Francis’s other house the last time you were here?”
“Is that where we’re going?”
“Not quite. At the end of that road there’s a
rond-point
—a traffic circle. It looks like it goes somewhere, but it doesn’t. That’s the end of the road.”
They drove on, into the 7th and 8th
arrondissements
,where many of Marseille’s wealthiest residents live in their large houses behind high stone walls. There was less traffic now, and the Renault had dropped back, frequently out of sight on the narrow, twisting road. They passed Reboul’s old house. “Not long now,” said Olivier. He called Ahmed and told him to close up on the Renault.
Another two hundred meters, and one last bend. The road had narrowed to a single lane before ending in the small traffic circle. The Renault came around that last bend and stopped short, behind Olivier. Ahmed’s pickup came to a halt immediately behind the Renault. There was nowhere for the driver to go. He was trapped.
Sam and Olivier walked back to the Renault, where Ahmed was waiting, his arms crossed, glaring at Rocca, the driver. He seemed to have shrunk behind the wheel, his face the picture of apprehension. Olivier opened the driver’s door and, in his most threatening police manner, told Rocca to get out. “Nobody ever comes down here,” he said, “so we can have a nice quiet chat without being disturbed.
Bon
, now let me see your driver’s license, and give me your cell phone.” For a split second Rocca might have considered protesting. But with three large and unfriendly men looming over him, he thought better of it, and did as he was told. Olivier noted the license details and handed it back. The phone he kept.
Olivier, prompted by Sam’s questions, proceeded to give Rocca a grilling. Who had hired him? How did Rocca contact him? Where did they meet? When was their nextrendezvous? Why were they interested in Reboul? What exactly were they looking for?
To many of the questions Rocca had no answers, and it became clear that, apart from the cover story, he had been kept in the dark. After twenty frustrating minutes they were ready to let him go.
With the engine running and his window open, Rocca plucked up his courage and asked to have his phone back. Olivier bent down to give him the full benefit of his impenetrable sunglasses. “You’re lucky to get your car back,” he said, slapping the roof.
Rocca drove off, wilting with relief.
Chapter Ten
Reboul was pacing across the terrace, anxious for news. He listened intently as Sam gave him a précis.
Thanks to his driver’s license, they knew Rocca’s name as well as his reluctantly given address. But they were convinced that he knew very little apart from the name of the man who had hired him, which was probably as false as the cover story. As for his description, it could apply to almost any man wearing a Panama hat, white shirt, and sunglasses. All they had to go on was the phone number Rocca had been given and told to use when checking in every evening. There was a name opposite the number in Rocca’s phone, but it was a Monsieur Martin, a name shared by more than 220,000 other French families, the equivalent of the Anglo-Saxon Mr. Smith.
Reboul looked and sounded discouraged. “So where do we go from here?”
“Well,” said Sam, “we have that number, which is a start. Let’s call it, see who answers, and try to get his real name. And I think I know just the person who could do that without raising an alarm: Mimi.”
Sam called her to explain the problem, and his idea—that Mimi pose as someone from the phone company’s customer relations department, conducting a survey on customer satisfaction. “If you could get his address as well as his name,” said Sam, “that would be great.”
Sam could almost hear Mimi shaking her head. “But the phone company would have all that,” she said. “Why don’t we check with them first?” Which one of Olivier’s police pals did, only to find that
“Is that where we’re going?”
“Not quite. At the end of that road there’s a
rond-point
—a traffic circle. It looks like it goes somewhere, but it doesn’t. That’s the end of the road.”
They drove on, into the 7th and 8th
arrondissements
,where many of Marseille’s wealthiest residents live in their large houses behind high stone walls. There was less traffic now, and the Renault had dropped back, frequently out of sight on the narrow, twisting road. They passed Reboul’s old house. “Not long now,” said Olivier. He called Ahmed and told him to close up on the Renault.
Another two hundred meters, and one last bend. The road had narrowed to a single lane before ending in the small traffic circle. The Renault came around that last bend and stopped short, behind Olivier. Ahmed’s pickup came to a halt immediately behind the Renault. There was nowhere for the driver to go. He was trapped.
Sam and Olivier walked back to the Renault, where Ahmed was waiting, his arms crossed, glaring at Rocca, the driver. He seemed to have shrunk behind the wheel, his face the picture of apprehension. Olivier opened the driver’s door and, in his most threatening police manner, told Rocca to get out. “Nobody ever comes down here,” he said, “so we can have a nice quiet chat without being disturbed.
Bon
, now let me see your driver’s license, and give me your cell phone.” For a split second Rocca might have considered protesting. But with three large and unfriendly men looming over him, he thought better of it, and did as he was told. Olivier noted the license details and handed it back. The phone he kept.
Olivier, prompted by Sam’s questions, proceeded to give Rocca a grilling. Who had hired him? How did Rocca contact him? Where did they meet? When was their nextrendezvous? Why were they interested in Reboul? What exactly were they looking for?
To many of the questions Rocca had no answers, and it became clear that, apart from the cover story, he had been kept in the dark. After twenty frustrating minutes they were ready to let him go.
With the engine running and his window open, Rocca plucked up his courage and asked to have his phone back. Olivier bent down to give him the full benefit of his impenetrable sunglasses. “You’re lucky to get your car back,” he said, slapping the roof.
Rocca drove off, wilting with relief.
Chapter Ten
Reboul was pacing across the terrace, anxious for news. He listened intently as Sam gave him a précis.
Thanks to his driver’s license, they knew Rocca’s name as well as his reluctantly given address. But they were convinced that he knew very little apart from the name of the man who had hired him, which was probably as false as the cover story. As for his description, it could apply to almost any man wearing a Panama hat, white shirt, and sunglasses. All they had to go on was the phone number Rocca had been given and told to use when checking in every evening. There was a name opposite the number in Rocca’s phone, but it was a Monsieur Martin, a name shared by more than 220,000 other French families, the equivalent of the Anglo-Saxon Mr. Smith.
Reboul looked and sounded discouraged. “So where do we go from here?”
“Well,” said Sam, “we have that number, which is a start. Let’s call it, see who answers, and try to get his real name. And I think I know just the person who could do that without raising an alarm: Mimi.”
Sam called her to explain the problem, and his idea—that Mimi pose as someone from the phone company’s customer relations department, conducting a survey on customer satisfaction. “If you could get his address as well as his name,” said Sam, “that would be great.”
Sam could almost hear Mimi shaking her head. “But the phone company would have all that,” she said. “Why don’t we check with them first?” Which one of Olivier’s police pals did, only to find that
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