The Marseille Caper Read Free Page B

underfoot.” He held up a third finger. “The Americans we like, not only for their many virtues, but also because America, most conveniently, is a long way away. So I think my project starts with a slight advantage.”
    Elena had been watching the exchange closely, as though it were a tennis match, her head going back and forth. “Let’s assume your project wins,” she said to Reboul. “Isn’t it going to be a little difficult for you to stay out of it? Where’s the money coming from? I mean, won’t there be all kinds of performance guarantees and disclosures of interest—or are these just quaint old American customs?”
    Reboul had been nodding while Elena spoke. “A very good point, my dear. Let me tell you how I intend to take care of it.” He signaled the waiter and ordered coffee and Calvados for the three of them. “I have deposited sufficient funds with Troost & Langer—from an account in Dubai, so that nothing is seen to originate in France—to cover the first stages of construction. Once these have been carried out and the projectis well under way, there will be an unforeseen and totally unexpected cash-flow problem.” His eyes opened wide, his mouth made an O of shocked surprise. “But fortunately, all will be not lost. Help will be at hand, in the form of a sympathetic local investor. He will step in and, for the greater good of Marseille, he will take over the financial responsibilities of finishing the project.”
    “That will be you,” said Elena.
    “That will be me.”
    “And at that stage, there will be nothing Patrimonio can do.”
    “Not a thing.”
    “So far, so good. All we need now is the salesman.” Elena turned to Sam. “Over to you, big boy.”
    Sam was outnumbered, and he knew it. He knew also that if he turned down the job he risked incurring the disappointment and wrath of Elena, deprived of her first-ever vacation in the South of France. Based on his past experience of Elena with her blood up, this was a most disagreeable prospect. Besides, a presentation such as Reboul had outlined was something he could do standing on his head. And the trip might be fun.
    “You win,” he said. He raised his glass first to Elena, then to Reboul. “A toast: here’s to the success of our little venture.”
    A beaming Reboul leaped up and darted around the table. “Bravo!” he said. “Bravo!” And promptly kissed the startled Sam on both cheeks.

Three

    There are no crowds. There is no waiting in line. There are no surly security guards. There are no bags to juggle, no seating disputes, no neighbors with uncontrollable elbows and contagious ailments, no hysterical infants, no fetid, overworked toilets—in fact, flying by private jet deprives the passengers of all the familiar joys of air travel in the twenty-first century. But there are consolations, as Elena and Sam were discovering.
    Reboul’s Gulfstream G550 had been extravagantly reconfigured to carry no more than six passengers, two pilots, and a flight attendant in surroundings that Reboul liked to describe as luxe et volupté . The cabin was decorated in soothing tones of caramel and cream, with armchairs—one couldn’t insult them by calling them mere seats—upholstered in chocolate-brown suede. There was a small dining area. Presiding over the tinykitchen and bar at the front of the cabin was Mathilde, a handsome woman of a certain age, beautifully turned out in Saint Laurent and alert to the slightest signs of thirst and hunger. Passengers could stay in touch with the world below by phone and Internet; or relax with a library of current American and European films, to be watched on a large, high-definition screen. Cigar smokers could smoke their cigars. It seemed to Elena and Sam, as they accepted chilled flutes of Krug from Mathilde, that Reboul had done everything possible to make flying civilized.
    “I could get used to this very, very quickly,” said Elena. She was looking clear-eyed and radiant—her pale-olive