Leaving the center of Pauillac behind them, they could now see Château Lafite, standing on a low hill well back from the road. Sophie stopped the Range Rover and turned to Sam. “It’s just the one question, yes? Has anyone during the past year tried to buy the ’53 and been disappointed?”

“That’s it,” said Sam. “Here’s hoping.”

As the day wore on, and the first two châteaus were crossed off the list, it seemed to Sam that they were going to repeat the frustrations of the last two days. Memories were consulted, brows were furrowed, shoulders were shrugged, but-désolé, mais non-there was no recollection of a hopeful but disappointed purchaser.

Their luck changed on their third stop. The estate manager, a native of Pauillac and a friend of Sophie’s family, thought that he remembered a visitor from the previous fall who was very specific about the vintage he was searching for; a rather stubborn gentleman, in fact, who had been reluctant to take no for an answer. He had left his business card so that he could be contacted if any bottles of that particular vintage turned up. The estate manager scratched his head and went through his desk drawers, finally fishing out an old cigar box where he kept the cards that one day he might need. He fumbled them out onto the desk-cards of customers from England and America, wine journalists from all over the world, the odd master chef, barrel makers, sommeliers-and spread them out across the desk, an impressive display of copperplate script and fine white board.

His fingers fluttered over the cards before coming to rest. “Voilà,” he said as he slid one card away from the others, “un monsieur très insistant.”

Sophie and Sam leaned forward to read the card:

Florian Vial

Caviste

Groupe Reboul Palais du Pharo 13007 Marseille

Driving to the next château-the fourth of the day-Sam asked Sophie if she knew anything about the Groupe Reboul. Had she ever heard of it? Was it a wine wholesaler?

Sophie laughed. “Everyone in France knows the Groupe Reboul. It’s everywhere, involved in everything.” She frowned. “Except wine. I’ve never heard of Reboul dealing in wine. I’ll tell you about him later, but don’t get too excited. It’s probably just a chance visit.”

But perhaps it wasn’t, because at Figeac and then at Margaux they found that Monsieur Vial had been there before them, looking for the ’82 of one and the ’83 of the other, leaving his card at both châteaus.

As Sam said to Sophie, “Twice could be coincidence. But not three times. I’ll buy you dinner if you tell me all about Reboul.”

Ten

Sam had always thought of himself as something of a gastronomic adventurer, ready to eat almost anything that was put in front of him: snails, frogs’ legs, shark fin soup, chocolate-covered ants, clay-baked squirrel-he had sampled them all, and found them interesting, if not always to his taste. But his courage failed him when it came to that great panoply of guts and gizzards known as offal. The very mention of tripe induced a shudder. His was a classic case of not trying something because he was sure he wouldn’t like it, and for more years than he could remember he had managed to avoid dishes that featured entrails of any kind. This was about to change.

Sophie had insisted that they return to Delphine’s restaurant for dinner, and while they were walking there from the hotel she explained why. It was a Thursday. And every Thursday, Olivier the chef prepared his sublime rognons de veau-calves’ kidneys-cooked in port and served with mashed potatoes that were so light and fluffy they almost floated off the plate and into your mouth. It was without doubt her favorite dish in the world. She was starting to go into the merits of the gravy when she noticed a lack of enthusiastic response from Sam, and a hint of dismay in his expression.

She stopped and turned toward him. “Ah,” she said. “I forgot. Americans don’t eat kidneys, do they?”

Sophie watched with amusement as Sam took a deep breath. “We’re not great fans. I guess we have a problem with innards. I’ve never tried them.”

“Innards?”

“You know-internal organs. Stomachs and livers and lungs and sweetbreads and giblets…”

“… and kidneys.” Sophie gave him a pitying look. How could a man have gone through life without tasting kidneys? She tapped his shoulder with an emphatic index finger. “I’ll make you a deal. Try them. If you don’t like them, you can have steak frites and I’ll pay for dinner. Trust me.”

Settled at their table, Sam was reaching for the wine list when Sophie’s index finger struck again, this time wagging back and forth like an agitated metronome. “Mais non, Sam. How can you choose a wine to go with something you’ve never tasted?”

Sam surrendered the list and sat back as Sophie studied the pages, nibbling on her bottom lip in concentration. He wondered if she could cook, and if she did, what she wore. A silk scarf for whipping up omelettes? Pearls for dessert? Did Hermès make kitchen aprons? His thoughts were interrupted by Delphine, bearing glasses of champagne, and the two women held a murmured conference that ended with an exchange of nods and smiles.

“Bon,” said Sophie. “To start, blinis with caviar. Then the rognons, with an exceptional Pomerol, the 2002 Château L’Evangile. Is that good for you?”

“I never argue with a pretty woman who knows her kidneys.”

They touched glasses, and Sophie began to tell Sam what she knew about the Groupe Reboul.

The British have Branson, she said. The Italians have Berlusconi. The French have Francis Reboul-Sissou to his friends and to the faithful journalists who have been documenting his business exploits during the past forty years. He had become a national institution, she said; or, according to some, a national treasure, a flamboyant personality, a Marseille boy made good and loving every second of his success. He was comfortable with publicity. Indeed, his critics said that he was incapable of getting dressed each morning without issuing a press release about the color of his tie and the general state of his wardrobe. This, of course, endeared him to the media; he was a walking event, always good for a story.

And he was always doing a deal of some kind, Sophie said. The business empire he had built up over the years included construction, regional newspapers and radio stations, a soccer team, water treatment plants, transportation, electronics-he seemed to have a finger in everything.

Sophie paused as the blinis arrived.

“How about wine?” asked Sam. “Does he have a château or two?”

“I don’t know. Not here, anyway.” She took a mouthful of blini and her eyes closed for a moment. “Mmm, that’s good. I hope you like caviar, Sam?”

“Love it. Doesn’t everybody?”

“No. There are some strange people who don’t eat innards of fish.” She smiled sweetly and popped more blini into her mouth.

Sam held up his hands in surrender. “OK, OK. So I like fish innards. Go on about Reboul.”

Sophie searched her memory for the odds and ends of information about Reboul that she had picked up from the press and television. He lived in Marseille, in some sort of palace. His passion, frequently and publicly declared, was France and all things French (apart from Paris, which, like every good Marseillais, he distrusted). He even made the supreme sacrifice of paying French taxes, and gave a press conference each April to tell the world what a huge contribution he made every year to the national economy. He liked young ladies, and they made regular appearances at his side in the pages of celebrity magazines, always described by an indulgent press as his nieces. He kept two yachts: one for the summer, in Saint-Tropez, the other for the winter, in the Seychelles. And, of course, he had a private jet.