The Diamond Caper Read Free

over.”
    —
    The evening sun was just starting its slide into the Mediterranean when Elena and Reboul left the
autoroute
and headed for the hills, making their way through the tangle of suburban roads behind Cannes. Elena was looking at the gas stations and nondescript storefronts and billboards advertising Orangina and the local supermarket. “Seems like an awful long way from the Cannes Film Festival,” she said. Reboul smiled and nodded. “It gets better.”
    They turned off the main road, passed under a stone bridge, and were now on a narrower road that climbed up into the hills, finally coming to a small gatehouse next to a barred entrance. A uniformed guard came out to the car, checked their names against his clipboard, saluted, and waved them through. “There are a dozen houses on the estate,” said Reboul. “Each of them set on about ten acres of land, and all of them with a fantastic view. You’ll see.”
    In fact, the view was what Van Buren had bought. It was a long, curving panorama that extended along the coastline from Cannes in the east toward Saint-Tropez in the west. The house had been less impressive—a squat pink concrete barracks, devoid of charm or architectural interest. But that was before Coco Dumas got her hands on it.
    The transformation was astonishing. Two wings had been added, and the roofline lowered. Windows had been enlarged, and the complexion of the building had been changed from pink to the color of faded limestone that looked as though it had weathered two hundred years of sunshine. The interior, originally a clutter of poky dark rooms, had been gutted and replaced by space and light. All this had taken nearly two years and had cost several million euros, but Van Buren was delighted with it, and it was one more elegant feather in Coco Dumas’s cap.
    Even before their car had reached the end of the pale gravel drive, it was obvious that this was no ordinary house. It glistened in the dusk, the courtyard lit by flaming torches, while white-coated figures moved among the groups of guests, making sure that nobody went thirsty.
    Elena and Reboul paused at the entrance to the courtyard to watch the last glow left by the sunset over the Mediterranean, and the glitter of lights along the Croisette, the boulevard that follows the coastline of Cannes for two kilometers. A magical sight.
    “And you thought you had the best view in France. You have to admit this ain’t bad.” It was their host Tommy Van Buren, burly and smiling, the deep tan of his face set off by hair that was almost as white as his dinner jacket. He hugged Reboul and kissed Elena’s hand before taking them into the courtyard, where a waiter met them with two glasses of Champagne. But before they had much of a chance to talk, another couple arrived and Van Buren excused himself.
    Elena started to take a look, as discreetly as she could, at the women among the other guests. They were an attractive bunch, she thought, smart without being overdressed, and she was about to suggest to Reboul that they join one of the groups when she became aware that she was being watched.
    “I get the feeling someone is checking us out,” she said. “Over there by the fountain—the woman in the black silk suit.”
    Reboul looked across the courtyard. “Ah,” he said. “That’s her. Coco.” He sighed, and squared his shoulders. “Do you mind if we get this over with?”
    As they were crossing the courtyard, Coco moved away from the group she was chatting with and aimed a wide (and, Elena thought, transparently fake) smile at them. She was in her midforties, with a slender body that had obviously spent many hours in the gym, glossy black hair, and lightly tanned skin. But what made her face memorable were the eyes. They were turquoise. The overall effect, Elena had to admit, was stunning.
    “So. Francis. How nice.” Coco tilted her head to receive the obligatory cheek-kissing. “Tommy told me you might come. Now, you must