Peter Mayle - The Marseille Caper

When Sam arrived at Marignane’s private air terminal, Reboul was already waiting, his cell phone to his ear. He finished his call and came over to embrace Sam. “I’m so sorry about this. So very sorry.”

In fact, Sam was feeling better and more positive than he’d felt for several hours. He was no longer passive, just waiting; he was doing something, and activity is a sovereign remedy for most problems. He clapped Reboul on the shoulder. “This is going to work. I know it’s going to work once we find our cops.”

“You’ll see,” said Reboul. “Let’s get on the plane and I’ll tell you about them.”

Once again, Sam was struck by the boarding process, or rather by the lack of it, when flying private. They strolled across the tarmac to the plane, where the copilot welcomed them at the top of the gangway. The steps were retracted, the pilot taxied over to the takeoff point, and they began the short hop to Calvi, on the west coast of Corsica. Boarding time: three minutes.

Coffee was served by the copilot, and Reboul began his briefing. He started with the names of the two gentlemen they were going to meet: the Figatelli brothers, Florian and Joseph, known as Flo and Jo. Reboul had known them since the two were boys, when their father ran a hotel in which Reboul had a majority interest. When the father died after a hunting accident, Reboul had taken the two young men under his wing, offering to put them through university. To their mother’s dismay and with Reboul’s wholehearted approval, they had chosen to complete their education in Las Vegas, where a small but select college offered a course in celebrity hotel management.

English, naturally, was part of the curriculum. There was also detailed instruction on the running of a hotel, even down to the pitfalls of hiring illegal immigrants, the importance of clean fingernails, the art of increasing the tip, and, not least of all, the defensive measures to be taken if a distinguished guest, such as a United States senator, should be discovered in flagrante with a couple of the local hookers.

Flo and Jo graduated with honors, and to mark the occasion they were each presented with a special T-shirt, of black silk, with the city’s motto embroidered in tasteful gold lettering: “What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas.” Ready for the real world, they returned to Calvi and took over the management of the hotel. They ran it well, and they expanded their business to include bars, a beach franchise, and one or two enterprises that were not, strictly speaking, legal.

“But they’re good boys,” said Reboul, “and I trust them to do a good job.”

“They need to look official, Francis. What about uniforms?”

Reboul tapped the side of his nose. “They already have regulation police uniforms. I can’t think why. Better not to ask.”

The plane was beginning its descent toward Calvi when Reboul leaned forward. “One thing we haven’t talked about, Sam. You mentioned a doctor. Where are we going to find our doctor?”

“You’re looking at him.”

“You? You can’t go. They’ve met you. They know you.”

“Not with a surgical mask, a pair of glasses, hospital scrubs, and one of those little hats they wear in the operating room. All they’ll see of me is my eyebrows.”

Reboul rubbed his chin in thought. “Well, maybe. But they’ll recognize your voice, your accent.”

“I won’t speak English. In fact, I won’t speak to them at all. I won’t need to. I’ll have my secret weapon.”

“What’s that?”

“A bilingual nurse.”

Calvi, according to legend the birthplace of Christopher Columbus, is one of the most beautiful sights in an island filled with beautiful sights. The six-hundred-year-old citadel, built on a promontory, dominates a town of sweeping sea views and narrow streets, and it was in a bar in one of these narrow streets that Sam and Reboul met the Figatellis.

The Pourquoi Pas looked like dozens of other Mediterranean bars: fishing nets, soccer posters, a framed and autographed snapshot of Johnny Hallyday, a flat-screen TV, and several fine old mirrors with the gray bloom of the years visible through the glass. It had been chosen for the meeting because it belonged to the Figatellis, and it had a very private back room.

“You’re a little early,” said the girl behind the bar. “They’re on their way. Please follow me.” She led them into a small room stacked with cases of pastis and Corsican whisky. A wooden table with four chairs had been set up in the middle of the room and, while they settled down, the girl came back with a tray-two coffees, two shot glasses, and a plain dark-green bottle with a handwritten label that simply said “Flo amp; Jo.”

Reboul noticed Sam looking at it. “That’s myrte ,” he said, “the Corsican liqueur made with aromatic myrtle. Some people call it the fisherman’s breakfast.” He filled the glasses and handed one to Sam. “Here’s to Elena, and her quick return.”

Sam took a sip. It was thick and honey-sweet, with a powerful, slightly astringent kick that went all the way down. “That’s good. Homemade?”

Reboul was just starting to explain the mysteries of making myrte when the door opened and the Figatelli brothers appeared, each carrying a bulging bag. They descended on Reboul with terrifying enthusiasm, kissing him, patting him, squeezing him. “Eh, Sissou, it’s good to see you. Where have you been all this time? What’s going on? Who’s your friend?”

Introductions were made, and Sam’s hand was vigorously mauled by each of them. Brawny, barrel-chested, black-haired, with the blue eyes that one sometimes finds around the Mediterranean, they looked tough and competent. “Serious men” was how Reboul had described them. He looked at his watch. “We don’t have much time. Did you bring the uniforms?” The Figatellis nodded. “Good. Now let me fill you in.”

Half an hour later, the four of them were on their way back to the airport. Sam had been impressed by the way the brothers had responded to the briefing, listening intently, interrupting only to ask intelligent questions. He allowed himself to feel renewed stirrings of optimism. Now all he had to do was recruit his nurse.

He called her from the plane. “Daphne, it’s Sam. I’ve got a real problem. Could you possibly meet me at the house in an hour or so?”

“What have you been up to, you naughty boy? Of course I’ll be there.” As Daphne Perkins finished the call she experienced an agreeable tingle of anticipation. She had arranged an afternoon of whist and polite conversation with some friends, but this would undoubtedly be more interesting. Sam was always getting up to something interesting. Such a scamp.

Elena stirred, opened her eyes, and tried to sit up. She felt thick and nauseous. Her throat was dry, and she was having difficulty focusing. She was barely aware of the figure sitting at her side in the darkened cabin, barely felt the needle going into her arm. She slept again.

“If you have a bottle of stout, dear, that would do very nicely. It’s the heat.”

Sam looked in the fridge. The nearest thing to stout he could find was a bottle of German Bock , which he poured into a glass and put in front of Daphne. She took a long, thirsty swallow. “That’s much better, dear. Thank you. Those roads are so hot, and my poor old 2CV doesn’t have air-conditioning.” She took another swallow, and dabbed her lips with a lace handkerchief. “Now then. What is this problem you mentioned?”

By the time Sam had finished explaining, Daphne’s mouth was tight with anger. “Blackguards!” she said. “They should be horsewhipped. That poor, poor girl. What can I do to help?”

Sam took her through the preparations that were being made for the rescue attempt. “And I’m going to be the doctor,” he said. “But here’s the problem. I can disguise my appearance, but I can’t disguise my voice. So I’m going to pretend to be a French doctor who doesn’t speak a word of English. And that’s where I hope you come in, as an interpreter with full medical qualifications, able to pass on my instructions in English. In other words, you will be Nurse Perkins, the doctor’s right arm.” Sam looked at her, his expression quizzical, his head cocked. “That is, if you’re prepared to do it.”