“What a bit of luck,” said Sam as they walked around the house toward the gardens overlooking the sea. “Tomorrow would have been too late. I imagine there’s always a reception committee when Reboul gets back from one of his trips.” He took his camera from his pocket and turned it on. “She’s quite a grand lady for a housekeeper, isn’t she?”
Sophie looked up at the towering façade: three floors and countless windows. Reboul could have lodged a small army in there. “It’s quite a grand house.” She stopped, and put a hand on Sam’s arm. He could feel it was trembling. “Sam, I’m nervous.”
He squeezed her hand and grinned. “Me too. That’s the way it should be. It’s when you’re not nervous that you get careless. Listen-you’ve been great all through this, and it’s nearly over. One last effort and you’re done.” He took her arm and guided her through the garden, his free hand panning the camera across the view. “Now, you’re in charge. Tell me where to start, and remember to point at what you want me to shoot. Wave your arms about. Stamp your foot. Tear your hair out. Make like a creative director. You’ll have an audience. I’m pretty sure our friend indoors will be keeping her eye on us to make sure we’re not disturbing the lavender.”
They photographed the terrace, the clipped formality of the gardens, the 180-degree view, all the time conscious of the sun’s slow progress as it dropped closer and closer to the sea. Just before they had finished, Sam stopped, put his phone to his ear, and went through the motions of taking a call before putting the phone back in his pocket. “My excuse for leaving,” he said, and passed the camera over to Sophie. “Let’s go inside for the shot through the window. This is where I disappear. Can you take pictures with your fingers crossed?”
They went into the house from the terrace, and crossed a small lobby before reaching the living room door. It was open. They were well inside the room before they realized they were not alone.
“I’m sure you have made some lovely photographs. It’s such a perfect evening.” The housekeeper got up from the ornate little desk in front of the window where she’d been making notes and came toward them, gracious and smiling, the last person Sam wanted to see.
He pasted an answering smile onto his face. “I’m so glad we caught you,” he said. “I’ve just had a call reminding me that I’m late for a meeting in Marseille, but I wanted to thank you before I left. Sophie’s taking over for the last couple of shots.”
The housekeeper put on a diplomatic expression that managed to convey both disappointment and understanding. “What a pity you have to rush.” She made a move toward the door. “You must let me show you-”
Sam held up a hand. “No, no, no. Please don’t bother. I’ll see myself out. Thanks again.” And with that, he hurried from the room, closing the door behind him.
He crossed the main entrance lobby and slipped into the dining room. Tiptoeing past the twenty-seat table with its high-backed tapestry chairs, he came to the serving alcove and the heavy swing door that led to the kitchen. He put his ear to the crack between door and wall: nothing but the muted hum of refrigerators. He went through, past the gleaming array of stainless steel and copper, and into the back kitchen. In front of him was the door to the stairs that led down to the cellar; locked, as he had expected. He checked his watch. Six-fifteen. Sophie was meeting Vial at 6:30, and taking him back to the hotel bar.
Sam braced himself for an uncomfortable quarter of an hour and opened the door of the dumbwaiter. What had Vial called it? “The elevator for bottles. There is no turbulence. The wine arrives relaxed.” He hoped he could do the same.
In fact, the elevator for bottles was little more than a long box, hand-operated by the old-fashioned combination of rope and pulley. But it was a substantial piece of work, solid enough to hold the weight of half a dozen cases of wine and tall enough for the cases to fit one on top of another in a single stack. Almost coffin-shaped. Sam tried not to dwell on that as he caught hold of the thick rope that operated the pulley and wedged himself gingerly into the narrow space, wincing at the sound of the pulley creaking under his weight. He closed the door and drew a deep breath. The darkness around him held the faintly musty smell of corks and stale wine, the souvenir of a bottle that had leaked during its journey upstairs. He fed the pulley rope through his hands, lowering himself slowly and with infinite care until he felt the soft thump that told him he’d arrived at cellar level.
Florian Vial put the finishing touches to the jaunty upward sweep of his moustache and walked down the cellar to the stairway leading into the house, passing within six feet of the crouching figure inside the dumbwaiter. He was looking forward to seeing Sophie again, all the more after receiving her call to say that Sam wouldn’t be able to join them. A pleasant enough young man, of course, but Vial much preferred the intimacy of a tête-à-tête with Sophie, and there was the added advantage that they could speak French, a language made for gallantries.
Sam heard Vial’s footsteps on the flagstones of the cellar floor, and gave him another few minutes to get up the stairs and into the house. He was by now beginning to suffer from mild claustrophobia and the onset of a cramp. His thigh muscles felt as though they had been stretched to the snapping point, and he was sure he’d picked up a splinter in his backside. But he’d made it. The cellar was his for the night, and the hours of physical labor ahead of him would come as a relief after his ordeal in the dumbwaiter.
The pulley rope gave a final creak as he hauled himself out, and he stood for a few moments in the darkness, stretching the kinks out of his body. Even though the risk of being detected was minimal, he had decided to wait for a couple of hours before turning on the cellar lights and starting work. By then, just about everyone in Marseille would be observing the sacred ritual of dinner.
Guided by the thin beam of his flashlight, he made his way down to the far end of the cellar, where he found everything as he had remembered it. The golf cart was parked in its place by the door, and the empty cartons from Domaine Reboul were piled up in the corner. These would have to be replaced with unmarked cartons, but there would be plenty of time later for that. He went into Vial’s office, settled himself in Vial’s chair, and put his feet up on Vial’s desk. Philippe answered his call after the first ring.
“So far, so good,” said Sam.
“You’re in the cellar?”
“I’m in the cellar. I’ll be starting to pack up the wine in a couple of hours. Let’s just go through the drill again.”
“Bon. When all the wine is packed, you will call me. The van’s parked by the Vieux Port. At that time of night, it will take me three minutes to reach the Palais.”
“Good. Now, I’ll make sure the gates are open. Remember to switch off your lights just before you turn into the drive. I don’t want anyone in the house to see any headlights. Take the left fork off the main drive. I’ll blink my flashlight to guide you into the delivery area. The cases will be stacked up outside the cellar. Loading them into the van will take five minutes, tops. Then we’ll be out of here.”
“Roger that.”
“Roger what?”
“It’s army talk. I heard it on a TV show.”
Sam rolled his eyes in the darkness. He’d forgotten Philippe’s fondness for all things military. “Oh, one other thing. How long will it take to get where we’re going?”
“The van isn’t built for speed, but we’ll be on the autoroute for a lot of the way. I think an hour and a half, not much more.”
“OK. We’re all set. See you later.”
Sam’s confidence was increasing now that he was getting close to the finish. Something could go wrong, of course; something always could. But he allowed himself a few moments of optimism as he considered facts and possibilities.