Reboul had read his mind, and was shaking his head. “No bodyguards,” he said. “I thought it would be more comfortable with just the two of us.” He sat back in his chair, completely at ease, his eyes bright with amusement in his mahogany face. “How fortunate that I kept the card you gave me. As I recall, you were in the publishing business the last time we met.” He dipped a sugar cube in his coffee and sucked it thoughtfully. “But somehow I feel that literature might be a little tame for a man with your rather special talents. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that you’ve made a career move. Would it be indiscreet of me to ask what you’re doing now?”

Sam hesitated for a moment. He was rarely at a loss for words, but Reboul had him completely off balance. “Well,” he said. “The book business is pretty slow right now, so I’m sort of resting between assignments.”

“Excellent,” said Reboul. He seemed genuinely pleased. “If you’re not too busy, I have a proposition that might interest you. But first you must tell me something, just entre nous.” He leaned forward, both elbows on the table, his chin resting on his clasped hands, his expression intent. “How did you do it?”

Acknowledgments

I am most grateful to Anthony Barton, of Château Léoville Barton, for selecting the wines that I arranged to have stolen. Seldom has an author received such prompt, expert, and delicious advice.

My thanks also to David Charlton, my fingerprint mentor, who was kind enough to fill in some of the many gaps in my forensic education.

And finally, mille mercis to Ailie Collins, whose efficiency and constant good humor have been such an enormous help over the years.

A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Peter Mayle has lived in Provence, with his wife and their two dogs, for many years. He is a Chevalier in the Légion d’Honneur.