The Corsican Caper (15 page)

After his first-ever night in a four-poster bed, Sam was woken up by the sun streaming through an open window. He felt alert and pleasantly tense, as he always did when close to the climax of an operation. A warm and soothing soak in a venerable cast-iron bathtub helped him relax, and then he started on the day’s phone calls.

“Good morning, sweetheart. How do you like roughing it in Calvi?”

“Sam, it’s wonderful. Private pool, great cooking, and wait till you see my dressing room. It’s
enormous
. I love it. I almost got lost in it.”

Sam had never before heard Elena wax lyrical about a place to hang her clothes. Usually, she complained about lack of space; this was a rare sign of approval. “Tell me, how is Francis?”

“He’s OK. A bit edgy, but I guess that’s to be expected. And he’s very worried about you. What are you doing today?”

“Oh, exploring the countryside, finding a place to be ambushed, setting everything up with Flo and Jo, dealing with the Russians—just a normal day in the life of a busy executive.”

Elena could sense from Sam’s voice that his mind was very much elsewhere, so after telling him once again to be extra careful, she ended the call with a kiss blown down the line.

Sam went downstairs in search of coffee, and was surprised to find his hostess already sitting at the dining table, croissant and
café crème
by her side, a laptop in front of her. This was her way of catching up on the news of the day, she explained, since the nearest available newspaper was miles away in Calvi.

“You’re going to be very pleased with me, dear boy,” she said. “I think I know exactly where you should go to be ambushed.” She started to tap the laptop’s keyboard. “Now, get yourself a cup of coffee from that pot on the sideboard and come and sit next to me.”

She moved the laptop so that Sam had a better view of the screen, which showed an aerial view of dense green treetops and vegetation. “This is typical of the countryside around Speloncato,” she said. “Most of it is no good for you because there are no paths, and finding a particular spot would be
impossible for anyone who didn’t know the area. But this”—she scrolled down the screen—“this is much better. It’s a reservoir about nine kilometers down the road, not difficult to find, and surrounded by
maquis
and abandoned olive groves, so there would be plenty of places for those ghastly Russians to lurk.”

Sam leaned forward to take a closer look at the image on the screen. “Isn’t that a path, quite wide, there on the left?”

Laura nodded. “It leads down from the road, but the only people who use it, once every six months or so, are the maintenance men for the reservoir.” She sat back, a smile of satisfaction on her face. “Well, do you think that will do?”

“I’ll go and check it out this morning, but it looks terrific. How can I thank you? Let’s see now, would a magnum of Dom Pérignon be acceptable?”

Laura, still smiling, inclined her head. “How delightful. Magnums are so comforting, don’t you think?”

Half an hour later, Sam set off in an elderly Renault borrowed from the gardener. Following the road that wound down from the village, he came to the entrance to the path, marked by a rusting sign that read
Accès Interdit
. He parked the car on the grass and began walking.

Almost everywhere he looked there were tiny clearings between the overgrown, neglected olive trees, ideal spots in which to hide and wait. The reservoir itself, a grim oasis of insect-speckled water, was surrounded by mesh fencing,
with a squat concrete blockhouse at one end, locked and, Sam thought, of no great interest to the ambushers. There were dozens of other, more suitable places. And the location couldn’t be better, easy to find and yet secluded, with no chance of shots being heard. Perfect. Sam found an old tree stump to sit on, and called Jo Figatelli.

There were a few details to finalize, and these were agreed upon over the course of the next few minutes. Jo and Flo would drive over from Calvi later that morning to familiarize themselves with the area around the reservoir, and they would call the Oblomovs to suggest a time for the ambush. Jo confirmed that they would bring what he described as “all the necessary equipment,” told Sam to remember to dust off his bulletproof vest, and said he’d call again in the afternoon, once he’d spoken to the Oblomovs.

The phone was answered with a grunt. Which Oblomov was it? Jo took a chance. “Sasha, it’s Jo Figatelli, with some good news. I’ve just had a call from my niece in Speloncato. She heard Reboul talking to Madame Lombard, saying he’d like to take her dog out for a walk this evening. He asked her where to go, and she recommended the local reservoir, about a five-minute drive down from the village. It sounds good.
We’re on our way to take a look at it now. I’ll call you back. Meanwhile, how does the timing sound to you? Is this evening OK?”

“Yes,” said Oblomov. “Have you got the merchandise back?”

“Later on this morning.”

“Good,” said the Russian, and the line went dead.

Jo looked over at his brother, who was driving. “Next time, you call him. Maybe he won’t be so long-winded with you.”

They parked at the entrance to the path, and walked down toward the reservoir. “This is fine,” said Flo, “but we need to find somewhere to hide our car. Sam’s not going to walk all the way from the village with the dog. He’ll drive and park at the top of the path, and if our car is already there, the Oblomovs will think we’re giving the game away. There must be a place down here where the maintenance guys park when they come to the reservoir.”

In fact, they were walking straight toward it—a space behind the blockhouse with a rudimentary parking area covered in cracked concrete that was fighting a losing battle against the weeds.

“OK,” said Jo, “that’ll do. Now we need somewhere we can hide the Russians where Sam can find them.”

They quickly saw that they were spoiled for choice. There were clearings between clumps of trees, there was waist-high
maquis
, there were even a few narrow tracks that had been
made by hunters. The Figatellis explored one of these tracks leading off from the parking area and found that, after about three hundred yards, it came to a small clearing surrounded by plenty of cover. Couldn’t be better, they both agreed. On their way back, Jo came across a crumpled, discarded cigarette pack, which he placed at the entrance to the chosen track as a marker to help Sam set off in the right direction.

All that remained to be done was to pick up the guns and call Sam to tell him about the cigarette pack. They might even have time for lunch before installing the Oblomovs in their hiding place.

The afternoon was passing slowly for Sam. He had long conversations with Elena, Reboul, and Jo Figatelli, and was then pleased to be distracted by Laura, who insisted on giving him dog-walking lessons. These were endured rather than enjoyed by Alfred, who had been through them all before.

“My advice,” said Laura, “is to keep him on the leash until you get a good way down the path. You don’t want him rushing off after a rabbit. It might help if you had a few of these. He’s addicted to them.” She gave Sam half a dozen bone-shaped dog biscuits, which he put in his pocket. The watchful Alfred immediately came over to him and started to nudge the bulging pocket with his nose. “Now that he knows you’ve got them he won’t let you out of his sight. Such a greedy boy.”

Finally, it was time. Sam put on the bulletproof vest, then his shirt, his hat, and his sunglasses. Laura walked him out to the car, saw Alfred installed on the passenger seat, and leaned through the window to kiss Sam’s cheek. “Good luck, dear boy. I’ll have the Champagne on ice when you get back.”

Flo Figatelli, from a vantage point in the bushes by the side of the road, saw Sam’s car coming toward the reservoir. He called his brother as he hurried back to join him and the Oblomovs.

“He’s just about at the top of the path,” said Jo. “Another five minutes and he’ll be down here.” The Oblomovs nodded and took out their guns. This was turning out to be easier than they had expected. They squatted behind their bush, making sure their field of fire wouldn’t be blocked by any thick foliage.

Halfway down the path, Sam let Alfred off the leash. The dog rummaged in the bushes, delighted to find unfamiliar smells, coming back every few minutes to make sure that Sam and his precious supply of biscuits weren’t too far away. They reached the reservoir, found the cigarette pack, and started off down the track, Alfred leading the way.

Sam’s mind was clear, his senses on full alert, his eyes fixed on Alfred’s shaggy rump. The dog would be the first, Sam reckoned, to sense any sign of the presence of human life in
the undergrowth. Something crunched under his foot, and he looked down to see a small heap of hunters’ droppings—empty shotgun cartridge cases that had been partly stamped into the earth. After another few yards, there was an empty
pastis
flask. Thirsty work, hunting. On they went, following the twists of the track until they could see, fifty yards ahead, the opening of the clearing.

Alfred stopped. His head lowered, he resumed walking toward the clearing with deliberate, stiff-legged steps, as though he had already seen something, and was stalking it. Sam braced himself as they came to the end of the path. Alfred stopped again, his attention focused on a clump of bushes a few feet ahead.

The Oblomovs, hidden in that very clump, were of two minds. Should they shoot the dog first, or the man? Sign language from the elder Oblomov indicated the man. They were being paid to shoot the man; the dog they would dispose of later. They raised their guns and took aim.

The two shots came within a split second of each other. Sam’s body jackknifed as he fell to the ground, facedown, with Alfred whining beside him. The bushes parted, and out came the Oblomovs, guns at the ready, unaware of the Figatellis closing up behind them, each carrying a “Corsican persuader”—a short, blunt wooden club with a solid-lead head. The Oblomovs, intent on Sam’s motionless body, never saw the blows coming. They dropped instantly.

“Nice work, guys.” Sam sat up, rubbing his chest and
trying to ward off Alfred, who was licking his face. “Ouf! I never thought those blanks would carry such a wallop. Lucky I was wearing the vest. OK, let’s get them ready for their big moment.”

The Oblomovs showed no signs of consciousness as they were rolled over and their hands were cuffed behind their backs. Their cell phones were taken, and their guns were transferred to plastic bags, using handkerchiefs to avoid leaving prints. Flo took out his phone. “You can come down now,” he said. “They’ll wake up in a couple of minutes.”

They were bleary-eyed but conscious by the time the big Peugeot with the darkened windows arrived and pulled to a stop. The driver, a large man with a boxer’s broken nose, got out and opened the rear door, and Uncle Doumé emerged. Sam hardly recognized him. Gone were the old work clothes, the sweet smile, and three days’ worth of stubble. This, judging by his dark suit and even darker sunglasses, was a man of some importance. He walked slowly over to the Oblomovs and stood looking down at them, his hands on his hips. “So,” he said, “these are the killers.” He turned his head. “Claude—my chair.”

The driver came over from the car carrying a director’s chair, unfolded it and placed it in front of the Oblomovs. Uncle Doumé sat down and took a small cheroot from his pocket, lit it carefully, and blew on the end until it glowed.

“You have placed yourselves in a difficult and dangerous situation,” he said to the Oblomovs. “You have attempted
to murder my good friend here”—he waved his cheroot in Sam’s direction—“an attempt which he and his colleagues have prevented. They are now witnesses who will be happy to testify against you. As further proof, your fingerprints are all over the weapons. And you are in Corsica, where this kind of behavior is not tolerated, particularly not from foreigners.”

He paused, and blew a smoke ring. “As I said, a dangerous situation. It seems to me that there are a number of options, some less pleasant than others. First, we could shoot you, and claim self-defense.” The Oblomovs were beginning to show signs of apprehension. “Second, we could have you tried for attempted murder in front of a friend of mine, a judge, and I can promise that he would hand down a harsh sentence—thirty or forty years in a Corsican jail. And third, the most sensible option: you cooperate with us, and your reward would be a very much lighter sentence, to be served, if you prefer, in France. Do you have any questions?”

There was no response from the Oblomovs.

“Good. I will leave you with my colleagues, but I warn you. They are not patient men.” And with that, Uncle Doumé returned to his car. Claude folded up the chair and followed.

Not surprisingly, after a very brief discussion the Oblomovs chose the third option. Jo Figatelli called one of his many close contacts at police headquarters in Calvi and arranged for a van to be sent to pick up the Russians and take them to be locked up pending interrogation.

“We’ll wait for them here,” said Jo to Sam. “You’ve done your work for the day. Go back to the house and have a drink.”

Sam sat in the car, gave Alfred a celebratory biscuit, and called Elena. “It’s done, and everything went according to plan. The Russians are on their way to jail.”

Elena’s sigh was a huge gust of relief. “Are you OK?”

“I have a mild case of bulletproof-vest rash, but otherwise I’m fine. I’m on my way back to Laura’s house. I’ll tell you all about it over dinner.”

There was another long sigh. “Sam, I’ve been so worried.”

“I’ll be fine. The rash usually clears up after a couple of days.”

The first thing that Sam saw when he got back was the big Peugeot parked in front of the house. A close second was the welcoming committee of Uncle Doumé, Laura, Elena, and Reboul waiting by the open front door. Alfred bounded from the car, with Sam following. He hugged Elena, and felt warm tears on her cheeks. Reboul embraced him, patted his back, squeezed his shoulder, ruffled his hair, and looked as though he might burst into tears himself. A perfumed kiss from Laura, a smile and a grunt from Uncle Doumé, and they went into the house.