The Corsican Caper (11 page)

With a punctuality rare in Corsica, a big gray Renault pulled up precisely on time. It was driven by a man who, at first sight, seemed to have no neck—just a massive head
growing out of even more massive shoulders. He motioned with a jerk of the head for the Figatellis to get into the car, and then he set off, ignoring their attempts to make conversation. A few minutes later, he pulled up outside a weather-stained, ancient house in the old quarter of town. The front door was opened by another giant, his size accentuated by a close-fitting T-shirt. He led the Figatellis down an ill-lit passageway and into a cavernous, darkened room with a high, vaulted ceiling. The only sign of life was the muted glow from the screen of a television, its sound turned down.

This was the headquarters of Nino Zonza, a man who, for fifty years, had been an influential, if little-known, figure behind the scenes of the Corsican underworld. Those who did know him valued him highly for his network of sources, and for the extent and accuracy of his information. Local legend had it that if you scratched your backside in Ajaccio, the news would have reached Zonza in Calvi within an hour.

“Come in. Sit down.” The voice coming from the back of the room was thin but husky. Their host, a tiny, hairless man withered by the passage of time, was perched on the edge of an armchair several sizes too big for him. He peered at the Figatelli brothers through dense black sunglasses.

“I remember you two boys,” he said. “You were useful. What do you want from an old man like me?”

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Monsieur Zonza,” said Jo. “And we would very much appreciate your help.” Zonza inclined his head, his sunglasses reflecting the glow from the
TV screen. Jo continued. “We’ve heard a rumor. It seems that some Russians from the Riviera are making inquiries in connection with a certain job they would like done. A disappearance.”

“Ah yes,” said the old man. “One hears rumors like that more and more these days.” He smiled, and shook his head. “It’s a dangerous old world.”

Jo smiled back. “It certainly is. Now, there is talk of a prominent Marseille businessman somehow involved. And, as we have many friends in Marseille, we would like to know who that might be.” Jo spread his hands and shrugged. “In case we could help.”

“Indeed,” said Zonza. “I can understand your interest. But information such as this—so delicate, so secret—is never easy to come by. And naturally, it is never given away.”

“Of course, of course. But we would be happy to …”

Zonza held up an age-speckled hand. “There will be time enough to discuss payment if the information should become available. Let me think about it. If I should hear anything, I shall have a message left for you at your bar.”

“Do you know the address?” asked Jo.

Zonza smiled, revealing numerous gold teeth. “I know everything about Calvi.”

Once the Figatellis had been shown out, Zonza poured himself a glass of
myrte
and considered his position. The previous week, he had been asked to consider an attractive offer from the Oblomovs. Now it seemed that the Figatellis
were becoming involved, and, being Corsican himself, he would much prefer to do business with Corsicans; that is, of course, providing they would be prepared to match the Russian offer. But, he told himself, there was no need to rush to a decision. In fact, it might be possible to string both sides along, taking payments from each of them. Interesting. He poured himself a second glass of
myrte
, turned up the sound on the television, and settled back to watch the rerun of another episode of
Dallas
.

The Figatellis, sitting over coffee in the back room of their bar, compared their impressions of the meeting.

“Well,” said Flo, “am I getting suspicious in my old age or does he know a lot more than he let on?”

“He must know all about it. If Maurice was able to pick up the rumor during a sober moment, Zonza, with that network of his, would certainly have heard. How many people does he have out on the street with their ears flapping? A dozen? Fifty? He must know.”

The brothers sat in silence for a few moments, trying to think of some way to induce Zonza to tell them what he had learned. But, as they had to admit, he was not a man who would respond kindly to pressure. Threats were out of the question. Money might work, but how much would it take?

“If we could find out who these Russians are, we’d at least have some options,” said Jo. He took out his phone. “Let’s
get Maurice over here. Maybe he can remember where he got his information.”

Maurice made his entrance in his usual furtive fashion, as though he were half-expecting to be mugged. Small and dark, with a scruffy little beard, he prided himself on his unremarkable appearance. “It’s easy to get lost in a crowd,” he was fond of saying, “but I can almost vanish in an empty room.” And it was true. Like a chameleon, he was able to blend in with his surroundings. It was an eavesdropper’s greatest asset.

He accepted a glass of Corsican whisky and looked at the Figatellis expectantly, the possibility of another job never far from his thoughts.

“Remember that rumor you heard?” asked Flo. “About a couple of Russians?”

Maurice held up both hands. “Don’t rush me. I’ve got the word out, but these things aren’t on the evening news. Finding the name of the target? That’s going to take time.”

“Maybe it would be easier if we knew the names of the Russians.”

“Ah.” Maurice scratched his beard. “You’re right. One thing leads to another. Do you want me to …”

Flo grinned. “That little bonus of yours is getting bigger all the time.”

Maurice finished his whisky and stood up. “Always a pleasure, gentlemen. I’ll get back to you.”

The first Vronsky interview, with Philippe employing the slavish flattery he would normally reserve for insecure politicians, had gone well. By the time it had finished, Vronsky seemed relaxed, comfortable, and, so Philippe hoped, more likely to let slip an indiscretion or two. For this next session, Vronsky had even agreed to leave the floating womb of
The Caspian Queen
and meet Philippe for lunch at Peron, only insisting that a separate table for one be reserved for Nikki, the ever-present bodyguard.

Lunch started with a reaction from Vronsky that boded well for the interview. This was his first visit to Peron, and he was delighted with the expansive sea view, which happened to feature
The Caspian Queen
at anchor five hundred yards away.

“You see?” he said, nodding at the yacht. “She follows me like a faithful dog.”

Philippe smiled and poured the wine. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “You’ve had a fascinating life, been all over the world, made millions—excuse me, billions—and it would be a great shame if we tried to compress all that you’ve achieved into this one article. It cries out for more important treatment.”

Vronsky’s eyebrows went up. “You have something in mind?”

“I do. I’d like to suggest that I write your biography.”

Philippe was expecting a reaction—an attack of false modesty, perhaps, or a little preening, but Vronsky said nothing while he turned the idea over in his mind.
Like so many rich and successful men, he was often the target of a nagging feeling that whatever he had wasn’t quite enough. Something was lacking. Recognition, fame, celebrity—however it was described, it would be the ultimate public confirmation that he, Oleg Vronsky, was exceptional. And a flattering biography was one way of achieving that. Not surprisingly, Vronsky found the idea appealing.

“I’ve done a little research,” said Philippe, “and it’s a great rags-to-riches story: modest beginnings, risk and adventure in Africa and Brazil, enormous success—people will love it.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I know we’re here to work on the interview. But I’m really excited about the biography. Would you think about it?”

With the seed planted, Philippe went back to his notes, and the questions began. They started harmlessly enough: How did Vronsky like France? What would be his next stop after Marseille? Did he play golf? Where did he stay when he was in London or Paris? Did he spend any time on the Riviera?

This led naturally into Philippe’s next question. “I’ve heard,” he said, “that dozens of Russians have settled in the South of France. Do you know many of them?”

“A few,” said Vronsky, “but not here. It’s too quiet for them here—not enough parties. They prefer the Riviera. Cap d’Antibes, for instance. I was there not long ago, and it’s getting to be like a suburb of Moscow.”

As lunch continued and the wine flowed, Vronsky revealed that he had little time for his countrymen: “Peasants, for the most part, peasants who have struck it lucky—loud, vulgar, and uncultured.” Philippe, feeling that the protestations were a little too glib, wasn’t altogether convinced. He made a mental note to look into the Russian colony on the coast.

As lunch drew to its liquid end, Philippe told Vronsky that he had enough material to start writing, and promised to arrange for a photographer to come and take pictures of the great man on his yacht, and perhaps at the wheel of his Bentley. They parted company on the best of terms, each feeling that the meeting had been more than satisfactory.

Nino Zonza was experiencing an unusual moment of indecision. Normally a man who made up his mind quickly, he found himself torn between the lucrative deal he had made with the Oblomovs and his natural instinct to side with the Figatellis, who were, like him, good Corsicans.

To add to his difficulties, there was the problem of what to do with the losers. If he should decide in favor of the Figatellis, the Oblomovs would be sure to look for revenge. And if he should choose the Oblomovs? Well, Calvi is a small town, and there are precious few secrets. The Figatellis would undoubtedly find out that he had taken a decision against them. They would be displeased, and a displeased Corsican on your doorstep is a very dangerous man.

Eventually, it was this consideration that helped him reach a solution that he found satisfactory: give the winners the problem, and let them take care of the losers. Yes. That would do very well. He summoned his chauffeur and gave him a scribbled note to be delivered to the Figatellis’ bar in the Rue de la Place.

The meeting was set for the following evening. As before, the Figatellis were picked up near the Citadelle and deposited at Zonza’s house by the mute chauffeur. But this time, the old man showed signs of hospitality, with a tray, three glasses, and a bottle of
myrte
on the low table in front of his armchair when his guests arrived. He waved the brothers to sit down opposite him.

“As I put in my note,” he said, “certain information has come my way that may be of interest to you. I shall be more specific, but first”—he smiled his gold-tooth smile—“perhaps you would care for some refreshment.” He filled the three glasses, holding the bottle with both hands to compensate for the tremors of old age.

He raised his glass. “To you, my fellow Corsicans.” They sipped the peppery, sweet liquid. Zonza dabbed his lips with a silk handkerchief, settled back in his chair, and began to speak.

The call came through later that evening, as Reboul was stepping out of the shower. By the time it had finished, he had dripped dry. He dressed quickly, and went downstairs to find Sam having a glass of wine with Elena before dinner. Ignoring them, he went straight to the bar and poured himself a large brandy.

“Francis, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Sam went over and patted his friend on the shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

Reboul took a long swig of brandy before answering, and Sam noticed that the hand holding the glass was trembling. “I’ve just had a call from Jo Figatelli in Calvi.” Another swig of brandy. “There’s a contract out to have me killed.”

“What?”

“Jo says it’s being set up by two
voyous
—Russians, both of them—and that can’t be a coincidence; it’s got to be that bastard Vronsky. He’s behind it, I’m sure.”

Elena and Sam watched as Reboul drained his glass and went back for more. “Is this real?” asked Sam. “Not just a rumor from a bar?”