Bennett paused, and they watched a display of dexterity that would have done credit to a surgeon as the waiter filleted their fish with nothing but a deft spoon and fork. For a while, they concentrated on their food, glancing at each other occasionally, Bennett solicitous with the wine, Anna finding herself more and more relaxed.

  They finished eating and leaned back. Anna watched Bennett looking down at his bib. “I have this cleaning lady in Saint-Martin,” he said. “She loves telling me the English can’t eat without spraying their food all over the place. Now she’s got me believing it.”

  “Do you always believe what women tell you?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve been putty in a woman’s hands ever since I had a crush on the head matron at boarding school.” He smiled. “I remember one day we were all making our beds in the dormitory, and matron was inspecting them. ‘Bennett,’ she said, ‘if you don’t start making your bed properly, you and I are going to fall out.’ Then she realized what she’d said, and blushed. I was mad about her for a whole term.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Thirteen. Then she broke my heart and ran away with the music teacher. Never got over it. To this day, I pine. Shall we have some wild strawberries? They’re wonderful with crème fraîche.”

  The strawberries came and were wonderful. Bennett ordered a Havana with the coffee. They talked on, both avoiding the immediate future, content to float on the pleasures of the moment. The meal had stretched over two and a half hours, and seemed to have passed in minutes. It took another discreet cough from the waiter to bring them back to earth.

  Bennett covered the bill with five-hundred-franc notes and looked around the restaurant, now almost empty. In the soft light of the diffused afternoon sun, Anna seemed to glow, her bare arms silken and brown, her face faintly flushed by wine, light dancing in her eyes. Bennett leaned toward her. “We could always stay for dinner.”

  “That’s what I like about you—all play and no work.” She reached over and brushed cigar ash from his lapel.

  “But it would be nice to come back.”

  ——

  When they arrived in Cannes, Tuzzi’s taxi service was waiting for them at the port—two bulky men in white, with Ragazza di Napoli on the T-shirts that were strained across broad expanses of chest. Anna, Bennett, and their bags were settled in the back of a gleaming Riva. With a watery burble from the exhaust and some theatrical flourishes on the wheel that were not strictly necessary, they slipped through the other boats and headed for what looked like a small apartment building half a mile offshore.

  The Ragazza was, in fact, as close to Bennett’s kind of floating accommodation as any boat could be. It was monumentally ugly, but reassuringly big. Antennae, radar, and satellite dishes grew from the cabin roof on the top deck, giving it the appearance of an urban skyline. Canopies of white canvas shaded the acreage of deck fore and aft, and as they climbed the stern gangway, they were greeted by the sight of an oval swimming pool. It was an island rather than a boat, insulated as far as possible against any intrusion from the surrounding sea.

  A steward in starched dress whites showed them to adjoining cabins. Signor Tuzzi would be pleased to welcome them on the forward deck when they were ready. Did they require any assistance unpacking? Thinking of the fake case wrapped in a sweater, Bennett waved the steward away with a hundred-franc note before closing the door and taking stock of his cabin and the small bathroom. He noted with approval the presence of a real bed and the absence of any nautical horrors like pump-action lavatories. He could have been in a hotel room. The only hint of life at sea was a porthole, now open to catch the breeze. He stuck his head through and looked at the immense sweep of the hull, curving away forward.

  “Anna? Are you OK? Found your sea legs?”

  An arm appeared through her porthole, and a beckoning finger invited him next door. As Bennett came into the cabin, Anna put a hand over his mouth before he had a chance to speak, then went into her bathroom, returning with a lipstick and a sheet of Kleenex. He looked over her shoulder as she scribbled: Cabins may be bugged.

  Bennett looked around furtively and nodded. “Ah, there you are, Miss Hersh,” he said in what he hoped was a suitably businesslike voice. “Well, you’ve got to hand it to the Italians. Very comfortable quarters. If you’re ready, I think we should go and meet our host.”

  Anna winked, and gave him a signal with her upraised thumb. “Yes, Mr. Bennett. Will you be wanting me to take notes?”

  “No, I don’t think so. If you need your book, I can always send you back.”

  She smiled sweetly at him and signaled again, this time with an upraised finger.

  The group of men seated around a low table rose to greet Anna and Bennett as they reached the deck; one of them came forward, his arms spread wide. “Ah, Signor Bennett. Welcome to the Ragazza. I am Tuzzi.” His face, the color and cracked sheen of old leather, split into a smile, the whiteness of his teeth accentuated by a thick black mustache. Above it, he had a hooked, slightly crooked nose and disconcertingly pale eyes, somewhere between gray and green. What remained of his black hair was pulled back from the gleaming tanned dome of his skull and fastened in a ponytail. The more abundant hair on his chest frothed at the open neck of his white polo shirt. He pumped Bennett’s hand vigorously and then, with a dramatic intake of breath, closed his eyes and shook his head, as if to clear it. “Forgive me,” he said. “I am dead and in heaven. Who is this?”

  “My secretary, Miss Hersh,” said Bennett.

  “Signorina.” Tuzzi bent over Anna’s proffered hand and caressed it lightly with his mustache. “Non è vero. A secretary? A princess.”

  Anna smiled at him and struggled for repossession of her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Tuzzi.”

  “Enzo. For you, Enzo.” He clapped a hand to his forehead. “But I forget my polites. Permit me.”

  He took them through the introductions. There was an elderly, wizened Corsican, Monsieur Polluce from Calvi; the small, neat, and courteous Mr. Kasuga from Tokyo; a dark, middle-aged man in yachting clothes and gold jewelry, Anthony Penato from California—“a good Californian,” Tuzzi said. “He smoke, he drink, not like those goddamn health fruits.” And, finally, an Englishman with a sharp, intelligent face, an absentminded air, and steel-gray hair: Lord Glebe, Tuzzi’s business adviser. “And we mustn’t forget my little chap, Genghis,” Glebe said to Bennett, indicating a caramel-colored Pekingese lying on a large dish under the table. “Or perhaps, as I’m a peer of the realm, we should call him the Honorable Genghis. My little joke. Hmm?”

  “Ah,” said Bennett, “the god of frolic.” He crouched down obligingly to make himself known to Genghis. The dog opened one eye, studied Bennett, and emitted a disdainful snuffle. “Why is he on a plate?”

  “Because it’s cool, old boy,” said Lord Glebe. “Eighteenth-century Willow pattern. Goes with him everywhere. Your Pekingese suffers from heat, particularly round the vitals.”

  As the bowing and shaking of hands concluded, a burly young man came up to whisper in Tuzzi’s ear. “Sì, sì. Andiamo.” Tuzzi turned to the others. “Now we make a small cruising before dinner. Signorina? For you I am arranging a perfect sunset, but first you must allow me to show you my little boat. Come. We take a conductor’s tour.”

  To Bennett’s surprise, Anna seemed thrilled by the invitation, smiling prettily and taking Tuzzi’s furry arm. “I’ve always been fascinated by boats, Enzo. Is it true there’s a golden rivet somewhere in the engine room?” As they strolled aft, the deck gave a barely perceptible shudder, there was a muted hum from the turbines, and the Ragazza got under way.

  Lord Glebe motioned the others to sit down. “Now that we’re all here, gentlemen, perhaps I could go over some details with you. No doubt Mr. Tuzzi will have some comments also.” He peered at them over the top of his half-glasses. “Unfortunately, while he takes a brave aim at colloquial English, he frequently misfires, as you may have noticed, and I wouldn’t want there to be any little misunderstandings.”

  He lit a small cheroot before continuing. “The auction will be held tomorrow morning, once you’ve all had a chance to examine the contents of the case. They don’t make much sense to me, I must say, but I presume you chaps know what you’re looking at. What?”

  Bennett found himself nodding wisely with the others.

  “Excellent. Now, if you’ll forgive my bringing it up, I must touch on the subject of payment. We shall be putting into Marseille tomorrow as soon as business is completed. I’ve alerted my bank there to be on parade to receive a transfer of funds from whoever of you is the eventual purchaser. I assume that each of you has made arrangements with your banking people, and of course you can get in touch with them at any time from the boat. Chap up there”—he waved his cheroot in the direction of the bridge—“has all the communications technology. Not like sailing in my young day, but there we are. All clear so far?” Another owlish look from Glebe was met by more nods.

  “Very good. Now then. Once we’ve parked at Marseille, the purchaser and I will toddle over to my bank, verify that the transfer has been made, the case will change hands, and Bob’s your uncle.”

  Glebe noticed puzzled frowns from Polluce, Kasuga, and Penato. “Ah,” he said, “forgive me. Figure of speech. It means that everything is done. There is no actual Bob, you see.” He smiled. “Marvelously confusing language, English. No wonder they use it so much in the EEC. Well? Any questions?”

  Kasuga held up a finger. “We are definitely coming ashore at Marseille?” Glebe nodded. “So. I must contact my colleagues.”

  “Of course, old boy. I expect you’ll all want to have a chat to your people. You’ll find young Benito, or whatever he’s called, very helpful. Knows which buttons to push. So you can all feel free to call your secretaries, bodyguards, and dear ones at any time.” He smiled at Bennett. “You, of course, Mr. Bennett, won’t need to call, as you have your secretary with you—damned handsome gel, too. Officer’s comforts, eh?”

  “Well, nothing like that. But she is very efficient.”

  Glebe’s voice dropped. “I should keep an eye on her and our chum Enzo, if I were you. A prince in many ways, but he’s the closest thing I’ve ever seen to a stoat in rut. A fondler, if you take my meaning. Don’t know where he gets the energy from.” He leaned closer to Bennett. “Tell me something. I think I know most of the financial outfits in Europe, but Consolidated doesn’t ring a bell. Been established long, have you?”

  Bennett hadn’t thought about inventing a corporate history to go with his business cards, and for a moment he was caught with his cover down. He stalled by asking for a cheroot, and took his time lighting it. “Just between you and me, Lord Glebe, it’s a front.”

  “Ah,” said Glebe, “thought as much. Acting for Brunei, or someone like that, I suppose.”

  “Saudis, actually. But I’d prefer not to go into the details.”

  “Quite. Well, money’s money, wherever it comes from.” He looked at his watch, then turned to the others. “I hope you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. We’re going to take a turn around the deck. Cocktails at seven, dinner at eight.” He bent down to the sleeping Pekingese. “Woof, woof, old boy. Woof, woof.” Genghis rose sleepily from his dish, and the two of them sauntered off, trailing clouds of cheroot smoke.

  ——

  Tuzzi unlocked the double doors leading to his cabin and threw them open with a flourish. “And this,” he said, “is my poor little corner.” Anna took in the vast, canopied bed, the mirrored ceiling, the fireplace framed by two giant elephant tusks, the curtains of heavy, dark-red silk, the gilt-encrusted furniture, and, on a desk below the main porthole, looking very much out of place in surroundings that would have suited an expensive bordello, the aluminum attaché case.

  She stopped to look at a life-size nude statue clutching a breast in one hand and a lamp in the other. “What a charming room, Enzo.”

  He sighed, a gusty, melancholy sigh. “But so lonely. I have a little pisolino in the afternoon, I come to bed at night. Always I sleep with my pillows, with my memories. Is tragic.” He looked at Anna as though he were going to burst into tears, and took her hand. “No, life is not a bowl of cherry.”

  She patted his arm, and glanced at her watch with an exaggerated start of surprise. “My, Enzo, look at the time. I’d better go and change for dinner.”

  “Sì, sì. I take you.” His fingers slid to the small of her back, and were continuing downward as she moved to go through the door. He left her outside her cabin with another protracted bout of hand-kissing, and she sat on the bed feeling as though she’d been stroked from one end of the boat to the other.

  She heard a tap on the door. Jesus, she thought, he’s coming back for more. “Enzo, I’m going to take a shower.”

  “Anna, it’s me. Bennett. Can you come out? We need to talk.”

  They found an empty stretch of deck and leaned on the rail, watching the long, flat stripe of the wake stretching out behind the boat. Bennett spoke first, reporting what he’d heard about the auction arrangements, delighted at the thought of getting back on dry land and leaving the rest to Poe. “So how about you? Did Tuzzi behave himself? I saw him pawing the ground.”

  “That’s not all he pawed. I swear he’s got two pairs of hands. But I saw the case. It’s in his cabin.”

  Bennett’s eyebrows shot up. “You were in his cabin? Anna, you didn’t … I mean …”

  “Sure I did. It’s on his desk, next to his Venus de Milo paperweight.”

  “And it can bloody well stay there. Listen, it’s simple. All we have to do is go through the motions tonight and lose at the auction tomorrow. And that’s it. No heroics. You resigned from the army, remember? And you certainly don’t need to play hide-and-seek with that overweight Lothario. Glebe told me about him. Lecherous bastard.”

  “Most of it’s for show. He’s just one of those Italian guys who don’t wear underwear.”

  “What?” Bennett was stunned. “How do you know?”

  “It’s a type. Girls can tell.” She smiled at the look on his face, a mixture of shock and disapproval. “Bennett, you’re looking stern. It’ll give you wrinkles. Stop worrying. Come on—we’d better get changed. Don’t wait for me.”

  ——

  The entire afterdeck of the Ragazza was dressed for dinner, with a necklace of tiny lights strung along the edges of the canvas canopy. A round table set with silver, crystal, a centerpiece of fresh flowers, and tall glass hurricane lamps occupied the middle of the deck. To one side, a steward arranged ice buckets and champagne on a small bar. They had dropped anchor at an angle to the setting sun, and a path of red-gold light lapped against the hull of the boat. As Bennett came up to join the others, he found Tuzzi, draped in a pale-blue caftan, holding forth.

  “… and so I tell him. My friend, I say, if you think you can do this to Tuzzi, you are putting your head in a moose. Capisce?”

  Lord Glebe was offering a murmured interpretation to the bewildered audience when Tuzzi saw Bennett standing by the bar and walked over to join him. “Ah, Mr. Bennett. You have a drink? Bene.” He put an arm around Bennett’s shoulder and led him farther away from the others. “I ask a personal question, yes? Man to man.”

  Bennett buried his nose in his champagne glass to escape the force of Tuzzi’s overwhelming eau de cologne. “Of course. What is it?”

  “The bellissima Miss Hersh. Are you very close?”

  “Well, you know. Good working relationship. She’s a first-class secretary, speaks a couple of languages, reliable girl.”

  “No, no, I mean close.” Tuzzi hunched his shoulders and made a pumping gesture with his free hand, his eyebrows performing a semaphore of inquiry. The implication was clear.

  “Ah,” said Bennett, “you mean bonking.”

  “Sì, sì.” Tuzzi nodded vigorously. “Bonking.”

  Bennett smoothed his Old Etonian tie. “Good heavens, no. Strict rules in Consolidated against that sort of thing. Bad for morale. Takes your mind off your portfolio, and we can’t have that.”

  Tuzzi grinned, and nodded again. “Bene, bene. This makes me happy.” He patted Bennett on the shoulder. “You see, in Sicily, to like the woman of another man is pericoloso. Most dangerous. You are skating on thin eggs.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard Sicily’s a tricky place.” Bennett took a sip of champagne and tried to suppress a feeling of outrage at the thought of this hairy libertine mauling Anna. Outrage and, he had to admit—the idea of mauling her himself crossing his mind—a stab of jealousy. Thank God they’d be off the boat tomorrow. He’d better warn Anna to lock her cabin door.

  “Ah,” said Tuzzi, with a final pat on Bennett’s shoulder, “here is coming Miss Hersh now. Ai, ai, ai.” He shook his hand as though he’d singed his fingers. “What magnificence!”

  Bennett looked at Anna in dismay. She was wearing a skirt that seemed several inches shorter than Bennett remembered it being when they’d bought it in Nice, and a small halter top that left her stomach bare. Tuzzi, in a transport of concupiscence as he went across to greet her, used the pretext of kissing her hand to conduct a close and thorough investigation of the bosom that was so generously displayed. This is going to lead to trouble, Bennett thought. He took a glass of champagne across to Anna, and waited until Tuzzi was out of earshot.

  “You’re mad,” he whispered. “He’ll break the bloody door down to get at you.”

  She smiled, as though she’d just received a compliment. “You like the outfit? It’s business, Bennett. Remember?”

  Before Bennett could reply, Tuzzi called them to the table, placing Anna between himself and Lord Glebe. As they all sat down, a steward bearing Genghis on his plate knelt to place the dog carefully under his master’s chair. Glebe looked down, and tapped the steward on the shoulder. “Just a little of the foie gras, Piero,” he said, “and one of those bread sticks, broken up. And some flat water. That dreadful fizzy stuff gives him wind.”