his head as he put down the phone. “How simple life is when you’re a billionaire. It looks like we’re all set.”
Philippe had been pacing up and down in an agony of curiosity. “Well? Well?”
“Reboul is taking me to Corsica this morning. I think we’re going to have a meeting with two fake cops.” Sam went over to Mimi, who curled up in an armchair. He kissed her burning forehead once more for luck. “I’ll never forget you gave me the idea. Now take a couple of aspirin and get back to bed.”
When Sam arrived at Marignane’s private air terminal, Reboul was already waiting, his cell phone to his ear. He finished his call and came over to embrace Sam. “I’m so sorry about this. So very sorry.”
In fact, Sam was feeling better and more positive than he’d felt for several hours. He was no longer passive, just waiting; he was doing something, and activity is a sovereign remedy for most problems. He clapped Reboul on the shoulder. “This is going to work. I know it’s going to work once we find our cops.”
“You’ll see,” said Reboul. “Let’s get on the plane and I’ll tell you about them.”
Once again, Sam was struck by the boarding process, or rather by the lack of it, when flying private. They strolled across the tarmac to the plane, where the copilot welcomed them at the top of the gangway. The steps were retracted, the pilot taxied over to the takeoff point, and they began the short hop to Calvi, on the west coast of Corsica. Boarding time: three minutes.
Coffee was served by the copilot, and Reboul began his briefing. He started with the names of the two gentlemen they were going to meet: the Figatelli brothers, Florian and Joseph, known as Flo and Jo. Reboul had known them since the two were boys, when their father ran a hotel in which Reboul had a majority interest. When the father died after a hunting accident, Reboul had taken the two young men under his wing, offering to put them through university. To their mother’s dismay and with Reboul’s wholehearted approval, they had chosen to complete their education in Las Vegas, where a small but select college offered a course in celebrity hotel management.
English, naturally, was part of the curriculum. There was also detailed instruction on the running of a hotel, even down to the pitfalls of hiring illegal immigrants, the importance of clean fingernails, the art of increasing the tip, and, not least of all, the defensive measures to be taken if a distinguished guest, such as a United States senator, should be discovered in flagrante with a couple of the local hookers.
Flo and Jo graduated with honors, and to mark the occasion they were each presented with a special T-shirt, of black silk, with the city’s motto embroidered in tasteful gold lettering: “What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas.” Ready for the real world, they returned to Calvi and took over the management of the hotel. They ran it well, and they expanded their business to include bars, a beach franchise, and one or two enterprises that were not, strictly speaking, legal.
“But they’re good boys,” said Reboul, “and I trust them to do a good job.”
“They need to look official, Francis. What about uniforms?”
Reboul tapped the side of his nose. “They already have regulation police uniforms. I can’t think why. Better not to ask.”
The plane was beginning its descent toward Calvi when Reboul leaned forward. “One thing we haven’t talked about, Sam. You mentioned a doctor. Where are we going to find our doctor?”
“You’re looking at him.”
“You? You can’t go. They’ve met you. They know you.”
“Not with a surgical mask, a pair of glasses, hospital scrubs, and one of those little hats they wear in the operating room. All they’ll see of me is my eyebrows.”