Philippe was back in his preferred position, perched on the edge of his seat, his feet starting to twitch. “How illegal?”
“I thought I’d steal the wine.”
Sophie laughed, and shook her head. “Mais c’est fou. You’re crazy.”
Philippe held up his hand. “Just a minute.” He looked behind him as he leaned forward, every inch the conspirator. Anyone watching would have marked him down instantly as a man discussing a guilty secret. His voice was little more than a whisper. “You’ve worked out how to do it?”
“Absolutely.”
Sophie had stopped laughing. “But Sam, we would be the obvious suspects. Reboul tells the police about this strange couple spending days in his cellar, and they find us, and then it is not him in jail. It’s us. No?”
Sam shook his head. “We could argue that what we’re doing here is to recover stolen property on behalf of the client of an international, highly reputable insurance company. Our methods are a bit unorthodox, that’s all. But more important: what’s Reboul going to say? Someone’s stolen the wine I stole? I don’t think so. No matter how good his lawyers are, he won’t want Interpol on his back. No, I’m pretty sure he’ll keep quiet.”
Philippe gave up chewing his lip to pour some more coffee. “Sam, you said something about a better story.” He looked at Sophie, and added quickly, “That is, if we decide to go ahead.”
“Right. It begins with that old favorite, the anonymous tip-off-you must have had dozens of them before. Sometimes the motive is revenge, sometimes it’s guilt, sometimes it’s just mischief. Anyway, you receive a call from a stranger. He refuses to identify himself. He tells you about an extraordinary cache of wine that has been left in a remote spot-we’ll come to that later-and he tells you that it has been stolen. Perhaps he’s stolen it himself and can’t unload it. But he doesn’t go into details. In fact, there are no other details. Just directions that lead to the hiding place. You don’t really believe him, but you go there. What a surprise: you find the wine, just as your anonymous caller said. And there’s chapter one of your story.”
Philippe nodded slowly. “Not a bad start. And I think I can see where it’s going.”
“I’m sure you can. You investigate. You call all your contacts. And little by little, maybe article by article, you pick up clues that lead you to Los Angeles, where you interview Danny Roth and get his take on how the wine was stolen: Christmas Eve, the crooked caretaker, the ambulance, everything. That part is clear. The other part-who stole the wine-remains an unsolved mystery; Reboul and Vial are left out of it.” Sam looked from Sophie to Philippe. “What do you think?”
“I like it,” said Philippe. “It could make a great series, like a feuilleton on television.” His feet danced a little jig of approval.
They both turned to look at Sophie.
It took some time to convince her that larceny was their best option. She tried to argue that they could just forget the whole thing and go home, but Sam reminded her it was too late for that: he had told Elena Morales. Knox International already knew the wine had been found, and they would follow up, with or without Sam. And so, after considerable soul-searching on Sophie’s part, it was agreed. They would steal the wine.
Philippe was able to provide the solution to the next problem, which was where the wine could be hidden. His grandmother had owned a farm and a few acres of land on the Claparèdes, an isolated area in the Luberon. When Philippe was growing up, he used to spend the summers there, a pleasant family tradition that ended when his grandmother died. Unfortunately, she had left no will, which provoked a bitter inheritance squabble-not uncommon in France-between relatives who thought they were entitled to the property. This had been going on for thirteen years so far, and showed no sign of resolution. Meanwhile, the farm was uninhabited and sadly neglected. None of the competing relatives was prepared to pay to maintain a property that might eventually go to someone else-an undeserving wretch of a cousin, for instance, or the universally detested Aunt Hortense. Apart from its extremely remote location, Philippe said, the property had the advantage of a good-sized cellar, where the wine could be kept without risk of deterioration.
“Sounds ideal,” said Sam. “Can you get in?”
“The key’s hidden under a stone behind the well. Or there’s a shutter that never worked on the kitchen window. One way or another, getting in won’t be a problem.”
“Fine. The next thing is transportation, and I don’t think your scooter’s going to be enough. Are you OK to drive a small van?”
Philippe sat up straight, an indignant expression on his face. “All Frenchmen can drive anything.”
“I thought so. We’ll rent something this afternoon.” Sam turned to Sophie. “Here’s where I’m going to need your help. I have to get into the house before it’s shut up for the night. My excuse for wandering around is that we have to take reference photographs, and the best time for that is in the evening, when the light’s really good. As soon as I get the chance, I’ll disappear. If Vial or anyone else asks where I am, you can say I had to go into town for a meeting. You keep taking photographs until the staff begins to leave, then get back to the hotel.” Sophie was frowning. “Then what happens?”
“Let’s get something to eat. I’ll tell you over lunch.” At the mention of lunch, Philippe stood up and rubbed his hands. “Just one question,” he said. “When do we do this?” Sam looked at his watch. “In about six hours.”
Twenty-one
The hours after lunch were spent finalizing the evening’s plans. Philippe rented an unmarked white van-he described it as a plumber’s Ferrari-easily big enough to hold fifty cases of wine. Sophie called Vial to tell him that she and Sam would be taking exterior reference shots in the gardens around the house for an hour or so in the evening, and suggested that they meet for a drink afterward. Vial didn’t need to be asked twice.
Sam spent the afternoon in a state of enforced inactivity, a kind of expectant limbo. There was little he could do now but hope for the best; luck had to be with him during the first crucial stage. He took his second shower of the day and changed into an outfit suitable for nocturnal burglary: dark-blue trousers, dark-blue T-shirt, dark-blue windbreaker. Everything else he threw into his suitcase. He checked and rechecked the batteries in his camera and penlight, and charged his phone. He went once again through the list of stolen wines before putting it in his pocket. He paced up and down his terrace, for once oblivious to the view. He came close to twiddling his thumbs. He was more than ready to go.
The sun was beginning its daily dip toward the horizon, and the slanting golden light was a photographer’s dream as Sophie and Sam made their way up the entrance steps to the Palais du Pharo. Before they had a chance to ring the bell, the front door opened. The housekeeper, an elegant, gray-haired woman in a crisp linen dress, came out to greet them.
“Florian told me to expect you,” she said. “You must let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Sophie thanked her. “We’ll be outside for most of the time,” she said. “It’s such a marvelous light between now and sunset. But perhaps we could come indoors for one final shot through the living room window-you know, that moment just before the sun disappears into the sea. We saw it when we were with Monsieur Reboul, and it was quite spectacular.”
The housekeeper nodded. “I’ll leave the terrace door open for you. I’m sorry you won’t have a chance to see Monsieur Reboul tonight. But he gets back tomorrow, and I’m sure he’d love to see the pictures.” With a smile and a regal flutter of her hand, she turned and went back inside.