The Corsican Caper (14 page)

Reboul stood up, moved along to Sam’s chair, bent over and kissed the top of his head. “Thank you, Sam.”

The Figatellis had spent seven hours with the Oblomovs and their day still wasn’t over, since Zonza had requested a daily progress report.

“Well,” he asked, “how are you getting on with your new colleagues?”

“Fine,” said Jo. “They seem like a couple of pros, and they asked the right questions—in particular, how we were going to keep track of Reboul’s comings and goings. Obviously, we need to know where he’ll be before we can plan anything.”

“Of course,” said Zonza. “So what did you tell them?”

Jo’s face, as always when he was telling a lie, was a study in honest innocence. “I suddenly remembered that I have a young niece who works for Madame Lombard as a housemaid.”

“How convenient,” said Zonza.

“Isn’t it? So she can tell us exactly when he leaves the house and where he’s going,” said Jo.

“Excellent.”

“Tomorrow we’re testing the equipment, and I’m sure that by the end of the day our little housemaid will have some news.”

Zonza bared his gold teeth in what passed for a smile. “So far, so good. Keep it up.”

When the Figatellis had gone, Zonza allowed himself a few moments of satisfaction. He was now quite comfortable about having changed sides. He had never taken to the Oblomovs; too crude, too brutish. The Figatellis, on the other hand, could be relied on to remember his cooperation with gratitude. And in Corsica, favors, like grudges, were valid for many years. Finally, the financial side was not without its attractions. The Oblomovs had already paid 50 percent of a substantial fee, which they would forfeit, and the Figatellis had assured Zonza that there would be more to come from Reboul. It was a most satisfactory state of affairs.

“Well,” said Sam, “this is the Corsican outfit.” He stood in front of Elena, hands in his pockets, a wide-brim Panama hat on his head, and very large, very dark sunglasses on his nose. He was wearing a pale-blue shirt and white pants, the uniform of the relaxed gentleman in the South of France. “The idea of all this,” he said, “is to make myself recognizable to the Oblomovs from a distance, but at the same time hiding a lot of my face. What do you think?”

Elena gave him a suitably thorough inspection, and nodded. “You’ll do,” she said. “But promise me you’ll be careful. No heroics, OK? Now take off those goddam sunglasses so I can give you a good-luck kiss.” And a long, serious kiss it was.

“That was interesting,” said Sam. “What do I get if I take off my hat?”

They went downstairs to join Reboul, who had insisted on coming with them. He would act, as he said, as Elena’s bodyguard while Sam was otherwise occupied. The two of them would be staying at the Villa Prestige, a high-security, high-luxury house a few minutes’ drive from the center of Calvi.

They settled three abreast in the back of the car that was taking them to the area reserved for private planes at the Marseille airport. During the drive, Sam took them through, once again, what would happen when they landed in Calvi. Elena and Reboul were to wait in the plane until Sam had left the airport. Once off the plane, Sam would get into the waiting car that had been organized by the Figatellis—a large Peugeot, distinctive because of its densely tinted windows. This would take him to Madame Lombard’s house in Speloncato while Reboul and Elena were taken to the Villa Prestige.

The short flight to Corsica was subdued and, now that the action had begun, increasingly tense. Reboul was restless, fidgeting with his cell phone. Elena was silent, clutching Sam’s hand and staring out the window. Sam had disappeared into a bubble of concentration, as he always did before a job. He went over the meticulous arrangements he had made with the Figatellis. In theory, he reckoned, they had covered every possibility. And yet, you can never be sure. Wherever you have goons and guns, mistakes can
happen. But still—it’s the element of risk that makes the whole thing worth doing. And on that philosophical note he left his bubble, leaned over, and kissed Elena’s ear.

The plane set down with barely a bump. By the time the door was opened, the Peugeot was already coming across the tarmac toward them. Sam left the plane, taking his time as he went down the steps to give anyone watching from the terminal a good look at him, and greeted the chauffeur standing by the open rear door. This was one of the older members of the Figatelli clan, Uncle Doumé, a squat, leathery man with a sweet, crooked smile and an impressive pair of shaggy white eyebrows. He took Sam’s bag, and they set off on the winding road to Speloncato.

Back in the terminal, Sasha Oblomov lowered his binoculars with a grunt. “I was expecting someone older,” he said to the Figatellis. “He looks younger than he did in the photographs.”

“Ah,” said Flo, “they were probably taken before the face-lift—you know what these rich guys are like. I guess he’ll be going straight to Speloncato. No need to follow him, unless you want to?”

Oblomov shook his head. “We have plenty of time,” he said. “I want to go somewhere we can try out the guns.”

They drove out of the airport and into the deserted countryside of the Balagna, parking in the shade of a scrub oak before pushing their way through tangles of
maquis
and
into a small clearing. Jo unpacked the guns and handed one of them to Sasha. The other he held up as he went into his explanation.

“I think you’ll like this: the Glock 23,” he said. “Light, reliable, used by the police all over America. The magazine holds thirteen rounds, the safety is here”—he clicked the safety catch off and on—“and that’s about all you need to know. Let me load them and set up a target and you can try them out. Oh, I almost forgot. These guns just got into Corsica last night, and they’re new. This evening I need to take them to a guy we’ve often used and have him file off the serial numbers. Just a precaution we like to take.”

The Oblomovs nodded their approval of this evidence of professional discretion.

The guns were loaded and the targets—beer cans from six-packs bought by the Figatellis—set up. The Oblomovs started firing, slowly at first and then, as they got used to the guns, more rapidly. It was immediately clear that both of them were comfortable with weapons, and that they were good marksmen. As the bullets flew and the beer cans jumped, Flo’s earlier impression was confirmed. These two were no amateurs.

The Oblomovs had begun to show some enthusiasm, nodding and smiling and clapping each other on the back. Half a dozen magazines later, they were satisfied, and handed the guns back. The atmosphere between the Oblomovs and the Figatellis, if not exactly warm, had become cordial. They
all agreed that useful progress had been made: the victim identified, the weapons tested and found excellent. Now they needed to find the perfect spot, and a prime opportunity. The Figatellis said they would consult with their niece about the victim’s movements to help them pick a time.

Sam, never comfortable with violent changes of direction, whether by boat, plane, or car, did his best to keep smiling as Uncle Doumé hurled the Peugeot around ever tighter bends, the car horn at full blast. Speloncato, which he hoped to reach alive, sits at two thousand feet above sea level, with a permanent population, according to the latest count, of 280. It has one principal claim to fame: its grottos. Moist and gloomy, they had been the scene of many dark deeds, so the guidebook said. A frustration for the curious reader, thirsty for knowledge, was that no details of the dark deeds were provided. Sam consoled himself with the thought that Reboul’s aunt, Madame Lombard, would be sure to tell him.

After what Reboul had told him about his aunt, Sam was very much looking forward to meeting her. The daughter of a diplomat who had been posted to England, she had been educated at Roedean, one of the top girls’ schools in the country, where she had learned to play field hockey, which she detested, and to speak perfect English with the languid drawl of the upper classes. She was now in her seventies. She had never married but, according to Reboul, had had her
fair share of lovers. She spent her summers in the old family house in Speloncato, her winters in Gstaad, and the rest of the year in Paris.

Arriving at the small
place
in the center of the village, Uncle Doumé pulled up in front of a four-story mansion the color of dark ochre, and announced his arrival with a final triumphant bellow from his horn. Almost at once, the front door opened and a sturdy young woman peered out, her face lighting up as she recognized Uncle Doumé.

He opened his arms as he walked toward her. “Josette! Beautiful as ever!” He kissed her cheeks three times—left, right, left—and stepped back to introduce Sam. “This is Monsieur Sam, a friend of Monsieur Francis in Marseille. Madame Lombard is expecting him.”

Josette ducked her head, shook hands with Sam, and took his bag. “Madame is in the
salon
. Please. This way.” She led them through a tiled entrance hall and into a vast room at the back of the house, furnished in the heavy, ornate style of a long-ago era—velvet, mahogany, brocade, swagged curtains, gilt-framed family portraits. Sam felt as if he had stepped back into the nineteenth century.

Madame Lombard looked up from her writing desk and came toward Sam, smiling and extending one elegant hand, which he bent over to kiss.

“Good heavens,” she said. “Do you still kiss hands in America? How nice. Here—come and sit down.”

It was hard to believe that this was a woman in her seventies.
She had gray hair, certainly, short and beautifully cut. But the skin on her face was smooth, the blue eyes lively, the body as slender as a young woman’s. She was dressed simply, in a black silk shirt and a cream-colored skirt that set off the tan on her excellent legs. Sam realized he’d been staring.

“Well,” she said, “what were you expecting? Some old crone with a pince-nez and a moustache?”

“Excuse me, I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting … well, someone who looks like you.”

She smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, Francis has told me very little except that you’re American, and you’re doing him an enormous favor. Naturally, I’m agog to know more.” She waved her hand toward the ice bucket on the low table between them. “Why don’t you pour us a glass of Champagne and tell me all about it?”

They talked well into the evening. At first, when Sam described Vronsky and what he intended to do, Madame Lombard sat quietly, her face set and serious. “But surely,” she said, “he’s not prepared to arrange a murder just to get a house?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Sam, “if his past history is anything to go by. But we’re not going to let that happen.” And, over the next half hour, he explained to her exactly what he and the Figatellis were going to do.

After he’d finished, she was greatly relieved, even more so after another glass of Champagne. As they continued to talk, she instructed Sam to call her Laura, while she had
begun to call him “dear boy.” She was asking him what she could do to help when they were interrupted by the sound of loud scratching at the door.

“Ah,” said Laura, as she went to open the door, “I do hope you like dogs. This is Alfred, the man in my life. Isn’t he splendid?”

He was huge and black and shaggy, a cross, so Laura said, between a briard and a Rottweiler. He padded across to Sam, inspected him, sniffed him, put one massive paw on his knee, and looked up at him expectantly.

“He likes you,” said Laura. “I
am
glad. He’s such a good judge of character. I had a gentleman friend once whom Alfred absolutely loathed. And do you know, he was quite right. The man turned out to be a dreadful little shit.”

Sam was wondering how to disengage his knee from the paw without causing offense when the cook put her head around the door to announce dinner.

Over some well-turned lamb chops, salad, cheese, and a bottle of Château Margaux—“I find the local wines rather
fierce
,” said Laura—the conversation became serious again, and she repeated her wish to help.

“There are a couple of things,” said Sam. “First, I need to find a place where I can be ambushed; somewhere deserted, obviously. And second, I need to have a reason for wandering around in the middle of nowhere. Otherwise, I’m worried that the Oblomovs will smell a rat.”

“Nothing could be easier,” said Laura. “I can show you
exactly where to go, and your reason for going is sitting on your foot. That shows he really
does
like you. Why don’t you take him for a walk tomorrow?”

Over coffee, the details were worked out. Sam would call Jo and tell him where and when he would be walking the dog. Jo would tell the Oblomovs that his niece had given him the information, and they would arrange to hide themselves close to where Sam would be walking. After that, as Sam said, it would be all over bar the shooting.