by Peter Mayle
He endured it up to the point where the lawyers, never too far from Caroline’s thoughts, were summoned as reinforcements, and then gently put the phone down.
It rang almost immediately. Simon finished his Calvados. The phone continued to ring. Shit.
“Caroline, we’ll talk about this when you’ve calmed down.”
“Monsieur Shaw?” A man’s voice, French.
“Oui.”
“Monsieur Shaw, I have a friend of yours.”
There was a pause, and then a strained voice came on the line. “Simon? It’s Boone.”
“Boone! Where the hell are you? We were worried about you.”
“I don’t know, man. In some phone booth in the middle of nowhere. Simon, there are these guys—”
“Are you okay?”
“So far. Listen—”
The phone was taken away from Boone; Simon heard the mutter of other voices, and then the Frenchman came back on the line.
“Pay attention, Monsieur Shaw. The young man is not harmed. He can be released very quickly. You will make the organisation.” There was the clink of another coin being fed into the slot. “Monsieur Shaw?”
“I’m listening.”
“Bon. You will arrange ten million French francs, in cash. You understand?”
“Ten million.”
“In cash. I will telephone tomorrow night at the same time with the instructions for delivery. And Monsieur Shaw?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t talk to the police. That would be a mistake.”
The line went dead. Simon sat for a few moments, remembering Boone’s voice, tight and scared. He looked at his watch. Late afternoon in New York—if Boone’s father was in New York. And if he knew the number. He started to call international enquiries and then changed his mind. Ziegler would have the number.
“Bob? Simon Shaw.”
“Is this important? I’m up to my ass over here.”
“It’s Parker’s son. He’s been kidnapped.”
“Holy shit.” Ziegler switched off his squawk box and picked up the phone. His voice sounded close and irritated. “Are you sure?”
“He’s been missing from school for a couple of days. I just had a call from the people who’ve got him. I spoke to Boone too. Yes, I’m sure.”
“Jesus. Have you told the police?”
“No police. Listen, I’ve got to talk to Parker. They want ten million francs to let him go, and they want it in twenty-four hours.”
“What’s that in money?”
“Nearly two million dollars. Give me Parker’s number in New York.”
“Forget it. He’s on his way to Tokyo. Left this morning.”
“Shit.”
“You’re goddamn right, shit.”
Simon could hear the laughter of some guests as they came up from the bar and wished each other goodnight. “Bob, I don’t have ten million francs in my back pocket. Can the agency put up the money?”
Ziegler’s voice sounded reluctant. “It’s a lot of dough.”
Simon decided to appeal to Ziegler’s humanitarian instincts. “It’s a big client, Bob.”
There was a pause while Ziegler considered the possible benefits that might come from providing an urgent personal service to Hampton Parker. If that didn’t lock the account in for ten years, nothing would.
Ziegler made up his mind. “The important thing is the kid, right? Human life is at stake here. Let it never be said that this agency doesn’t have a fucking heart.” Ziegler was making notes as he spoke. This would make a terrific press release. “Okay. We’ll wire the money over to your bank, and I’ll get hold of Parker somehow and fill him in. Stay by the phone. He’ll probably want to talk to you.”
Simon gave Ziegler the details of his bank in Cavaillon. “It’s got to be here by this time tomorrow, Bob. Okay?”
“Sure, sure.” The tone of Ziegler’s voice changed. “There’s just one detail.”
“What’s that?”
“Security for the money. I’m CEO of this agency, responsible to the shareholders. If I start raiding the till for two million bucks, my ass could be in a sling.”
Simon could hardly believe what he heard. “For Christ’s sake, Bob—the boy could be killed while you’re pissing around arranging a bloody mortgage!”
Ziegler continued as though he hadn’t heard. “Tell you what I’ll do.” His voice became breezy, almost cheerful. “I’ll cut a corner here. I’ll get legal to fax you over a one-page agreement. Just sign it and fax it back. That’ll cover me. Then we’ll wire the money.”
“Sign what and fax it back?”
“Call it insurance, buddy. You pledge your shares in the agency, you get your money.”
Simon was speechless.
“I’ll get on to it right now. You should have the fax in an hour, okay? Talk to you soon.”
Simon went down to the bar and made for the Calvados. Nicole and Ernest, sitting at a table going over the evening’s bills, watched him as he took a glass and a bottle and came over to join them. He told them the news in a flat, matter-of-fact voice. And then they sat, asking each other unanswerable questions about the kidnappers and Boone, waiting.
The fax came through. Simon barely read it before signing it and sending it back. He’d heard somewhere that faxes weren’t considered binding, but Ziegler probably had the whole legal department working on that at the moment. Little bastard.
Simon told Nicole and Ernest to go to bed and sat in the office with a pot of coffee waiting for the phone to ring.
The call finally came at four in the morning, Hampton Parker’s voice sounding thin with worry. Simon heard the intake of breath as he drew on a cigarette. He was at Tokyo airport, waiting for his plane to be refuelled and the flight plan to Paris approved. From there, he’d charter something smaller to get down to Avignon. He’d be bringing two men with him. They’d need somewhere to stay. He spoke in a controlled, mechanical way about details until the end of the conversation.
“You don’t think they’ve hurt him?”
“No,” Simon said, with as much conviction as he could find. “He said he was fine. He sounded a bit shaken, that’s all.”
“He’s my only boy, you know. The rest are girls. He’s a good boy, too.”
“We all like him very much.”
“Those sons of bitches.”
“Try not to worry. We’ll do everything they ask.”
“Appreciate it. I’ll talk to you from Paris.”
There was nothing to do but go to bed and wait for tomorrow, but Simon was wide awake, agitated by tension and too much coffee. He went back to the house and upstairs to the bedroom. Nicole was breathing softly, one brown arm across his pillow. He bent down to kiss her shoulder, and she smiled in her sleep.
The bedroom was hot, despite the open windows. All through the first half of July, temperatures had been above a hundred, and even the thick stone walls of the house felt warm. Simon undressed, stood under a cool shower for five minutes, and went downstairs with a towel round his waist. He opened the door to the terrace and moved a chair so that he could sit facing the dawn, thinking evil thoughts about the possibility of Caroline being kidnapped. She’d probably give the kidnappers one of her monologues and her lawyer’s phone number, and they’d pay to get rid of her. Maybe they’d accept Ziegler in part exchange. Simon yawned and rubbed at the grittiness in his eyes and blinked as the first blinding sliver of sun appeared over the deep blue mass of the mountain. It was going to be another hot and beautiful day, wonderful weather for arranging a ten million–franc ransom. He stretched, felt the rattan chair bite into his back, and heard someone down in the village greeting the morning with the prolonged, racking rasp of a forty-a-day cough.
23
The two detectives were waiting for Simon when he arrived at the hotel just before nine. The director of the school at Lacoste, knowing nothing of the kidnap but becoming increasingly worried about his missing student, had called in the police. Once
the nationality and the financial eminence of the student’s father had been disclosed, responsibility for the investigation had been passed upwards from the local gendarmerie. And now Avignon’s finest, short and dark and longing for coffee, had arrived to deal with the case of the missing boy.
Simon showed them in to the reception office and was aware of eau de cologne and garlic. His offer of coffee was gratefully accepted, the sight of Françoise as she bent to put the tray on the desk noted and enjoyed; cigarettes were lit, and the notebooks came out.
“Before you ask any questions,” Simon said, “I think I have to tell you what has happened.”
At first, the detectives were pleased. Only in a professional sense, of course, but now the case had assumed some real importance. A missing person, even a missing person from a rich American family, was one thing. A kidnapped person, however, was something altogether more exciting. They were no longer investigating a possible accident; they were in at the start of a certain crime. Glory and promotion, the gratitude of a billionaire father, even a brief, stern-faced appearance on national television—all these thoughts passed through the minds of the detectives as they listened carefully and made notes, stopping only to ask for more coffee and another sight of the quite admirable bottom and tanned legs of Françoise. What a stroke of luck, they thought, that they hadn’t been given the bank job at Isle-sur-Sorgue instead.
They were less pleased to be told by Simon that any hint of police involvement might prejudice the safety of the hostage. The senior detective, his superior rank apparent from his habit of stealing his colleague’s cigarettes and waiting for them to be lit, shook his head.
“Unfortunately, Monsieur Shaw, we have been informed. We have been involved, you understand? It is a fait accompli. How can I, a police officer, ignore a major crime?” He glanced down at his notebook and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But I can promise you this.” He took another cigarette from the open packet on the desk and cocked an eyebrow to indicate that it needed to be lit. “I can promise you this,” he said again. “We shall conduct this affair with the maximum delicacy and discretion. Le maximum. We have much experience of matters like this. Why, I remember three years ago the abduction of a Swiss tourist during the festival of Avignon.…”
Françoise put her head round the door. “Monsieur Shaw? There are two men here for you.”
Simon went into the reception area and stopped short at the sight of a man with two cameras slung round his neck. His colleague was more modestly equipped, with a single tape recorder hanging by a strap from his shoulder.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Shaw. Le Provençal. We’ve just come from the school at Lacoste. You have two minutes? We understand you know the young man who—”
Simon held up one hand. “Don’t go away.” He went back to the office and shook his head at the two detectives. “ ‘Maximum discretion,’ is that what you said?”
They nodded.
“Then tell me why there’s a reporter and a photographer out there.”
The detectives shouldered their way past Simon and glared at the journalists. “Out,” said the senior detective, jerking his thumb at the door. “There is no story. This is a confidential matter for the police.”
The journalists both started talking at once, their eyebrows, shoulders, and hands jerking up and down in extravagant outrage. The press had a duty to report events—more, a constitutional right to report events.
“Merde to all that,” said the senior detective. “You listen to me.”
Simon closed the office door and rested his head in his hands. A few noisy minutes later, the door opened.
“No problem,” said the senior detective, smiling at Simon as if he’d done him a personal favour.
“What do you mean, ‘no problem’? You can’t stop them writing a story.”
The detective tapped the side of his nose. “This is France, monsieur. Journalists know their place.”
Simon sighed. “Okay. Now what?”
“The kidnappers will be calling again, non? We will arrange for the call to be traced. Meanwhile, we wait.”
“Do you have to wait here? We’re trying to run a hotel.”
With some reluctance, the detectives allowed themselves to be persuaded to leave the office and continue their duties with a cordless phone on the terrace overlooking the pool.
“Oh, there’s one thing you could do while you’re waiting,” Simon said. He pointed across the terrace. “If you see a man looking over the top of that wall, arrest him.”
Simon called the bank to warn them to expect the money, and to have it ready for him to pick up at the end of the day. He did his best to soothe Françoise, who had just learned of Boone’s disappearance. He thanked his lucky stars for Nicole and Ernest, who dealt with guests and staff as though nothing had happened. He deliberately woke Ziegler at five a.m. in New York to make sure that the money was being sent as soon as business opened. He was lightheaded with fatigue, but incapable of sleep, and he knew that he was becoming increasingly short-tempered. The sight of the two detectives studying lunch menus on the terrace did nothing to improve his mood.
He returned to the office and sat staring at the phone. There was nothing much the police could do until the kidnappers called again, nothing much anyone could do.
And then he remembered Enrico. What was it he’d said? If ever there was a problem at the hotel, a problem the authorities might find difficult to deal with through official channels … something like that. Simon pulled the phone towards him. It was probably all talk, but it was worth a try. Anything was better than sitting here feeling useless.
The guardian of Enrico’s telephone growled. Simon identified himself and lit a cigar while he waited to be put through.
Enrico sounded pleased to hear from him. There were certain unresolved matters to discuss before his people could start servicing the hotel. Perhaps another delightful lunch might be arranged? Simon cut him short. “Enrico, listen. I don’t know if you can help, but a friend of mine is in trouble. A young American. He’s been kidnapped.”
“That’s bad. In the tourist season, too. Amateurs. You must tell me everything you know.”
When the brief conversation was over, Enrico left his office for a stroll around the Vieux Port. He stopped twice, once to visit a bar and a second time to go through the back door of a seafood restaurant. The men he spoke to got on the phone as soon as he’d left them. If this was a local job, somebody would know about it. And if somebody knew about it, Enrico would be told. He beckoned to the Mercedes that had been trailing him round the port. He would take a quiet early lunch in the garden at Passédat, the brochette of langoustines, while he considered the business opportunities that this interesting piece of news might offer.
The bank called in the late afternoon to tell Simon that the money was ready, and he was halfway to the car before it occurred to him that walking round Cavaillon alone with ten million francs in cash might be a mistake. He went down to the terrace, where the detectives were keeping a watchful eye on the sunbathers.
“The money’s arrived. It would be best if you came with me.”
The detectives adjusted their sunglasses, the mirror-lens models favoured by the motorcycle cops for that added glint of menace, and followed Simon out to the parking area. They got into the unmarked police car, blistering hot and stale with yesterday’s cigarettes, and the junior detective used the car phone for a laconic exchange of grunts and monosyllables with headquarters.
They double-parked outside the bank. The detectives looked up and down the street, saw nothing instantly suspicious in the sprinkling of slow-footed tourists and housewives shopping for the evening meal, and hurried Simon across the pavement. They pressed the buzzer next to the plate glass door and waited. An aged bank clerk shuffled up to the door, shook his head, and mouthed “Fermé,” pointing at the opening hours printed on the glass. The senior detective slapped his identity card flat against the door. The clerk peered at it, shrugged, and
let them in.
The manager of the bank greeted them outside his office, showed them in, and closed the door. He let his breath out in a great sigh of relief. It had been a nightmare afternoon, money being delivered from the bigger branches in Avignon and Marseille, thoughts of a holdup, visions of men with shotguns. But now, thank God, it was over. “Voilà, messieurs.” He pointed to his desk. “If you’d like to count it.”
Simon looked at the stacks of five hundred-franc notes, banded together in briques of ten thousand francs. Somehow, he’d expected ten million francs to look more impressive, more bulky. He sat down and, as the others smoked and watched, arranged the briques in piles of one hundred thousand francs, counted the piles, packed them into a thick plastic sack, and hefted the sack in his hand. It was no heavier than the attaché case filled with work that he used to take home from the agency every weekend.
“C’est bon?” The manager put a form on the desk in front of Simon. “Une petite signature, s’il vous plaît.” He watched Simon sign the receipt and relaxed. Now it was someone else’s responsibility.
They shook hands and went to the main door, Simon sandwiched between the two detectives, the sack bumping against his leg.
“Merde!” One of the detectives saw a traffic policeman slipping a ticket under the windscreen wiper of their car. They ran down the steps as the policeman looked up at them, tapping his pen against his teeth. He enjoyed it when the owner of the car came back a few seconds too late. It relieved the boredom of the job.
The senior detective pointed at the ticket. “You can take that off.” He opened the door to get into the car. “We’re from headquarters in Avignon.”
The traffic policeman smiled. “I don’t give a shit if you’re from the Elysée Palace. You’re double-parked.”
The detective went round the car so that he could glare at closer range. The two men stood out in the road, sunglasses almost clashing, blocking off the remaining clear lane. A truck pulled up with an angry hydraulic hiss, and the driver leaned out of the window, his arm raised in irritated frustration. The customers sitting outside the café opposite turned to get a better view of the argument. Horns started an impatient chorus behind the truck. The bank manager and his clerk stood watching from the steps.