As she moved on to what she called the major part of the book-the world’s finest private cellars-Reboul’s interest increased. He asked who else besides himself would be approached. It was a question that Sophie had anticipated, and without hesitation she reeled off the names of a handful of English aristocrats, some well-known American industrialists, Hong Kong’s richest man, a reclusive Scottish widow who lived in a castle on thirty thousand acres of the Highlands, and two or three of the better-known families in Bordeaux and Burgundy.
Sophie was warming to her task, and Reboul was clearly warming to Sophie as she leaned toward him to emphasize the point she was about to make. Candidates for the book, she said, had to satisfy three requirements. First, they had to be people with sufficient taste and money to have put together a truly remarkable collection of wines. Second, they had to be interesting for reasons other than their love of wine-people who had, in Sophie’s words, a life beyond the cellar. And third, the cellars themselves had to be, in one way or another, out of the ordinary. She cited two examples of what she meant: the English earl who kept his wines in a towering Victorian folly, complete with humidity-controlled elevator, at the end of his garden; and the American who had put aside an entire floor of his Park Avenue triplex for his collection. Without having seen the cellars of the Palais du Pharo, she said, she couldn’t imagine that they were anything short of extraordinary.
Reboul nodded. “Indeed they are. And quite large. In fact, Monsieur Vial, my cellar master, keeps a small bicycle down there to get from one end to the other.” He raised a hand, and the young man materialized to refill their glasses. “It is an interesting project, and most charmingly explained.” He inclined his head toward Sophie. “But tell me a little about the-how can I put it?-the nuts and bolts. How does one prepare such a book?”
It was Sam’s turn. The very best people would be commissioned, he assured Reboul. The text would be assigned to an internationally respected wine writer-Hugh Johnson came to mind, obviously-perhaps with a foreword by Robert Parker; the photographs were to be taken by Halliwell or Duchamp, both of whom were generally regarded as masters. The overall appearance of the book would be supervised by Ettore Pozzuolo, a design genius and publishing legend. In other words, no expense would be spared. This was going to be nothing short of a bible for wine lovers. Here, Sam corrected himself. It would be the bible for wine lovers, and there were millions of these throughout the world. Naturally, said Sam, Reboul would be given full approval of the text and photographs used, with Madame Costes acting as the liaison between writer, photographer, and the Palais du Pharo. She would at all times be available for consultation.
Reboul pulled at the lobe of one leathery ear as he thought. He was aware that he was being flattered, but that never worried him. It was, he thought, not a bad idea, not bad at all. It was the kind of book that he himself would find interesting. And as long as his right of content approval was written into an agreement, there could be no embarrassing surprises when the book was published. It would be yet another testament to his success-the tycoon with a palate of gold. And not least of the attractions was the prospect of many cozy editorial meetings with the enchanting Madame Costes, who was looking at him so hopefully.
He made up his mind. “Very well,” he said. “I agree. Not for personal publicity, of course, but because I am always looking for opportunities to beat the drum for France and everything French. It’s a hobby of mine. I suppose I’m an old-fashioned patriot.” He paused to let this noble sentiment sink in before continuing. “Now then. As my secretary told you, I leave early tomorrow morning for a few days in Corsica. But you have no need of me at this stage. The man you should see is Monsieur Vial. He has been in charge of my cellar for almost thirty years. There are several thousand bottles, and I sometimes think he knows each one of them personally. There is nobody better to give you the guided tour.” Reboul nodded, and said again, “Yes, Vial is the man you must see.”
As he was speaking, Sophie’s expression had turned from hope to delight. She leaned forward to put her hand on Reboul’s arm. “Thank you,” she said. “You won’t regret it, I promise you.”
Reboul patted her hand. “I’m sure I won’t, my dear.” He looked across at the ever-hovering young man. “Dominique will make the arrangements for you to meet Vial tomorrow. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment. Dominique will take you back to your hotel.”
On their way out, they almost bumped into Reboul’s next appointment, a tall, sleek girl wearing large, dark sunglasses-in case the sun should magically reappear for an encore-and leaving in her wake a drift of scent.
“Shalimar,” said Sophie with a disapproving sniff, “and far too much of it.”
Standing on the steps outside the entrance waiting for the car, Sam put his arm around Sophie’s shoulder and squeezed. “You were sensational,” he said. “I thought for a moment you were going to sit on his lap.”
Sophie laughed. “I think he thought so too. He’s quite the ladies’ man.” She pursed her lips. “Although perhaps a little short.”
“Not a problem, believe me. If he stood on his wallet he’d be taller than both of us put together.”
A long, gleaming black Peugeot pulled up in front of the steps, and Dominique leaped out to open the rear doors.
“Just down the road, please,” said Sam. “The Sofitel.”
As they reached the end of the drive, the car stopped next to the statue of Empress Eugénie. Dominique lowered his window, stretched out a hand, and pressed a button that was concealed in a fold of Eugénie’s marble robes. The electric gates swung open. With a murmured “Merci, madame,” Dominique turned onto the boulevard, and, minutes later, they were back at the hotel.
“I don’t know about you,” said Sam to Sophie, as the car pulled away, “but I think we’ve earned another drink. I’ll race you to the bar.”
As they crossed the lobby, a large, disheveled figure hurried over to intercept them, his eyebrows raised, his shoulders hunched, his hands spread wide. A human semaphore, fresh from the Salon d’Erotisme.
“Alors? Alors? How did it go?”
Sam gave two thumbs up. “Sophie was fantastic. We’ve got a date to visit the cellar tomorrow morning. How about you? Did you have an erotic afternoon?”
The big man grinned. “You would be amazed. Many novelties-you should see what they do with latex nowadays. For instance-”
“Philippe! Enough.” Sophie was shaking her head all the way to the bar.
Over drinks, they brought Philippe up to date. It had been a promising start, they all agreed, but tomorrow would be key, and there was a lot of ground to cover. From Reboul’s description, his cellar was gigantic, a bicycle ride from one end to the other. Not only that. They would be looking for a mere five hundred bottles among thousands. It was going to be a long day.
Sam finished his drink and stood up. “I think I’d better go and make a few calls. The folks in L.A. will be wanting to know what’s going on, and it’s best to get them before lunch. But I’m sure you two have a lot of family gossip to catch up on.”
Philippe looked disappointed. “Don’t you want to hear about the Salon d’Erotisme?”
“With a passion,” said Sam. “But not tonight.”
It was eleven a.m. in Los Angeles, and Elena Morales was beginning to wonder if she might find any entries in the Yellow Pages under “Human Disposal.” Danny Roth’s calls-whether snide, abusive, or threatening-were getting her down to the extent that she was having frequent daydreams about arranging for his extermination. Added to that was her irritation at Sam’s prolonged silence and the frustration of not knowing what, if any, progress was being made in France. And so when her secretary announced that Mr. Levitt was on the line, she was ready to bite his head off.