Amitiés,

  H

  Reboul poured himself a fortifying shot of Scotch and turned to the other two pages, which were typewritten.

  VRONSKY, Oleg. Born St. Petersburg January 4, 1970. No record of any formal education.

  From 1989 until 1992, he served in the army, first as a private, later as a sergeant commanding a tank squadron. On returning to civilian life, he and an ex-army friend, Vladimir Pugachev, used their military connections to set up as arms dealers, first in the Balkans and later, as their business flourished, in West Africa. Business continued to grow, but Pugachev met his death in unexplained circumstances while on a sales trip to Ouagadougou, with his share of the company passing to Vronsky. Rumors of foul play were vigorously denied.

  Vronsky continued to prosper. After selling his African business to the up-and-coming dictator Marlon Batumbe, he returned to Russia and founded PRN (Prirodni Resursi Neogranichenyi—in Russian it stands for Natural Resources Unlimited), a company formed to exploit mineral deposits found in the southern Urals. Several profitable years followed, and Vronsky was able to engineer a deal with a bigger company owned by Sergei Popov. The merger was less than two years old when Popov met his death in unexplained circumstances while attending a bauxite seminar in Magnitogorsk, with his share of the company passing to Vronsky. Rumors of foul play were vigorously denied.

  Increasingly rich, well-connected, and powerful, Vronsky spread and diversified his empire, with exploitation businesses in the Arctic and the Amazon basin. There was also an apartment building on New York’s Park Avenue, bought in conjunction with Jack Levy, a Manhattan real estate developer. It was widely agreed that Levy’s suicide—he jumped off a thirty-eighth-floor terrace—was a considerable loss to the community. However, it was a substantial gain for Vronsky, who took over Levy’s share of the building.

  Vronsky seems to have no permanent address, preferring to use his yacht, The Caspian Queen, as his headquarters. He stays in hotels when he travels. Details of his personal life are somewhat limited, but one or two have emerged. Although he has been seen with a variety of beautiful women, his only marriage ended in divorce, and he has no children. His hobbies include bear hunting, chess, and ballroom dancing.

  “You’re looking very thoughtful, Francis.” Sam had stopped in the doorway of the living room. “Nothing wrong, I hope?”

  “No, no. I’ve just been finding out about that Russian. Get yourself a drink and read this.” He passed the documents to Sam, who poured a glass of wine and made himself comfortable on the sofa.

  “That’s quite a C.V.,” Sam said a few minutes later. “Not a guy to go into business with, is he? When he lays someone off he means it.” Sam shook his head. “Losing three partners? I wonder how come he’s never been nailed. Or at least reprimanded for carelessness.”

  “Don’t forget he lost them at three different times in three different countries. Can you imagine the police in Africa, Russia, and America getting together?” Reboul gathered up the papers and put them away in a drawer. “Enough of him. Where is the lovely Elena?”

  “Trying to improve upon perfection.” Sam shrugged. “I’ve noticed that when she’s here in France, she takes twice as long as usual to make up and get ready. Three times as long when she’s in Paris, where she says the level of competition is that much higher.”

  Reboul smiled. “The ladies. How dull life would be without them. Do you know where you’re going tonight?”

  “One of Philippe and Mimi’s friends, Yves, is a great cook. He and his wife, Ginette, have just been awarded a Michelin star, so we’re going to their restaurant to celebrate. How about you?”

  Reboul grimaced and shook his head. “A romantic evening with my accountant, going through figures. Next month we have to file returns for the wealth tax—something you Americans have very wisely chosen to avoid. It seems to get more complicated every year.” His face brightened as he looked toward the door. “Ah, here she is—La Bomba. Ravishing, my dear, ravishing.”

  Elena performed an abbreviated curtsey. “Thank you, kind sir.” She was indeed looking ravishing, in a vanilla silk dress that showed off her dark hair and glowing Corsican tan. Sam had to admit that the wait had been worth it.

  In the taxi going to the restaurant he told Elena what he’d just learned about Vronsky. She could hardly believe it. “Do you think he seriously expects Francis to sell Le Pharo?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Sam. “But a guy with that much power and money isn’t used to taking no for an answer. He thinks he can get away with anything, because that’s the way it’s been for years. And he has a pretty scary track record. I think we’re going to have to keep a close eye on him.”

  Chapter Six

  It was gala night at Le Palais du Pharo. Six months previously, Reboul had allowed his good nature to get the better of him and had agreed to act as host for a dinner in aid of a local charity, Les Amis de Marseille. The charity had been sponsored by a committee of local businessmen, whose aim was not entirely without self-interest; charity, after all, begins at home. But the cause was worthy and locally very appealing: to promote Marseille as a coastal destination with events to rival Cannes with its film festival, Nice with its flower festival, and Monaco with its tennis and its Grand Prix.

  What could Marseille offer that those other destinations didn’t? Yacht racing, music and theater festivals, a floating casino, world championship boules, and a competitive water-skiing tournament were all under consideration as possible attractions. But ambitious schemes of this kind take money to set up, and the evening at Le Palais du Pharo, with dinner at a thousand euros a head, was to get the ball rolling and to pass the collection plate.

  Reboul had done Les Amis proud. The vast back terrace of Le Pharo had been turned into something between a small forest and a giant bower. There were olive trees, lemon trees, and clumps of black-stemmed bamboo, all in huge terra-cotta pots, and all decorated with garlands of tiny lights. Placed among the trees were twenty six-seater tables, each with its thick linen cloth and napkins of true Marseille blue, its candlelit lanterns, and its centerpiece of white roses. A small band, installed on a dais in one corner, was playing old French favorites—“La Mer,” “La Vie en rose,” the theme from Un Homme et une femme. Even nature had made a contribution: the air was soft and still, the sky an expanse of black velvet pricked by stars. It was, as one of the early guests said, un décor magique.

  The host and his team were having a glass of Champagne to help them prepare for the evening’s events. Elena was in what she called ceremonial black, although she declined to say exactly what kind of ceremony she had in mind. Sam had plenty of ideas, but was told to keep them to himself. The newly engaged Mimi and Philippe held hands while they drank their Champagne, and Reboul and Sam were resplendent in their white dinner jackets.

  “Well,” asked Sam, “have you worked out your speech?”

  Reboul winced. “I agree with the man who said that the rules for making a good speech were simple: stand up, speak up, and shut up. So I shall keep it short and sweet.” His eye was caught by a figure coming through the crowd. “Ah, there she is—my social mentor.”

  Marie-Ange Picard was a specialist organizer of events of this kind. A slim, blonde woman in her thirties, she too was squeezed into a little black dress, this one cut to display a generous décolleté with her official plastic name card strategically placed where it would receive maximum attention. Introductions were made by Reboul, and for a moment or two Elena and Marie-Ange looked each other over like two boxers preparing to go into the ring. “What a darling little dress,” said Marie-Ange. Elena inclined her head and smiled. Not as little as yours, she thought. Maybe next time you should go for something that fits.

  Marie-Ange turned her attention to Reboul, inching closer to him with every question. “Alors, Monsieur Francis. Have you got everything you need? The notes for your speech? Are you happy with the seating arrangements at your table? Would you like to go over the guest list again—there have been one or two late additions.” By this time, Marie-Ange’s bosom was almost pressed against Reboul’s chest.

  He took a step backward, escaping the fog of perfume, and looked around the crowded terrace. “Have all the tables been taken?”

  “The last two or three went yesterday,” said Marie-Ange. “One of them went to a Russian gentleman. He bought all six seats.”

  Reboul frowned. How many Russian gentlemen prepared to spend six thousand euros on dinner were there in Marseille? “Who is this man?”

  Marie-Ange consulted her guest list. “A Monsieur Vronsky,” she said. “Perhaps you know him?”

  Reboul shook his head. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  Marie-Ange led Reboul over to the dais. The band ended Piaf’s old classic, “Non, je ne regrette rien,” with a flourish, and Marie-Ange took over the microphone.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, friends of Marseille—a warm welcome to you all. I can promise you an evening you will never forget.” She glanced down at her notes. “After dinner—and what a dinner”—she paused to kiss her fingertips—“there will be an auction, an auction de luxe, to tempt you into extravagance. But extravagance in a most worthy cause. First, we have a weekend for two at Le Petit Nice, with its three Michelin stars, its magnificent sea views, and its legendary bouillabaisse.” Another pause for fingertip kissing. “Six bottles, selected from our host’s personal cellar, of Lafite Rothschild 1982, one of the great vintages of this magical wine. Next, for all you football fans—four tickets to the Club des Loges for all of next season’s Olympique de Marseille home matches. Finally, a rare opportunity to acquire a truly extraordinary car: the vintage Bentley R-Type, bought by King Farouk to celebrate his becoming an official resident of Monaco in 1959.”

  Marie-Ange turned to Reboul. “And now,” she said, with the air of a conjurer about to produce a particularly handsome white rabbit from her hat, “I would like to ask our most generous host for the evening, Francis Reboul, to say a few words—a very few, he has asked me to tell you—to welcome you.” After leading the applause, she passed the microphone to the next, somewhat reluctant, speaker.

  In his brief but charming remarks, Reboul thanked his audience for their support and emphasized that this evening was just a start—the first step on a journey that he hoped would end with a spectacular addition to the delights of his beloved Marseille. “But I’m sure you’re all hungry,” he said, looking toward the summer kitchen, “and I can see my friend Alphonse the chef tapping his watch. In my experience, he is not a man to be kept waiting. Allons, mes amis! À la bouffe!”

  There were well over a hundred people settling themselves at their tables, and Reboul knew most of them personally: a wide selection of local businessmen and their wives; Hervé, the chief of police; luminaries from the chamber of commerce; Gaston, the fixer; Madame Spinelli of the Women’s League of Marseille and Bruno, her considerably younger partner; the executive committee of the Olympique de Marseille football club; and a sprinkling of socialites, comparing tans and jewelry. In other words, there was everyone who counted in the social hierarchy of Marseille.

  And some who didn’t—not yet, anyway. At a prominent table, already making short work of a magnum of Dom Pérignon, was a group that Marie-Ange described, in a whispered aside to Reboul, as “the Russian contingent.” There was Vronsky, in a plum-colored velvet smoking jacket, with Natasha on one side and Katya on the other; the Vicomte de Pertuis and Madame la Vicomtesse, a fashionably anorexic woman brandishing her cigarette holder with dangerous abandon; and, lolling back in his chair with the light glinting on his sunglasses, a rather glamorous young man with implausibly ash-blond hair, dressed from head to toe in black leather.

  Reboul was making his way back to his table after greeting some friends when he heard his name called. He turned, and found himself looking into the chilly blue eyes of Oleg Vronsky.

  “Ah, Monsieur Reboul. I am Vronsky.”

  For once, Reboul’s habitual good manners deserted him. “I know,” he said, and turned away.

  Vronsky caught up with him and took hold of his arm. “We should talk,” he said. “It could be very interesting for you.”

  “I doubt it,” Reboul said, brushing away Vronsky’s hand and returning to his table, leaving the Russian standing alone, the object of some curiosity to those at nearby tables. He recovered, pushing a waiter aside to get back to his seat.

  He was scowling as he sat down. “Arrogant French shit,” he said to the Vicomte. “Who does he think he is?”

  At Reboul’s table, a very similar comment was made, although the nationality of the arrogant shit had changed.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Sam. “I hope he apologized for invading your house?”

  Reboul shook his head. “It wasn’t a long conversation.” He turned to Elena, who was sitting next to him. “I’m sorry, my dear. Forgive me. Let’s not spoil the evening.”

  Chapter Seven

  As Reboul explained to Elena, the dinner menu he had worked out with his chef, Alphonse, was a completely Provençal affair. “We start,” he said, “with melons from Cavaillon, a town that supplies the finest melons in France. They are so good that Alexandre Dumas had a ‘books for melons’ deal with Cavaillon back in the nineteenth century. In fact, the town archives still have a selection of books that Dumas sent in exchange for his dozen melons a year.” He stopped to take a sip of Champagne, and realized that the others at the table had stopped talking to listen. “And the juiciest, tastiest melons, the ones we’re having tonight, are the melons de dix, with ten ribs that cut into ten perfect slices.”

  Elena looked across the table. “Sam, I hope you’re taking notes. You’re in charge of the kitchen when we get a place here. OK, Francis, what’s next?”

  “Daube Avignonnaise, a summer stew, lamb marinated in white wine, and so a little lighter than the red-wine beef daubes of winter. It’s served with pasta and a white Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Then cheeses, from our good friends the local goats, and to finish, a favorite of mine—strawberries from Carpentras, with a sauce invented by Alphonse, or so he says. It’s a mixture of cream and yogurt, with a touch of balsamic vinegar. Voilà—that should put everyone in a good mood for the auction.”

  Over the melons, which were indeed perfumed and juicy, Philippe, who had just spent two days reporting from Cannes, answered the usual questions about the film festival. Which stars did he meet? Did he actually see any films? Is this year’s favorite leading man the tall heartthrob he appears to be on-screen, or is he, as one unkind columnist put it, “a dwarf with acne”?

  Finally, when Reboul asked Philippe if he had taken away an overall impression of his two days, the latter nodded. “Judging by what I saw, face-to-face conversation is finished,” he said. “All I saw, everywhere, were groups of people who were together but not talking to each other, not even looking at each other. They were all staring at their cell phones. The only real conversations I had were with the barman at the Martinez.”

  This gloomy assessment was interrupted by the summer daube, which was generally agreed to be a triumph: light, tender, and tasty. “Elena, are you taking notes?” Sam was wiping the last traces of sauce from his plate with a piece of bread as he asked the question.

  “I just told you—you’re going to be in charge of the kitchen.”

  “I only do melons,” said Sam. “After that, I delegate.”

  Elena rolled her eyes, as Sam knew she would, and the conversation turned to house-hunting, and the absolute necessity of a large wine cellar and a soundproof guest room. With the arrival of the strawberries, the irritating behavior of Oleg Vronsky came up. Sam was of the opinion that he was a real estate stalker, and should be officially warned by the police to stop making a pest of himself. Reboul was more philosophical. “Although,” he said, “if he bothers me again I shall have to do something about it.”

  But what? Before they had a chance to explore the possibilities, Marie-Ange had once more taken to the dais, her appearance marked by a drumroll and a discreet adjustment of her bosom. It was time for the auction.

  First, there was the weekend for two on offer at Le Petit Nice, known throughout France, as Marie-Ange reminded her audience, for its superb position overlooking the sea, for its stylish and comfortable rooms, and most of all for its three-star cuisine. Quite carried away by enthusiasm, she went into raptures about the joys of eating on the terrace, the legendary bouillabaisse, the sublime olive oil (a special supply for the hotel)—and then, with yet another kiss of her wilting fingertips, she opened the bidding.

  It started at a very modest 500 euros before quickly going up to 2,000, then 2,500. “You must try harder,” said Marie-Ange. “This is not merely a fabulous, fabulous weekend—it’s an investment in the future of your city.” After a late flurry of bids, the weekend was finally sold for 5,000 euros. The buyer was a prominent local businessman well-known for his roving eye, and Reboul had to suppress the desire to ask him if he planned to take his wife or his mistress with him on the weekend.

  Onward went the auction and upward went the bids—the six bottles of Château Lafite going for 20,000 euros, while the VVIP tickets for the O.M. matches, after more persuasion from the dais, went for 50,000. Marie-Ange was pleased, but she was not finished. Taking a restorative sip of Champagne, she moved on to the main item of the auction, the vintage Bentley. This had been parked for the occasion in front of the house, where it had attracted considerable attention from the guests as they arrived. It was a magnificent machine—pearl gray, with leopard-skin upholstery, and a speaking trumpet with a solid gold mouthpiece for passing instructions from the rear seat to the chauffeur. As Marie-Ange said, in a not-too-subtle reminder of the identity of the previous owner, a car fit for a king.