Good. Bigard spent much of his time at his factory in Grasse in southern France and our appointment wasn’t for three days yet. Time saved already.
Al-Fassi arrived, we pounded each other’s backs, and he told me how his huge family was and I told him how fishing had been. Burlier than most Moroccans, he had a big round face that could beam like the desert sun at dawn. I’d known him for years and trusted him as much as anyone I knew.
The name al-Fassi means “from Fez,” and my friend was always up to date on Fezian affairs. Le Domaine Bigard, he told me, still farmed thousands of hectares and was still operated by the parent company, Parfums Bigard.
I already knew that Louis Bigard was top man because I won’t deal with anyone but the Chief Executive Officer, the CEO, in any concern, but I didn’t know much else about him. Al-Fassi filled me in: a realist, dishonest or honest as the case required; confident to the point of arrogance; fiercely jealous of Parfums Bigard’s international reputation; highly conscious of his exalted position; rough on subordinates.
Fine. Characteristics common to your average hard-nosed half-a-million-a-year-plus-fringes CEO of any nationality. Nobody is worth that kind of money, but those who get it are, I’ve found, easier to deal with than, say, your average vice president. More decisive. Easier — though not easy — to convince that, as a top professional, I was worth the high fees I charged.
I sent al-Fassi off to rent a car less conspicuous than the Lamborghini and to locate Bigard, give him the verbal recognition signal he and I’d agreed on, and set up a meeting at some suitably private spot.
I went back to the window. Madame la Generale had removed the eyeshield, turned on one side, and was reading a book. Long tapering legs. Classic arch to her hip. Distracting. Too distracting. I turned away.
I unpacked, showered, lay down on the bed to review what I knew about what some call “the smell game.” Or, as those in it prefer, “the fragrance industry.” Either way, it does smell. Good and bad. Hyacinth, sandalwood, jasmine smell good. Glandular secretions of musk deer and civet cat smell bad. Some of the game’s end products smell delightful. Some of its business practices smell rank.
Which is where I and other industrial spooks come in. Caesars sloshed themselves with scent, Pharaohs too. Then and now, every flower grower, hunter of musk and ambergris, distiller of floral or animal oils, blender and bottler had his secret processes. Secrets spawn spies.
Using natural ingredients, the French used to dominate the market. Now, using mainly synthetics, the Americans were making deep inroads... Yawning, I tried to guess Madame la Generale’s preference, and drifted off to sleep...
Louis Bigard sported boots, breeches, riding crop. But a Mercedes SL, not an Arab stallion, was tethered alongside the field-machinery shed where al-Fassi dropped me after threading the rented Fiat through miles of the Domaine’s geranium plants. And, yes, Bigard sported a subtly masculine scent.
“O’Spelin? L’espion?” he said, nostrils flaring as if O’Spelin the Spy would also benefit from a-dollop or two from a Parfums Bigard bottle.
Affably I said, “Here to lie, bribe, and steal for you, monsieur.”
Recoiling, he tightened his grip on the crop. But like most CEOs he could face the facts of business life. Recovering quickly, he got down to cases.
Western Flavors & Fragrances of New York’s new scent, J’Excite ($130 per oz.), was a whirlwind smash hit. My job was to get the formula.
J’Excite, he admitted grudgingly, did smell good. But, by duplicating the formula’s synthetics with natural ingredients, Parfums Bigard would have a scent so tenderly aphrodisiacal that it would demolish J’Excite.
Now, American fragrance companies are so security-conscious they barred TV’s pertinacious crew when they tried to do a job on the perfume business. So this op was no pushover — a theme I developed at great length until Bigard agreed to a fee I deemed suitable for delivery of the formula, plus a hefty non-refundable advance against expenses — which would be high.
He didn’t have enough cash with him, and as I wanted enough technical information to keep me from being slipped a recipe for jasmine tea by some totally dishonest WF&F employee, we agreed to another meeting later that night.
I felt downright cheery when al-Fassi stopped the Fiat a few hundred yards from the Mamounia. I’d soon have enough cash for my immediate bills; I had solid contacts in the smell game; I was in time for cocktails before dinner; and I had hopes concerning Madame la Generale.
But operational security came first; so, before walking to the hotel, I passed al-Fassi the master key for use on the inconspicuous doorways the Sultan had had notched into his palace walls so he could fade into the medina if outside invaders thirsted for his blood or flee in the other direction if his own subjects took a notion to parade his head on a spear.
The barroom was intime, the barman knew his business. But I doubted that Madame would drop in. Only the most audacious Moslem woman would dally in public with alcohol or a man not her husband. So I sat where I could watch the entrance to the dining room, and I was on my second martini when Hamad appeared suavely escorting a woman wearing a floor-length jellabah, hood and veil. They disappeared into the dining room; when Hamad reappeared he gave me a high sign.
I downed my drink and he led me to a table three away from where the jellabahed woman sat. “Closer,” I whispered.
The misplaced comic winked. “Trust me, Mac.”
I glared at him and sat down, inwardly fuming. The food was good, though, and the wine, a Moroccan cabernet, excellent. I relaxed and covertly watched Madame. Her eyes were dark liquid, made enormous by some modern version of kohl. As she ate she manipulated the veil, royal blue like her jellabah, so adroitly I got only an impression of aristocratically molded nose and mouth.
As if at the rub of a magic lamp, Hamad materialized to escort her out when she had finished. As she drew near, I looked deep into those eyes — did an ember of interest glow warmly there?
Suddenly Hamad swerved to avoid a scurrying waiter, jarring Madame off balance. Whirling into a pirouette of apologies, Hamad contrived a maneuver that knocked over my glass. I leaped up as the wine found my legs.
Oozing excuses, Hamad swabbed at me with a napkin. Madame murmured quick, soft apologies. Before I quite realized what was happening, Hamad had shunted us into a small private dining room furnished, Moroccan style, with low table, thickly woven rugs, and plenty of luxurious cushions.
“Unforgivably clumsy of me, Monsieur...?”
“O’Spelin. MacLean O’Spelin,” I said as her hand touched my forearm sympathetically. “My fault entirely. My chair must have been jutting—”
“Oh, no, monsieur, the fault was mine.” We went on like that for a few moments and then Hamad reappeared magically bearing a blanket, a towel, and a pair of trousers I recognized as mine. Damn good planning, I had to concede as he screened me with the blanket while I changed. A waiter produced brandy for me, mint tea for her. He and Hamad vanished.
I arranged cushions; she loosened her veil slightly. I played it slow and easy, making a leading comment or two, and touching her hand when pouring tea. She made no return signals. But she made no move toward leaving until, regretfully, I had to call it quits or miss my meeting with Bigard.
I escorted her to her room — followed her lead, more accurately. Up, left, down, left again, right, and so on. There’s something about following a well-made woman in a well-cut jellabah. They don’t hang like tents as men’s do, but such formless things should be sexless. Not so, somehow. Hints of hidden treasures?