“Of course you can,” said Max. “A master of disguise like you? I remember when you did Hamlet in the school play.”

Charlie frowned. “But I was playing Ophelia.”

Max didn’t miss a beat. “Well, there you are. Had me fooled. This should be a piece of cake after Ophelia.”

There was a giggle from Christie in the back seat. She leaned forward and squeezed Charlie’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine. You won’t even have to wear a wig.”

They were staying at the Claret, a businessman’s hotel Max had chosen from the Michelin guide for its appropriate name and for its convenient location just off the quai des Chartrons, a short walk from Fitzgerald’s tasting rooms. Stopping to drop off their bags and pick up a street map of Bordeaux, they walked along the quai and found a café overlooking the broad curve of the Garonne. There, over ham sandwiches and a carafe of wine, Charlie rehearsed his performance for Christie, his audience of one. Max and Roussel talked, their mood quietly optimistic, about the future-a future that largely depended on the events of the next few hours.

The time had come. They agreed to meet back at the hotel, and Charlie, map in hand, set off for the cours Xavier Arnozan.

It was Fitzgerald himself who opened the door in response to Charlie’s knock. “Enchanted to meet you, Mr. Willis,” he said as they shook hands. “I think you’ll be pleased to hear that I have given my secretary the afternoon off. We are entirely alone. I thought that would make you feel more comfortable.”

“Most kind, most kind.” Charlie nodded his thanks with a faint smile, and followed Fitzgerald down the corridor to the tasting room. The sound of a Bach fugue came softly from concealed speakers. Bottles, glasses, and silver candlesticks were arranged along the gleaming length of the mahogany table, a burnished copper crachoir at one end next to a tasteful arrangement of white linen napkins laid out in the form of a fan. It was the church of Bacchus, a shrine to wine. Charlie half-expected a priest to pop out of the woodwork and give his blessing to the proceedings.

Fitzgerald took a slim crocodile case from his pocket, and passed Charlie a business card. He waited, clearly expecting a card in return.

Charlie had anticipated just such a moment. He aimed the two black barrels of his sunglasses at the other man, shaking his head slowly. “My client sometimes carries discretion to the point of secrecy, Mr. Fitzgerald. He prefers that I don’t advertise myself, and so I don’t carry business cards. I’m sure you understand.”

“Indeed,” said Fitzgerald. “Forgive me. And now, if you feel ready…” He extended an immaculate tweed-clad arm toward the table, inclining his head as he did so.

Charlie had an awful twinge of doubt. If this was a scam, it was a beautifully presented scam, and Fitzgerald-every aristocratic inch of him-appeared to be the genuine Bordeaux article. It was hard to imagine that he was a crook. And then Charlie had a mental image of some of his acquaintances in the top end of the London property business: charming, well educated, well tailored, glib-and more than capable of evicting their grandmothers in order to make a sale; villains to a man. Encouraged by this thought, he removed his sunglasses with a flourish and advanced toward the table as the fugue reached its plaintive conclusion and the room fell silent.

“If I may make a suggestion,” said Fitzgerald, “we might start with the ’99 before going on to the 2000-which I have to say is my personal favorite.” He poured wine into two glasses, and passed one to Charlie.

Hours of practice-at his wine-tasting course, and during a final rehearsal the previous evening, in front of the bathroom mirror-had prepared Charlie for the all-important niceties of this all-important ritual. Holding the glass by its base, between fingers and thumb, he presented it to the light of the candle’s flame, his eyes narrowed in what he hoped looked like knowledgeable concentration.

“As you see,” said Fitzgerald, “the robe is particularly fine, somewhere between…”

Charlie held up a hand. “Please. I need complete silence.” He began to swirl the wine with a gentle circular motion of the glass, his head tilted to one side. And then, judging the bouquet to be sufficiently developed, he buried his nose in the glass, with graceful little waves of his free hand-a rather pretentious refinement he’d picked up in his course-to direct the fragrant air toward his cocked and waiting nostrils. He inhaled, looked up to commune with the ceiling, bent his head to inhale again, and issued a quiet hum of approval.

Raising the glass to his lips, he took some wine and held it in his mouth for several seconds before going through what he always thought of as the sound effects: he sucked in air; his cheeks went in and out like bellows; he chewed; he swilled; and, finally, he spat. In the silence of the room, the sound of wine hitting the copper bottom of the crachoir seemed unnaturally loud, almost shocking.

Fitzgerald waited, his eyebrows raised like two question marks.

“Excellent, quite excellent,” said Charlie. He decided to risk a compliment. “I am reminded of Petrus, but a more muscular Petrus. And yet you say you prefer the 2000?”

The half smile on Fitzgerald’s face grew broader. “You are kind enough to flatter me. But with the 2000, I think you will be surprised, even étonné. Permit me.” He took Charlie’s glass, and replaced it with another, this one containing wine from the 2000 vintage. Once again, Charlie went slowly and deliberately through the tasting ritual while Fitzgerald watched like a cat that was one short jump away from the mouse.

Again the echoing splash of liquid on copper. “Remarkable,” said Charlie, dabbing his lips with a linen napkin. “My congratulations, Mr. Fitzgerald. This is a Bordeaux unlike any others I have ever tasted. A triumph.”

Fitzgerald allowed himself a modest shrug. “We do the best we can,” he said. “Organic fertilizer, of course, and the grapes are picked by hand avec tri-as you know, that’s to guarantee the état sanitaire.”

What the hell was that? Charlie nodded wisely. “Good, good.”

“And the vinification is always avec pigeage, as we say. Just as my grandfather used to do. Sometimes, the old ways are the best.”

What the hell was pigeage? Nobody had told him about that in the wine course. It sounded complicated and vaguely unhygienic. “One can always tell,” said Charlie. “God is in the details”-he inclined his head to Fitzgerald-“as we say. Now then. Perhaps we could move on to the more squalid financial details; for the 2000, I think. You’re quite right. It has just that little more complexity, a longer finish, more-how shall I put it?-gravitas. And I’m sure such excellence has its price.”

Fitzgerald, with only the faintest shrug of apology, said: “One hundred thousand dollars a case.” He smiled. “That would include delivery to anywhere in the world.”

Charlie recovered sufficiently to wave aside such a minor matter. “As far as delivery goes, I’m sure the Sultan would want to send one of his planes. He considers the security in commercial airlines far too lax for valuable shipments.” He consulted the ceiling again, deep in thought, before speaking. This time, his tone was brisk and businesslike. “Very well. I intend to recommend that my client take a position with this wine. Let me see now. Would ten cases be possible?”

“You would be stripping our cellar, Mr. Willis.” Fitzgerald did his best to appear reluctant, a man loath to part with his treasures. “But yes, we can just manage ten cases.”

“Splendid.” Charlie looked at his watch. “The time difference is nine hours, which is a little inconvenient, I’m afraid. I won’t be able to place the call until quite late tonight. However, I can use the rest of the afternoon to arrange a bank draft. Credit Suisse is acceptable, I would imagine?”