“I hope you’ll forgive me, Mr. Fitzgerald, but before we go any further, I must ask you to keep this conversation and any subsequent dealings strictly to yourself.” Charlie waited for the murmured reassurance, then continued. “I act as the personal wine consultant and buyer for a very eminent client, a great connoisseur, a man for whom wine is one of the major pleasures of life. He is also a man of quite remarkable modesty and discretion, which is why I had to ask for your reassurance. But to get down to business: not long ago, word reached my client of your wine, Le Coin Perdu. He has instructed me to investigate, to taste, perhaps to buy. And so, not entirely by chance, I find myself in France.”
Charlie could almost feel the curiosity coming down the line. “Well, Mr. Willis,” said Fitzgerald, “I should tell you that discretion is as important to me as it is to you. We never speak of our clients; our dealings are completely confidential. You need have no concerns, I assure you. And so I don’t think you would be committing any breach of trust if you were to tell me his name. I must confess I’m intrigued.”
Here we go, thought Charlie. He dropped his voice to a level just above a whisper. “My client is the Sultan of Tengah.”
There was a moment of silence while Fitzgerald tried to remember the estimate he had read somewhere of the Sultan of Tengah’s wealth: a hundred billion? Two hundred? More than enough, anyway. “Ah yes,” he said. “Of course. Like the rest of the world, I have heard of him.” Fitzgerald had been doodling on a notepad, and jotted down the figure of $75,000 per case. “May I ask where he lives?”
“He spends most of his time in Tengah. He owns the country, as you probably know, and finds it more agreeable to stay at home. Travel bores him.”
“Quite so, quite so. It has become very disagreeable. Well, I’m flattered that the reputation of our wine has traveled so far.” Fitzgerald had no precise idea of where Tengah was-somewhere in Indonesia, he thought-but it sounded distant. He scratched out the number on his pad and wrote down $100,000. “Fortunately, we do have a few cases left.” The tone of his voice lightened, as though he had suddenly been struck by a most unusually happy idea. “Perhaps I could suggest a tasting? A private tasting, naturally.”
“Naturally.” Charlie made rustling sounds with the paper on which he’d made his notes-the sounds of a busy man turning the pages of his diary. “I could be with you tomorrow, if that’s convenient. But let me say again that there must be no-how shall I put it?-talkative elements. The Sultan has an absolute horror of publicity.”
And that was that. After arranging the details, Charlie put down the phone and allowed himself a private jig of triumph around the sitting room before going out to find Christie and Max in the courtyard.
Charlie’s expression told all. “He fell for it,” said Max. “I knew he would. I knew he would. Charlie, you’re a hero.”
“I rather enjoyed it, actually. Didn’t take him long to suggest a private tasting. But I hope to God you’re right. What’s the penalty for criminal impersonation in France? No, don’t tell me. Anyway, it’s all set for three-thirty tomorrow afternoon in Bordeaux.” And then the smile left his face. “I hate to say this, but I’ve just thought of a snag. How are we going to know if it really is Roussel’s wine? I certainly wouldn’t be able to tell.”
Max grinned. “Leave it to me,” he said. “I’ve got a secret weapon.”
At Marignane airport early the following morning, a small group of passengers stood out from the usual clutter of briefcases and businessmen at the check-in desk for the Air France shuttle to Bordeaux: Christie and Max, in jeans and light jackets; Charlie in blazer, flannels, striped shirt, bow tie, and sunglasses; and, looking about him with an uneasy air, Roussel. But a formal Roussel this morning, dressed in the twenty-year-old black suit he had only previously worn at weddings and funerals.
In all his life, Roussel’s travels had never taken him farther than Marseille-a city which, being full of foreigners, he regarded with considerable suspicion-and this was to be his inaugural flight. At first, he had been reluctant to come; he was not anxious to take to the air, and there was also a good chance of an unpleasant confrontation in Bordeaux. But Max had explained the crucial part he would play, both now and in the future, and Roussel had done his best to conquer his misgivings. Even so, he stayed as close to Max as he could in these unfamiliar surroundings until the moment when they had to part company as Max passed alone through the security gate. Turning, he beckoned Roussel to follow.
Beep… beepbeepbeepbeepbeep. Roussel jumped, as if he’d been on the receiving end of a jolt of electricity. He was told to go back and try again; more beeps. The alarm on his face increased as he was taken off to one side, where a bored young woman swept his body with an electronic wand that came to rest with an agitated buzzing sound on his stomach. And there, tucked into his waistcoat pocket, was his old Opinel knife, a friend of many years and the peasant’s constant companion in the fields and at table. With a frown of deep disapproval, the young woman confiscated the knife, tossed it into a plastic bin, and attempted to wave him on his way.
Roussel’s alarm turned to outrage. He stood his ground. That was his property; he wanted it back. He turned to Max, waiting a few yards away, and jerked an accusing thumb at the young woman. “She has stolen my knife!” The other passengers waiting to go through security, curious and suddenly nervous, took a few steps backwards and watched as the young woman looked for the nearest armed guard.
Max came over and took Roussel by the arm. “Best not to argue with her,” he said. “I think she’s worried you might use it to slit the pilot’s throat.”
“Ah bon? Why would I do that, being myself in the plane?”
With some difficulty, Max steered him away from the security area and up to the bar in the departure lounge, where a fuller explanation, a pastis, and the promise of another knife-a Laguiole, even-did something to restore Roussel’s good humor.
As the plane heaved itself off the runway, with the customary clamor and judder of machinery under extreme stress, Max noticed that Roussel’s hands were gripping the arms of his seat so tightly that his knuckles showed white through the tanned skin. And thus they remained throughout the short flight, despite Max’s efforts to convince him that the unnerving and totally unnatural experience of being thirty thousand feet above the ground in a tin tube was unlikely to end in death. It wasn’t until he had celebrated his survival with another pastis at the Bordeaux airport that the color returned to Roussel’s face. He got into the rental car a more relaxed man. This was a form of transport he understood.
During the drive to their hotel in Bordeaux, Max and Charlie once again went over the plan they had worked out. The afternoon’s tasting was to be for Charlie alone. He would be suitably impressed, and a price would be negotiated, subject to approval by his client, the Sultan. Because of the time difference, the call to Tengah couldn’t be made from Bordeaux until midnight, and so a second visit would have to be arranged for the following day to deliver a bank draft and finalize shipping details. At this point, Charlie would be joined by the others, Fitzgerald would be confronted by Roussel, justice would be done, and the police could be called in. Nothing to it.
“All you have to remember,” said Max, “is to make sure you come away with a sample this afternoon, so that Claude can taste it and compare it with the bottle he’s brought.” He glanced at Charlie. “You OK?”
Charlie nodded, but not with any great conviction. “I think so,” he said. “I just hope I can pull it off. It’s one thing to do it on the phone, but…”