Elena gave him a suitably thorough inspection, and nodded. “You’ll do,” she said. “But promise me you’ll be careful. No heroics, OK? Now take off those goddam sunglasses so I can give you a good-luck kiss.” And a long, serious kiss it was.

  “That was interesting,” said Sam. “What do I get if I take off my hat?”

  They went downstairs to join Reboul, who had insisted on coming with them. He would act, as he said, as Elena’s bodyguard while Sam was otherwise occupied. The two of them would be staying at the Villa Prestige, a high-security, high-luxury house a few minutes’ drive from the center of Calvi.

  They settled three abreast in the back of the car that was taking them to the area reserved for private planes at the Marseille airport. During the drive, Sam took them through, once again, what would happen when they landed in Calvi. Elena and Reboul were to wait in the plane until Sam had left the airport. Once off the plane, Sam would get into the waiting car that had been organized by the Figatellis—a large Peugeot, distinctive because of its densely tinted windows. This would take him to Madame Lombard’s house in Speloncato while Reboul and Elena were taken to the Villa Prestige.

  The short flight to Corsica was subdued and, now that the action had begun, increasingly tense. Reboul was restless, fidgeting with his cell phone. Elena was silent, clutching Sam’s hand and staring out the window. Sam had disappeared into a bubble of concentration, as he always did before a job. He went over the meticulous arrangements he had made with the Figatellis. In theory, he reckoned, they had covered every possibility. And yet, you can never be sure. Wherever you have goons and guns, mistakes can happen. But still—it’s the element of risk that makes the whole thing worth doing. And on that philosophical note he left his bubble, leaned over, and kissed Elena’s ear.

  The plane set down with barely a bump. By the time the door was opened, the Peugeot was already coming across the tarmac toward them. Sam left the plane, taking his time as he went down the steps to give anyone watching from the terminal a good look at him, and greeted the chauffeur standing by the open rear door. This was one of the older members of the Figatelli clan, Uncle Doumé, a squat, leathery man with a sweet, crooked smile and an impressive pair of shaggy white eyebrows. He took Sam’s bag, and they set off on the winding road to Speloncato.

  Back in the terminal, Sasha Oblomov lowered his binoculars with a grunt. “I was expecting someone older,” he said to the Figatellis. “He looks younger than he did in the photographs.”

  “Ah,” said Flo, “they were probably taken before the face-lift—you know what these rich guys are like. I guess he’ll be going straight to Speloncato. No need to follow him, unless you want to?”

  Oblomov shook his head. “We have plenty of time,” he said. “I want to go somewhere we can try out the guns.”

  They drove out of the airport and into the deserted countryside of the Balagna, parking in the shade of a scrub oak before pushing their way through tangles of maquis and into a small clearing. Jo unpacked the guns and handed one of them to Sasha. The other he held up as he went into his explanation.

  “I think you’ll like this: the Glock 23,” he said. “Light, reliable, used by the police all over America. The magazine holds thirteen rounds, the safety is here”—he clicked the safety catch off and on—“and that’s about all you need to know. Let me load them and set up a target and you can try them out. Oh, I almost forgot. These guns just got into Corsica last night, and they’re new. This evening I need to take them to a guy we’ve often used and have him file off the serial numbers. Just a precaution we like to take.”

  The Oblomovs nodded their approval of this evidence of professional discretion.

  The guns were loaded and the targets—beer cans from six-packs bought by the Figatellis—set up. The Oblomovs started firing, slowly at first and then, as they got used to the guns, more rapidly. It was immediately clear that both of them were comfortable with weapons, and that they were good marksmen. As the bullets flew and the beer cans jumped, Flo’s earlier impression was confirmed. These two were no amateurs.

  The Oblomovs had begun to show some enthusiasm, nodding and smiling and clapping each other on the back. Half a dozen magazines later, they were satisfied, and handed the guns back. The atmosphere between the Oblomovs and the Figatellis, if not exactly warm, had become cordial. They all agreed that useful progress had been made: the victim identified, the weapons tested and found excellent. Now they needed to find the perfect spot, and a prime opportunity. The Figatellis said they would consult with their niece about the victim’s movements to help them pick a time.

  Sam, never comfortable with violent changes of direction, whether by boat, plane, or car, did his best to keep smiling as Uncle Doumé hurled the Peugeot around ever tighter bends, the car horn at full blast. Speloncato, which he hoped to reach alive, sits at two thousand feet above sea level, with a permanent population, according to the latest count, of 280. It has one principal claim to fame: its grottos. Moist and gloomy, they had been the scene of many dark deeds, so the guidebook said. A frustration for the curious reader, thirsty for knowledge, was that no details of the dark deeds were provided. Sam consoled himself with the thought that Reboul’s aunt, Madame Lombard, would be sure to tell him.

  After what Reboul had told him about his aunt, Sam was very much looking forward to meeting her. The daughter of a diplomat who had been posted to England, she had been educated at Roedean, one of the top girls’ schools in the country, where she had learned to play field hockey, which she detested, and to speak perfect English with the languid drawl of the upper classes. She was now in her seventies. She had never married but, according to Reboul, had had her fair share of lovers. She spent her summers in the old family house in Speloncato, her winters in Gstaad, and the rest of the year in Paris.

  Arriving at the small place in the center of the village, Uncle Doumé pulled up in front of a four-story mansion the color of dark ochre, and announced his arrival with a final triumphant bellow from his horn. Almost at once, the front door opened and a sturdy young woman peered out, her face lighting up as she recognized Uncle Doumé.

  He opened his arms as he walked toward her. “Josette! Beautiful as ever!” He kissed her cheeks three times—left, right, left—and stepped back to introduce Sam. “This is Monsieur Sam, a friend of Monsieur Francis in Marseille. Madame Lombard is expecting him.”

  Josette ducked her head, shook hands with Sam, and took his bag. “Madame is in the salon. Please. This way.” She led them through a tiled entrance hall and into a vast room at the back of the house, furnished in the heavy, ornate style of a long-ago era—velvet, mahogany, brocade, swagged curtains, gilt-framed family portraits. Sam felt as if he had stepped back into the nineteenth century.

  Madame Lombard looked up from her writing desk and came toward Sam, smiling and extending one elegant hand, which he bent over to kiss.

  “Good heavens,” she said. “Do you still kiss hands in America? How nice. Here—come and sit down.”

  It was hard to believe that this was a woman in her seventies. She had gray hair, certainly, short and beautifully cut. But the skin on her face was smooth, the blue eyes lively, the body as slender as a young woman’s. She was dressed simply, in a black silk shirt and a cream-colored skirt that set off the tan on her excellent legs. Sam realized he’d been staring.

  “Well,” she said, “what were you expecting? Some old crone with a pince-nez and a moustache?”

  “Excuse me, I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting … well, someone who looks like you.”

  She smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, Francis has told me very little except that you’re American, and you’re doing him an enormous favor. Naturally, I’m agog to know more.” She waved her hand toward the ice bucket on the low table between them. “Why don’t you pour us a glass of Champagne and tell me all about it?”

  They talked well into the evening. At first, when Sam described Vronsky and what he intended to do, Madame Lombard sat quietly, her face set and serious. “But surely,” she said, “he’s not prepared to arrange a murder just to get a house?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Sam, “if his past history is anything to go by. But we’re not going to let that happen.” And, over the next half hour, he explained to her exactly what he and the Figatellis were going to do.

  After he’d finished, she was greatly relieved, even more so after another glass of Champagne. As they continued to talk, she instructed Sam to call her Laura, while she had begun to call him “dear boy.” She was asking him what she could do to help when they were interrupted by the sound of loud scratching at the door.

  “Ah,” said Laura, as she went to open the door, “I do hope you like dogs. This is Alfred, the man in my life. Isn’t he splendid?”

  He was huge and black and shaggy, a cross, so Laura said, between a briard and a Rottweiler. He padded across to Sam, inspected him, sniffed him, put one massive paw on his knee, and looked up at him expectantly.

  “He likes you,” said Laura. “I am glad. He’s such a good judge of character. I had a gentleman friend once whom Alfred absolutely loathed. And do you know, he was quite right. The man turned out to be a dreadful little shit.”

  Sam was wondering how to disengage his knee from the paw without causing offense when the cook put her head around the door to announce dinner.

  Over some well-turned lamb chops, salad, cheese, and a bottle of Château Margaux—“I find the local wines rather fierce,” said Laura—the conversation became serious again, and she repeated her wish to help.

  “There are a couple of things,” said Sam. “First, I need to find a place where I can be ambushed; somewhere deserted, obviously. And second, I need to have a reason for wandering around in the middle of nowhere. Otherwise, I’m worried that the Oblomovs will smell a rat.”

  “Nothing could be easier,” said Laura. “I can show you exactly where to go, and your reason for going is sitting on your foot. That shows he really does like you. Why don’t you take him for a walk tomorrow?”

  Over coffee, the details were worked out. Sam would call Jo and tell him where and when he would be walking the dog. Jo would tell the Oblomovs that his niece had given him the information, and they would arrange to hide themselves close to where Sam would be walking. After that, as Sam said, it would be all over bar the shooting.

  Chapter Nineteen

  After his first-ever night in a four-poster bed, Sam was woken up by the sun streaming through an open window. He felt alert and pleasantly tense, as he always did when close to the climax of an operation. A warm and soothing soak in a venerable cast-iron bathtub helped him relax, and then he started on the day’s phone calls.

  “Good morning, sweetheart. How do you like roughing it in Calvi?”

  “Sam, it’s wonderful. Private pool, great cooking, and wait till you see my dressing room. It’s enormous. I love it. I almost got lost in it.”

  Sam had never before heard Elena wax lyrical about a place to hang her clothes. Usually, she complained about lack of space; this was a rare sign of approval. “Tell me, how is Francis?”

  “He’s OK. A bit edgy, but I guess that’s to be expected. And he’s very worried about you. What are you doing today?”

  “Oh, exploring the countryside, finding a place to be ambushed, setting everything up with Flo and Jo, dealing with the Russians—just a normal day in the life of a busy executive.”

  Elena could sense from Sam’s voice that his mind was very much elsewhere, so after telling him once again to be extra careful, she ended the call with a kiss blown down the line.

  Sam went downstairs in search of coffee, and was surprised to find his hostess already sitting at the dining table, croissant and café crème by her side, a laptop in front of her. This was her way of catching up on the news of the day, she explained, since the nearest available newspaper was miles away in Calvi.

  “You’re going to be very pleased with me, dear boy,” she said. “I think I know exactly where you should go to be ambushed.” She started to tap the laptop’s keyboard. “Now, get yourself a cup of coffee from that pot on the sideboard and come and sit next to me.”

  She moved the laptop so that Sam had a better view of the screen, which showed an aerial view of dense green treetops and vegetation. “This is typical of the countryside around Speloncato,” she said. “Most of it is no good for you because there are no paths, and finding a particular spot would be impossible for anyone who didn’t know the area. But this”—she scrolled down the screen—“this is much better. It’s a reservoir about nine kilometers down the road, not difficult to find, and surrounded by maquis and abandoned olive groves, so there would be plenty of places for those ghastly Russians to lurk.”

  Sam leaned forward to take a closer look at the image on the screen. “Isn’t that a path, quite wide, there on the left?”

  Laura nodded. “It leads down from the road, but the only people who use it, once every six months or so, are the maintenance men for the reservoir.” She sat back, a smile of satisfaction on her face. “Well, do you think that will do?”

  “I’ll go and check it out this morning, but it looks terrific. How can I thank you? Let’s see now, would a magnum of Dom Pérignon be acceptable?”

  Laura, still smiling, inclined her head. “How delightful. Magnums are so comforting, don’t you think?”

  Half an hour later, Sam set off in an elderly Renault borrowed from the gardener. Following the road that wound down from the village, he came to the entrance to the path, marked by a rusting sign that read Accès Interdit. He parked the car on the grass and began walking.

  Almost everywhere he looked there were tiny clearings between the overgrown, neglected olive trees, ideal spots in which to hide and wait. The reservoir itself, a grim oasis of insect-speckled water, was surrounded by mesh fencing, with a squat concrete blockhouse at one end, locked and, Sam thought, of no great interest to the ambushers. There were dozens of other, more suitable places. And the location couldn’t be better, easy to find and yet secluded, with no chance of shots being heard. Perfect. Sam found an old tree stump to sit on, and called Jo Figatelli.

  There were a few details to finalize, and these were agreed upon over the course of the next few minutes. Jo and Flo would drive over from Calvi later that morning to familiarize themselves with the area around the reservoir, and they would call the Oblomovs to suggest a time for the ambush. Jo confirmed that they would bring what he described as “all the necessary equipment,” told Sam to remember to dust off his bulletproof vest, and said he’d call again in the afternoon, once he’d spoken to the Oblomovs.

  The phone was answered with a grunt. Which Oblomov was it? Jo took a chance. “Sasha, it’s Jo Figatelli, with some good news. I’ve just had a call from my niece in Speloncato. She heard Reboul talking to Madame Lombard, saying he’d like to take her dog out for a walk this evening. He asked her where to go, and she recommended the local reservoir, about a five-minute drive down from the village. It sounds good. We’re on our way to take a look at it now. I’ll call you back. Meanwhile, how does the timing sound to you? Is this evening OK?”

  “Yes,” said Oblomov. “Have you got the merchandise back?”

  “Later on this morning.”

  “Good,” said the Russian, and the line went dead.

  Jo looked over at his brother, who was driving. “Next time, you call him. Maybe he won’t be so long-winded with you.”

  They parked at the entrance to the path, and walked down toward the reservoir. “This is fine,” said Flo, “but we need to find somewhere to hide our car. Sam’s not going to walk all the way from the village with the dog. He’ll drive and park at the top of the path, and if our car is already there, the Oblomovs will think we’re giving the game away. There must be a place down here where the maintenance guys park when they come to the reservoir.”

  In fact, they were walking straight toward it—a space behind the blockhouse with a rudimentary parking area covered in cracked concrete that was fighting a losing battle against the weeds.

  “OK,” said Jo, “that’ll do. Now we need somewhere we can hide the Russians where Sam can find them.”

  They quickly saw that they were spoiled for choice. There were clearings between clumps of trees, there was waist-high maquis, there were even a few narrow tracks that had been made by hunters. The Figatellis explored one of these tracks leading off from the parking area and found that, after about three hundred yards, it came to a small clearing surrounded by plenty of cover. Couldn’t be better, they both agreed. On their way back, Jo came across a crumpled, discarded cigarette pack, which he placed at the entrance to the chosen track as a marker to help Sam set off in the right direction.

  All that remained to be done was to pick up the guns and call Sam to tell him about the cigarette pack. They might even have time for lunch before installing the Oblomovs in their hiding place.

  The afternoon was passing slowly for Sam. He had long conversations with Elena, Reboul, and Jo Figatelli, and was then pleased to be distracted by Laura, who insisted on giving him dog-walking lessons. These were endured rather than enjoyed by Alfred, who had been through them all before.

  “My advice,” said Laura, “is to keep him on the leash until you get a good way down the path. You don’t want him rushing off after a rabbit. It might help if you had a few of these. He’s addicted to them.” She gave Sam half a dozen bone-shaped dog biscuits, which he put in his pocket. The watchful Alfred immediately came over to him and started to nudge the bulging pocket with his nose. “Now that he knows you’ve got them he won’t let you out of his sight. Such a greedy boy.”

  Finally, it was time. Sam put on the bulletproof vest, then his shirt, his hat, and his sunglasses. Laura walked him out to the car, saw Alfred installed on the passenger seat, and leaned through the window to kiss Sam’s cheek. “Good luck, dear boy. I’ll have the Champagne on ice when you get back.”