The Corsican Caper (4 page)
Read The Corsican Caper Online
Authors: Peter Mayle
The early evening calm at Le Pharo—the hour of
l’apéritif
—was disturbed by the sound of a motorcycle’s engine. The rider, a burly policeman in highly polished boots, parked his machine carefully, removed his helmet and placed it on the saddle, rang the front door bell, and stood to attention. He had been told that this was a very important delivery, ordered by the chief himself, and that all the niceties should be observed.
Claudine opened the door. The policeman saluted. “For Monsieur Reboul,” he said, handing over a manila envelope.
“Merci, monsieur.”
“De rien, madame. Bonne soirée.”
Mission accomplished, he saluted again before roaring off down the drive.
Claudine immediately took the envelope to Reboul, who
slit it open and took out three sheets of paper. The first was a handwritten note from Hervé:
Cher ami
,
I am taking the small precaution of using the old-fashioned way of communicating, with pieces of paper. As you know, nothing electronic is completely private these days, and I would prefer that this doesn’t end up on the Internet
.
As you will see, Monsieur Vronsky has had an interesting career. What strikes me is the high mortality rate of his business partners. Although nothing has been proven, I don’t believe in coincidence, and I regard these deaths as a serious warning. I strongly recommend that you have nothing to do with this man. He seems extremely dangerous
.
Amitiés
,
H
Reboul poured himself a fortifying shot of Scotch and turned to the other two pages, which were typewritten.
VRONSKY, Oleg. Born St. Petersburg January 4, 1970. No record of any formal education.
From 1989 until 1992, he served in the army, first as a private, later as a sergeant commanding a tank
squadron. On returning to civilian life, he and an ex-army friend, Vladimir Pugachev, used their military connections to set up as arms dealers, first in the Balkans and later, as their business flourished, in West Africa. Business continued to grow, but Pugachev met his death in unexplained circumstances while on a sales trip to Ouagadougou, with his share of the company passing to Vronsky. Rumors of foul play were vigorously denied.
Vronsky continued to prosper. After selling his African business to the up-and-coming dictator Marlon Batumbe, he returned to Russia and founded PRN (Prirodni Resursi Neogranichenyi—in Russian it stands for Natural Resources Unlimited), a company formed to exploit mineral deposits found in the southern Urals. Several profitable years followed, and Vronsky was able to engineer a deal with a bigger company owned by Sergei Popov. The merger was less than two years old when Popov met his death in unexplained circumstances while attending a bauxite seminar in Magnitogorsk, with his share of the company passing to Vronsky. Rumors of foul play were vigorously denied.
Increasingly rich, well-connected, and powerful, Vronsky spread and diversified his empire, with exploitation businesses in the Arctic and the Amazon basin. There was also an apartment building on New
York’s Park Avenue, bought in conjunction with Jack Levy, a Manhattan real estate developer. It was widely agreed that Levy’s suicide—he jumped off a thirty-eighth-floor terrace—was a considerable loss to the community. However, it was a substantial gain for Vronsky, who took over Levy’s share of the building.
Vronsky seems to have no permanent address, preferring to use his yacht,
The Caspian Queen
, as his headquarters. He stays in hotels when he travels. Details of his personal life are somewhat limited, but one or two have emerged. Although he has been seen with a variety of beautiful women, his only marriage ended in divorce, and he has no children. His hobbies include bear hunting, chess, and ballroom dancing.
“You’re looking very thoughtful, Francis.” Sam had stopped in the doorway of the living room. “Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“No, no. I’ve just been finding out about that Russian. Get yourself a drink and read this.” He passed the documents to Sam, who poured a glass of wine and made himself comfortable on the sofa.
“That’s quite a C.V.,” Sam said a few minutes later. “Not a guy to go into business with, is he? When he lays someone off he means it.” Sam shook his head. “Losing three partners? I wonder how come he’s never been nailed. Or at least reprimanded for carelessness.”
“Don’t forget he lost them at three different times in three different countries. Can you imagine the police in Africa, Russia, and America getting together?” Reboul gathered up the papers and put them away in a drawer. “Enough of him. Where is the lovely Elena?”
“Trying to improve upon perfection.” Sam shrugged. “I’ve noticed that when she’s here in France, she takes twice as long as usual to make up and get ready. Three times as long when she’s in Paris, where she says the level of competition is that much higher.”
Reboul smiled. “The ladies. How dull life would be without them. Do you know where you’re going tonight?”
“One of Philippe and Mimi’s friends, Yves, is a great cook. He and his wife, Ginette, have just been awarded a Michelin star, so we’re going to their restaurant to celebrate. How about you?”
Reboul grimaced and shook his head. “A romantic evening with my accountant, going through figures. Next month we have to file returns for the wealth tax—something you Americans have very wisely chosen to avoid. It seems to get more complicated every year.” His face brightened as he looked toward the door. “Ah, here she is—La Bomba. Ravishing, my dear, ravishing.”
Elena performed an abbreviated curtsey. “Thank you, kind sir.” She was indeed looking ravishing, in a vanilla silk dress that showed off her dark hair and glowing Corsican tan. Sam had to admit that the wait had been worth it.
In the taxi going to the restaurant he told Elena what he’d just learned about Vronsky. She could hardly believe it. “Do you think he seriously expects Francis to sell Le Pharo?”
“I’m not sure,” said Sam. “But a guy with that much power and money isn’t used to taking no for an answer. He thinks he can get away with anything, because that’s the way it’s been for years. And he has a pretty scary track record. I think we’re going to have to keep a close eye on him.”
It was gala night at Le Palais du Pharo. Six months previously, Reboul had allowed his good nature to get the better of him and had agreed to act as host for a dinner in aid of a local charity, Les Amis de Marseille. The charity had been sponsored by a committee of local businessmen, whose aim was not entirely without self-interest; charity, after all, begins at home. But the cause was worthy and locally very appealing: to promote Marseille as a coastal destination with events to rival Cannes with its film festival, Nice with its flower festival, and Monaco with its tennis and its Grand Prix.
What could Marseille offer that those other destinations didn’t? Yacht racing, music and theater festivals, a floating casino, world championship
boules
, and a competitive water-skiing tournament were all under consideration as possible
attractions. But ambitious schemes of this kind take money to set up, and the evening at Le Palais du Pharo, with dinner at a thousand euros a head, was to get the ball rolling and to pass the collection plate.
Reboul had done Les Amis proud. The vast back terrace of Le Pharo had been turned into something between a small forest and a giant bower. There were olive trees, lemon trees, and clumps of black-stemmed bamboo, all in huge terra-cotta pots, and all decorated with garlands of tiny lights. Placed among the trees were twenty six-seater tables, each with its thick linen cloth and napkins of true Marseille blue, its candlelit lanterns, and its centerpiece of white roses. A small band, installed on a dais in one corner, was playing old French favorites—“La Mer,” “La Vie en rose,” the theme from
Un Homme et une femme
. Even nature had made a contribution: the air was soft and still, the sky an expanse of black velvet pricked by stars. It was, as one of the early guests said,
un décor magique
.
The host and his team were having a glass of Champagne to help them prepare for the evening’s events. Elena was in what she called ceremonial black, although she declined to say exactly what kind of ceremony she had in mind. Sam had plenty of ideas, but was told to keep them to himself. The newly engaged Mimi and Philippe held hands while they drank their Champagne, and Reboul and Sam were resplendent in their white dinner jackets.
“Well,” asked Sam, “have you worked out your speech?”
Reboul winced. “I agree with the man who said that the rules for making a good speech were simple: stand up, speak up, and shut up. So I shall keep it short and sweet.” His eye was caught by a figure coming through the crowd. “Ah, there she is—my social mentor.”
Marie-Ange Picard was a specialist organizer of events of this kind. A slim, blonde woman in her thirties, she too was squeezed into a little black dress, this one cut to display a generous
décolleté
with her official plastic name card strategically placed where it would receive maximum attention. Introductions were made by Reboul, and for a moment or two Elena and Marie-Ange looked each other over like two boxers preparing to go into the ring. “What a darling little dress,” said Marie-Ange. Elena inclined her head and smiled. Not as little as yours, she thought. Maybe next time you should go for something that fits.
Marie-Ange turned her attention to Reboul, inching closer to him with every question. “
Alors
, Monsieur Francis. Have you got everything you need? The notes for your speech? Are you happy with the seating arrangements at your table? Would you like to go over the guest list again—there have been one or two late additions.” By this time, Marie-Ange’s bosom was almost pressed against Reboul’s chest.
He took a step backward, escaping the fog of perfume, and looked around the crowded terrace. “Have all the tables been taken?”
“The last two or three went yesterday,” said Marie-Ange. “One of them went to a Russian gentleman. He bought all six seats.”
Reboul frowned. How many Russian gentlemen prepared to spend six thousand euros on dinner were there in Marseille? “Who is this man?”
Marie-Ange consulted her guest list. “A Monsieur Vronsky,” she said. “Perhaps you know him?”
Reboul shook his head. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”
Marie-Ange led Reboul over to the dais. The band ended Piaf’s old classic, “Non, je ne regrette rien,” with a flourish, and Marie-Ange took over the microphone.
“Ladies, gentlemen, friends of Marseille—a warm welcome to you all. I can promise you an evening you will never forget.” She glanced down at her notes. “After dinner—and what a dinner”—she paused to kiss her fingertips—“there will be an auction, an auction
de luxe
, to tempt you into extravagance. But extravagance in a most worthy cause. First, we have a weekend for two at Le Petit Nice, with its three Michelin stars, its magnificent sea views, and its legendary
bouillabaisse
.” Another pause for fingertip kissing. “Six bottles, selected from our host’s personal cellar, of Lafite Rothschild 1982, one of the great vintages of this magical wine. Next, for all you football fans—four tickets to the Club des Loges for all of next season’s Olympique de Marseille home matches. Finally, a rare opportunity to acquire a truly extraordinary car: the vintage Bentley
R-Type, bought by King Farouk to celebrate his becoming an official resident of Monaco in 1959.”
Marie-Ange turned to Reboul. “And now,” she said, with the air of a conjurer about to produce a particularly handsome white rabbit from her hat, “I would like to ask our most generous host for the evening, Francis Reboul, to say a few words—a very few, he has asked me to tell you—to welcome you.” After leading the applause, she passed the microphone to the next, somewhat reluctant, speaker.
In his brief but charming remarks, Reboul thanked his audience for their support and emphasized that this evening was just a start—the first step on a journey that he hoped would end with a spectacular addition to the delights of his beloved Marseille. “But I’m sure you’re all hungry,” he said, looking toward the summer kitchen, “and I can see my friend Alphonse the chef tapping his watch. In my experience, he is not a man to be kept waiting.
Allons, mes amis! À la bouffe!
”
There were well over a hundred people settling themselves at their tables, and Reboul knew most of them personally: a wide selection of local businessmen and their wives; Hervé, the chief of police; luminaries from the chamber of commerce; Gaston, the fixer; Madame Spinelli of the Women’s League of Marseille and Bruno, her considerably younger partner; the executive committee of the Olympique de Marseille football club; and a sprinkling of socialites, comparing tans and jewelry. In other words, there was everyone who counted in the social hierarchy of Marseille.
And some who didn’t—not yet, anyway. At a prominent table, already making short work of a magnum of Dom Pérignon, was a group that Marie-Ange described, in a whispered aside to Reboul, as “the Russian contingent.” There was Vronsky, in a plum-colored velvet smoking jacket, with Natasha on one side and Katya on the other; the Vicomte de Pertuis and Madame la Vicomtesse, a fashionably anorexic woman brandishing her cigarette holder with dangerous abandon; and, lolling back in his chair with the light glinting on his sunglasses, a rather glamorous young man with implausibly ash-blond hair, dressed from head to toe in black leather.
