The Marseille Caper Read Free Page A

tobacco—although God knows who would want to drinkpencil shavings—but I gave up when he started talking about wet dogs.” She looked at Reboul, her dark eyes wide with mock horror. “You don’t have wines that taste like wet dogs, do you?”
    Reboul shook his head and laughed. “I once heard a winemaker describe his wine as ‘Comme le petit Jésus en pantalon de velours’ —like Jesus in velvet trousers.” He shrugged. “Winemakers are great enthusiasts. One must forgive their little exaggerations, I think. They are trying to describe something that is often indescribable.”
    The cheese arrived—three different cheeses, in fact—with a generous dollop of fig jam, and Reboul returned to his proposal. “There is, as I said, a problem, and his name is Patrimonio. Jérôme Patrimonio. He is the chairman of the committee that will choose the winning project, and as chairman he has, of course, more than just the influence of his personal vote.” Reboul rearranged the cheeses on his plate while he tried to collect his thoughts. “Patrimonio hates me. He would do anything to stop me from winning. Anything.”
    Elena was the first to ask the obvious question. “Forgive me, but what did you do to him? Why does he hate you?”
    “Ah.” Reboul shook his head and sighed. “There was a woman.” He looked at Elena as if, between sophisticated adults, that should be sufficient explanation. “And such a woman, too.” The distant memory brought a half-smile to his face. “A long time ago, it’s true. But Patrimonio is Corsican.” Again, the significant look. “He is proud, like all Corsicans. And he has a very long memory, like all Corsicans.”
    “Let me get this straight,” said Sam. “You know that this guy, who hates your guts, is the chairman of the committee. And yet you still think you have a chance?”
    “You must let me finish, Sam. Patrimonio doesn’t know I’m involved. My name does not appear on any of the bid documents, and I was careful not to involve any French companies that could be easily checked. My proposal was officially put forward by Langer & Troost, a very old and discreet Swiss private bank, and Van Buren Partners, a firm of American architects owned by Tommy Van Buren, who is an old, close friend of mine; we were at Harvard together. It is the international marketing representative of Van Buren who will make the final presentation to the committee. And there, my dear Sam, is where I hope you will make your appearance.”
    “As an architect who knows nothing about architecture? And an American, a foreigner, as well?” Sam shook his head. “I don’t know, Francis. I think I may be short of a few qualifications.”
    Reboul disposed of such trifling concerns with a flick of his hand. “At this stage, it is not necessary to have any great knowledge of architecture. That will come later. But at the moment, we’re selling an idea: somewhere for people to live, not just somewhere for them to visit. Something unique to Marseille, that respects the environment, that exists in harmony with the sea …”
    Sam held up his hand. “OK. That could work. It’s a nice, straightforward pitch. But why me? Why not have someone from Van Buren do it?”
    Reboul leaned back, spreading his arms wide, a smile onhis face. “I need someone special—a top-class salesman; persuasive, charming, tactful. Which is exactly what you were in your previous career as a publisher. Remember?” He inclined his head toward Sam. “You fooled me. You could fool them.”
    Sam finished the wine in his glass and let Reboul pour some more. “Even though I’m a foreigner?”
    “But Sam, there are foreigners and foreigners.” Reboul held up one finger. “In Marseille, we have loathed Parisians for centuries. It’s in our blood.” He held up a second finger. “The English we tolerate. But since France is only separated from them by the Channel, they are a little too close, and they tend sometimes to get