anything you think should be changed. I’m told that the committee speaks English, but to be safe I want to have this translated into French and put in a document that we can give to each of the members to take away. My friend Philippe can help me with that.”
Reboul gave a nod of approval. “Good idea. Perhaps with a photograph of the project model? Or an artist’s impression? What do you think?”
It was Sam’s turn to nod. “An artist’s impression would be best. It would allow us to cheat a bit, and put in some background touches.” He scribbled a note on his folder. “Right. Now we come to the big decision.” He reached for his beer and took a long swallow. “Where should we hold the presentation? The chapel of La Charité has already been used. A standardoffice in a standard office building or a conference room in a big hotel won’t work; they’re exactly what we’re competing against. Also, they’re anonymous and boring, and what I’d like to do is to give the committee something different, something that they won’t forget in a hurry. I’d like to do it on the beach.”
Reboul’s eyebrows shot up, and then he smiled. “Of course. Let me guess. The Anse des Pêcheurs?”
“Exactly. It’s perfect. I want to get a tent—a big tent, a marquee—put up. We’ll make it into a kind of informal conference room, with a long table and chairs for the committee, maybe a bar—”
“Definitely a bar.”
“… and we’ll make the presentation at the end of the working day, in the early evening, just as the sun’s beginning to go down. I’ve been down there to check out the sunset. It’s spectacular.” Sam paused, and waited for Reboul’s reaction.
Reboul shook his head. “Sam, what can I say except bravo? As you say, it’s perfect, a real coup de théâtre . But you’re going to need help, and it can’t be seen to come from me.” He stared out of the window, then nodded to himself before turning back to Sam. “Luckily, I have one or two contacts. I will ask one of them to call you. His name is Gaston. You can trust him. He is extremely discreet. And if anybody should ask how you came to know him, you simply say you met him at a cocktail party.” Reboul stood up, came across to Sam, and administered the ultimate seal of approval, a kiss on each cheek. “Congratulations, my friend. Congratulations.”
Ten
“Sam, I think I have a problem.” Philippe’s voice sounded concerned and slightly breathless. “It’s business. Can we talk?”
By now, Sam was familiar enough with Philippe’s working methods to know that one could never conduct an important conversation with him over the phone; it had to be face to face. And with Philippe, there was always a little bar somewhere. “Sure. Where do you want to meet?”
“There’s a little bar in the Rue de Bir-Hakeim, near the fish market. Le Cinq à Sept. In half an hour. Is that OK?”
True to form, Le Cinq à Sept was as Sam had come to expect from Philippe’s bars—small and seedy, with the inevitable photograph, in a place of honor behind the bar, of last year’s Marseille soccer team. A scattering of old men, saving up their stubble for the weekly shave, seemed to be the only other customers. Philippe was half hidden in a dim corner. Heraised a hand in greeting. “Thanks for coming. I ordered you a pastis—it’s safer here than the wine.”
Sam topped up his glass with water as Philippe started to talk.
“An hour or so ago, I was leaving the office when this guy stepped in front of me—a little runt in a sharp suit—and asked me in English if I was Mister Davin. When I told him I was, he said this could be my lucky day. Well, you never know where the next tip-off is going to come from, so I agreed to go with him to a café to hear what he had to say. I’m not sure what I was expecting: some story about the English and their yachts, I thought. They often get into trouble down here. Anyway, he started off by telling me
Reboul gave a nod of approval. “Good idea. Perhaps with a photograph of the project model? Or an artist’s impression? What do you think?”
It was Sam’s turn to nod. “An artist’s impression would be best. It would allow us to cheat a bit, and put in some background touches.” He scribbled a note on his folder. “Right. Now we come to the big decision.” He reached for his beer and took a long swallow. “Where should we hold the presentation? The chapel of La Charité has already been used. A standardoffice in a standard office building or a conference room in a big hotel won’t work; they’re exactly what we’re competing against. Also, they’re anonymous and boring, and what I’d like to do is to give the committee something different, something that they won’t forget in a hurry. I’d like to do it on the beach.”
Reboul’s eyebrows shot up, and then he smiled. “Of course. Let me guess. The Anse des Pêcheurs?”
“Exactly. It’s perfect. I want to get a tent—a big tent, a marquee—put up. We’ll make it into a kind of informal conference room, with a long table and chairs for the committee, maybe a bar—”
“Definitely a bar.”
“… and we’ll make the presentation at the end of the working day, in the early evening, just as the sun’s beginning to go down. I’ve been down there to check out the sunset. It’s spectacular.” Sam paused, and waited for Reboul’s reaction.
Reboul shook his head. “Sam, what can I say except bravo? As you say, it’s perfect, a real coup de théâtre . But you’re going to need help, and it can’t be seen to come from me.” He stared out of the window, then nodded to himself before turning back to Sam. “Luckily, I have one or two contacts. I will ask one of them to call you. His name is Gaston. You can trust him. He is extremely discreet. And if anybody should ask how you came to know him, you simply say you met him at a cocktail party.” Reboul stood up, came across to Sam, and administered the ultimate seal of approval, a kiss on each cheek. “Congratulations, my friend. Congratulations.”
Ten
“Sam, I think I have a problem.” Philippe’s voice sounded concerned and slightly breathless. “It’s business. Can we talk?”
By now, Sam was familiar enough with Philippe’s working methods to know that one could never conduct an important conversation with him over the phone; it had to be face to face. And with Philippe, there was always a little bar somewhere. “Sure. Where do you want to meet?”
“There’s a little bar in the Rue de Bir-Hakeim, near the fish market. Le Cinq à Sept. In half an hour. Is that OK?”
True to form, Le Cinq à Sept was as Sam had come to expect from Philippe’s bars—small and seedy, with the inevitable photograph, in a place of honor behind the bar, of last year’s Marseille soccer team. A scattering of old men, saving up their stubble for the weekly shave, seemed to be the only other customers. Philippe was half hidden in a dim corner. Heraised a hand in greeting. “Thanks for coming. I ordered you a pastis—it’s safer here than the wine.”
Sam topped up his glass with water as Philippe started to talk.
“An hour or so ago, I was leaving the office when this guy stepped in front of me—a little runt in a sharp suit—and asked me in English if I was Mister Davin. When I told him I was, he said this could be my lucky day. Well, you never know where the next tip-off is going to come from, so I agreed to go with him to a café to hear what he had to say. I’m not sure what I was expecting: some story about the English and their yachts, I thought. They often get into trouble down here. Anyway, he started off by telling me
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