“When?”

  Bennett stood up, and looked at Shimo. “Well?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  Susie put her glass down on the table and reached for her cigarettes. “That’s brilliant,” she said. “Welcome to bloody Monaco.”

  ——

  The drive to Nice airport was, for the most part, silent. Shimo sat in the back and ignored Bennett’s questions until he gave up. Gérard confined his remarks to occasional muttered streams of profanity directed at any car that wouldn’t get out of his way fast enough. Bennett assumed they were going back to see Poe, and felt the hollow chill of a criminal on his way to be sentenced. What lousy luck. Fate, cudgel in hand, had slugged him just when everything was looking rosy. It was with a sense of foreboding that he climbed into the helicopter and buckled up for the flight to Poe’s estate and, he felt sure, summary dismissal.

  Or maybe worse, he thought, as they headed northwest, away from the brightly lit coastal strip and over the black emptiness of the backcountry. Poe was clearly a powerful man, and some of his employees—certainly the two who were flying with him—were the most sinister executives Bennett had met since he’d had to deal with film union officials and their leg-breakers in Paris.

  The helicopter tilted abruptly, and he instinctively grabbed the back of the pilot’s seat. Shimo smiled. “Nervous flier, Mr. Bennett?”

  Bennett wiped his palms on his trousers. “I should watch out if I were you. I get terribly airsick. Buckets of it, all over the place.”

  Shimo grimaced, and moved as far away as he could. For Bennett, it was the only pleasing moment of the trip.

  ——

  They hovered above the floodlit landing pad, cypresses bowing in the downdraft as the helicopter eased its way to the ground and settled as delicately as a bird on its egg. Ducking through the turbulent air beneath the rotor blades, Shimo and Bennett made their way through the garden toward the back of the house and across the terrace. The plate-glass window slid aside. Poe was standing in front of the fireplace, remote control in one hand, an unlit cigar in the other.

  Bennett heard the window close behind him, nodded at Poe, and followed the pointing cigar to a chair. Shimo sat off to one side, alert and watchful.

  “Well, Mr. Bennett, this is a bugger’s muddle, isn’t it?” Poe fussed over the lighting of his cigar with a long wooden spill, puffing deliberately until he was satisfied with the uniform dark-red glow of the tip. “I’m not pleased. You haven’t exactly distinguished yourself.”

  Bennett took a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry, I really am, but as I said earlier—”

  Poe held up one hand. “Spare me the excuses. Shimo told me what you told him. What I want to know is this: Are you completely sure that you weren’t seen by the men who took the case?” He peered intently at Bennett, eyes narrowed behind the gray-blue smoke.

  “Positive. They’d been gone at least ten minutes by the time I got back.”

  “Positive. That is some small consolation, I suppose.” Poe sat down and crossed his legs, the light reflecting from the mirror-polished toe cap of his shoe. “Well, now. If that’s the case, you will no doubt be relieved to hear that your employment will continue for the time being, but under slightly different circumstances. Does that please you?”

  “I think so. Well, yes, of course. That would be great.”

  “Excellent.” For the first time since Bennett had arrived, Poe smiled. “I find people perform so much better when their hearts are in their work. It’s almost as powerful a motivating force as money. Although, in the end, there’s nothing like fear.” He smiled again, and drew on his cigar. “But I’m forgetting my manners. Do help yourself to a drink, and then we have one or two things to go over.”

  Bennett half filled a large tumbler with Scotch. It could have been worse, he thought. At least he hadn’t been thrown out of the helicopter, and Poe didn’t seem dangerously angry. It was too early for relief, perhaps, but he felt something close to it—a moment of whisky-induced hope—as the first swallow went down. He leaned forward, and Poe began to speak.

  “I think I might have mentioned to you that one of my minor interests is the truffle, not simply because of its taste but also because of the mystique that surrounds it—the secrecy, the unpredictability of the market, the outrageous prices, the trickery and dishonesty.” Poe spoke the words with gusto, as though they tasted good. “And, above all, the fact that truffles have resisted all efforts so far to grow to man’s bidding. They cannot be cultivated with any guarantee of success. Believe me, the French have been trying for years—and not just the farmers, but the government, too.”

  Poe paused while Shimo got him a drink, and Bennett remembered the notes he had read in Monaco. The man was certainly interested in truffles, but it was hard to imagine him as Farmer Poe, with dirty fingernails and mud all over his shiny shoes, scratching a living from the earth. He smiled at the thought.

  “Something amuses you, Mr. Bennett?”

  “Oh, it’s just that I can’t see you wandering through the woods with a pig and a stick—you know, truffling.”

  Poe raised his eyebrows. “What a hideous thought. Now, I suggest you contain your hilarity for a few minutes and listen carefully.” He gazed up at the ceiling, and his voice took on a measured, professorial tone. “Some years ago, the work of a rather extraordinary man came to my attention. A boffin, an agricultural researcher of great vision and ability—but, as exceptionally clever men tend to be, somewhat arrogant, and not what our sporting friends would call a team player. Eventually, he fell out with the high-and-mighties of the French Ministry of Agriculture, and when I met him he was unemployed, broke, and resentful. He felt that his research had been ignored by jealous men of lesser intellect. Not uncommon, as I’m sure you know.”

  Poe blew a smoke ring, and watched the gray halo shiver and curl in the air. “It was then my interest in truffles changed from that of the gourmet to that of the businessman. Because, Mr. Bennett, our little boffin claimed that he was close to developing a formula, a serum, that would guarantee the consistent growth of Tuber melanosporum—given the right trees and climate and soil conditions, obviously, but they’re not difficult to find. There are hundreds of thousands of hectares in France that are suitable.”

  Bennett, feeling like a backward student, held up his hand. “What did you call it—Tuber …?”

  “Melanosporum. The black truffle. It’s also known, quite inaccurately, as the Perigord truffle. Here in Provence, it’s called the rabasse. It grows at random—up till now, at any rate—on the roots of hazelnut or oak trees. It’s said to be heterotrophic.”

  “Really?” said Bennett, nodding vigorously in incomprehension.

  “Closer to the animal than the vegetable. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely.” Bennett doubted that his Scotch would last as long as the lecture, and wondered what all this could possibly have to do with his revised terms of employment. But Poe seemed to have mellowed in his role of instructor, and Bennett sensed that trying to rush him might be a mistake.

  “I won’t burden you with too many details, but to apréciate the genius of my boffin, you should know that the birth of a truffle is a very haphazard process. A question of spores.”

  “Ah,” said Bennett, “spores.”

  “From a rotting truffle. During the period of putrefaction, a spore can be transported—by insects, birds, wind, whatever—from one spot to another. If it should find a hospitable tree, such as the pubescent oak, it will attach itself and feed off the root. And if conditions are right, it will grow.”

  “Remarkable,” said Bennett.

  “Indeed. But not predictable. As any farmer will tell you, Mother Nature makes an unreliable partner.” Poe examined the long, wrinkled cylinder of ash that had grown on the end of his cigar, and flicked it into the fireplace. “And that has been the problem. People have tried, God knows. There was the Somycel plan, the Signoret plan, the INRA plan—all schemes to make truffles grow to order. None of them worked. But where the French government has failed, Mr. Bennett, my boffin succeeded—with some considerable assistance from me, I might add. I set him up. Bought a patch of land in the Drôme, built him a laboratory, gave him time—years of time—gave him money. Also, I gave him what he really wanted. Recognition.” Poe nodded. “I believed in him. And he didn’t fail me.”

  What a charitable soul you are, thought Bennett. And I bet you want nothing in return. “Well, congratulations. It was quite a gamble, wasn’t it?”

  “And it paid off. Two years ago, the oaks on my land in the Drôme were treated with serum injected into the roots. The first season, we had a success rate of seventy percent. The second season was over ninety percent. Imagine, Mr. Bennett, being able to produce tons—year in, year out—of a commodity that sells for anything between three and eight thousand francs a kilo. We’re talking about very substantial amounts of money. Millions.” Poe tapped the side of his nose, echoing the gesture of the sly French peasant. “And of course, because of the nature of the business, a great deal of that would be in cash.”

  There was a moment of silence while Poe sipped his whisky. He put his glass down and leaned forward. “And now for the bad news.” His voice changed, as though it had been sharpened. The edge was audible, and Bennett felt a strong desire to be somewhere else.

  “The case,” said Poe, “the little case that was so generously handed over by your friend, contains everything—vials of the serum, the formula for manufacturing more, field notes, production records, application instructions, everything. Whoever has that case can control the truffle market. Now do you understand its importance?”

  Bennett’s mouth felt suddenly dry. “Yes, but surely your man—you know, the boffin—I mean, he could make some more serum, couldn’t he?”

  “I’m afraid he’s no longer with us. Apparently, the brakes failed on his car. A great loss to agriculture.” Poe seemed unmoved by this tragedy.

  Bennett finished his whisky in one long, nervous gulp.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  Poe nodded.

  “If the case was so important, why was it delivered to Monaco? Why not here?”

  “It’s impossible to develop a long-term project like this in total secrecy. Rumor, speculation, bar talk, village gossip—one way or another, word gets out. We have obviously been as discreet as possible, but I know that in the past few months several interested parties have had their people out all over Provence, looking for the laboratory.” Poe held up a hand, counting off on his fingers. “The Corsicans, the Japanese, a syndicate based in California, and, of course, the Italians. Some are conventional businessmen, and some aren’t. Or perhaps I should say that their business practices aren’t conventional.”

  Bennett couldn’t help but wonder if tampering with car brakes was one of them. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, bribery, physical persuasion—primitive stuff, really, but it’s been known to be effective on a certain type of person.”

  Me for one, Bennett thought. “So that’s why you wanted me in Monaco, was it? In case things turned nasty. Thanks a lot.”

  Poe shook his head. “Give me more credit than that, Mr. Bennett. You were a convenience, not a target. You see, the Italians know where I am. Maybe the others do, too. In any case, this property is being watched. And so I thought it prudent to have the case delivered to Monaco.” He looked at Bennett under raised eyebrows. “It seems I was wrong.”

  Bennett smiled, and shrugged. “Well, don’t let it get you down. We can all make mistakes.”

  “And they all have to be paid for. Which brings me back to you.” Poe held his empty glass toward Bennett. “Another drink?”

  There was silence while Bennett refilled the glasses and settled back in his chair. Poe examined the ceiling thoughtfully. When he resumed speaking, it was no longer the professor imparting knowledge: it was the general briefing his troops.

  “We know who has the case. A man called Enzo Tuzzi. Not one of nature’s gentlemen, but effective enough in his own crude fashion. He and I have had one or two disagreements in the past, which have ended badly for him, and possession of the case—my case—will give him great satisfaction. He has this juvenile urge for revenge.”

  “You’re a businessman. Isn’t there any way of—well, I don’t know—coming to some kind of arrangement?”

  “An arrangement?” Poe looked as though someone had spat in his whisky. His mouth set, and Bennett could see the twitch of muscles in his jaw. “My property has been stolen, my investment is at risk, and you talk to me about an arrangement? With that organ-grinder’s monkey?”

  “Sorry,” said Bennett. “Just a thought. Trying to be helpful.”

  Poe took a deep breath, and his composure returned. “And you will be helpful, Mr. Bennett, believe me. Now, one of Tuzzi’s many failings is that he can never resist quick money. It is my belief that he will want to sell the formula, and he’ll probably try to get the other groups to bid against each other. Whatever he decides to do, he will have to put the word out, and one of my people will hear about it. I expect to know within the next few days. He’s not a patient man. He won’t want to wait.”

  Bennett jumped as he heard the scratch of a striking match behind him. He’d forgotten Shimo was sitting in the shadows, watching. Creepy bastard.

  “What will happen is this.” Poe stood up, the glow of the reading lamp from below giving his face the appearance of a grim, shadow-etched mask. “Once I find out where and when the sale is to take place, I shall send my representative to the bidding …”

  “Damn good idea,” said Bennett. “Except that if he knows you’re bidding …”

  “He won’t. He’s never met you. His people never saw you.”

  “Me? You want me to bid?”

  “Not exactly, Mr. Bennett, no. I’ve already paid quite enough for the formula. I have no intention of paying again. I want you to find the case, and bring it back to me.”

  “Steal it?”

  “Recover it. You won’t find me ungenerous. There will be a bonus, which is rather more than you deserve under the circumstances. And then you can go back to Monaco and play with your little girls.”

  Bennett felt his stomach fighting a losing battle with the whisky and forced himself to swallow. “But I couldn’t do that. These people are crooks—they’re dangerous, you said so yourself. I’m not James bloody Bond.” He shook his head decisively. “No. I’m sorry, but no. I couldn’t do it.”

  “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

  “Supposing I refuse?”

  “That would be most unwise.” Poe looked at his watch. “Sleep on it, Mr. Bennett, and think about possible alternatives. They aren’t attractive. Shimo will show you to your room.”

  Bennett followed the Japanese to the end of a long corridor and into a large, comfortably furnished bedroom. The bedcover had been turned down, the curtains drawn. Fresh flowers, mineral water, and a selection of biographies and best-sellers, in English and French, was on the bedside tables. Through an open door, Bennett could see the marble floor of a bathroom. He felt trapped and angry and suddenly tired, and craved a hot bath. He remembered Susie, covered in foam in Monaco. He turned to Shimo. “I’d like to make a call. To my friend.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow.” Bennett shook his head wearily. “Do the regulations say I can have a bath?”

  Shimo looked at him as though he hadn’t heard. “Don’t attempt to get out through the window. The alarm will go off, and it would upset Mr. Poe’s Dobermans.”

  Bennett nodded. Meeting an upset Doberman in the dark: the end of a perfect day.

  Shimo closed the door behind him, and Bennett heard the key turn in the lock. He started to undress. What a cock-up. What an almighty, god-awful, frightful cock-up.

  8

  BENNETT settled uneasily into his confinement. Meals were brought to him in his room. He was forbidden to leave the house, except for a brief stroll each night after dark, in the company of the dog handler and the Dobermans. They slithered soundlessly through the trees, a shoal of four-legged sharks, their eyes blood red in the beam of the flashlight. Only once did Bennett attempt to pat one of them; he had the sense to stop halfway when he saw the lips curl back and the ears go flat. The handler watched with amusement and seemed disappointed when Bennett withdrew his hand.

  The helicopter was flying in and out three or four times a day, the edge of the landing pad just visible from Bennett’s bedroom. One of the early-morning departures was Chou-Chou, escorted by Poe and two men carrying large quantities of Vuitton luggage. There was a fond leave-taking, Poe waiting and waving until the helicopter had lifted off. Bennett wondered where he was sending her, and why. To stock up on this year’s jewelry in Paris? Or to keep out of harm’s way in case of trouble on the property? The population of men in black suits had increased. Unless he was locked in his room, Bennett was constantly under someone’s eye. There was tension in the air, and the Domaine des Rochers was beginning to feel like a fortress.

  A beautiful fortress, Bennett had to admit, made even lovelier by the weather, which he had plenty of time to appreciate from his bedroom. Summer had come early, but the sun hadn’t yet baked the countryside brown. The forested patches on the hills looked as though they had been freshly painted a vivid, shining green, and the clarity of light added a sharp edge of focus to the contours of the land. It was heaven on earth, Bennett thought, which made his situation even more depressing.

  He had called Monaco several times, under Shimo’s cold, attentive stare, to speak to Susie. All he heard was his own voice on the answering machine, promising to call back. He told himself she had got tired of waiting and returned to London, probably incandescent with fury. So much for a romantic week in the sun. So much for his new, improved life.

  ——

  The maid knocked on his door, delivering his only set of clothes, laundered and pressed daily, one of the small comforts of being held prisoner by a fastidious millionaire. He took off his bathrobe and dressed, preparing himself for another restless day of trying to read, watching the weather go by, and fretting about the future. He picked up Robb’s biography of Balzac and hoped that he could escape for the day to the nineteenth century.