It was always a pleasure to open this book. In contrast to the ornamental and sometimes comical prose so often used by wine writers striving for effect, the text was simply written and thoroughly researched. Facts took precedence over literary flourishes. And, as a visual bonus, there were photographs in full color of more than eighty châteaus, their caves, their vines, their cellar masters, and, in some cases, their tweed-suited, long-faced, elegant proprietors. For a lover of fine Bordeaux, it would be difficult to think of a more evocative volume.
With the list of stolen wines as his guide, Sam leafed through the pages: Lafite, Latour, Figeac, Pétrus, Margaux-famous names, legendary wines, handsome châteaus. He had always meant to explore the immaculate vineyards of Bordeaux, an area that he once heard described as a masterpiece of gardening on the grand scale. To his regret, he had never taken the time to make the trip. And it was this regret, as much as the demands of the investigation, that helped him come to a decision. He closed the book with a snap and called Elena Morales.
Her voice was slightly muffled when she answered, a sign that Sam knew well. “You uncivilized woman-you’re eating lunch at your desk again. You’ll get terrible indigestion.”
“Thanks, Sam. You really know how to cheer a girl up. As it happens, I’m too busy to go out. How about you? Getting anywhere?”
“That’s why I’m calling. I’ve done just about all the desk research I can do. I’m sending you a report with all the details, but don’t hold your breath. I haven’t come up with anything. So I’ve decided to do some fieldwork.”
“Where’s the field?”
“Elena, here’s a basic rule of investigation: to arrive at an understanding of the crime, go back to the beginning. And in this case, the beginning is where the wine came from. The beginning is Bordeaux.” There was silence from the other end of the line. “I thought I’d go via Paris. There’s a guy there I need to see.”
“Great idea, Sam, except for one thing: expenses.”
“Elena, you have to speculate to accumulate.”
“Listen, I know how you travel. Are you expecting us to pick up the tab for first-class airfares, fancy hotels, fancy restaurants…” Her voice tailed off with a sigh. “Where are you going to stay in Paris?”
“The Montalembert. Remember the Montalembert?”
“Spare me the nostalgia, Sam. We are not picking up your expenses.”
“Let’s be reasonable about this. If I find the wine, you reimburse me. If I don’t find it, you don’t owe me a cent. Do we have a deal?”
There was no answer from Elena.
“I’ll take that as an enthusiastic yes,” said Sam. “Oh, and there’s one other thing. I’m going to need a fixer in Bordeaux, someone with local contacts who speaks English. I guess your Paris office can help with that. Sure you don’t want to come with me?”
Thinking of Paris and looking at the plate of cottage cheese and salad on her desk, Elena thought there was nothing she’d like more. “Bon voyage, Sam. Send me a postcard.”
It was nearly two years since Sam had been to Paris, and it was with a keen sense of anticipation that he made his arrangements. With hotel and flights booked, he fixed a meeting with an old sparring partner, Axel Schroeder; reserved a table for one at the Cigale Récamier; and made an appointment to drop by and see Joseph, the salesman who looked after him at Charvet.
An e-mail from Elena-its tone rather chilly, Sam thought-gave him some news from Knox’s people in Paris. They recommended a Bordeaux-based agent who specialized in wine insurance, a Madame Costes. She was well connected locally, spoke good English, and, according to the Paris office, she was très sérieuse. Sam had learned enough about the French to know that anyone described as serious would be competent, trustworthy, and dull. In a brief exchange of e-mails, he sent Madame Costes his flight details, and she confirmed that she would meet him at Bordeaux ’s Mérignac airport.
Sam’s final act before starting to pack was to call Roth’s office.
“He’s taking a meeting,” said Cecilia Volpé. “Can I have him call you back?”
“Just tell him that I’m following a couple of leads, and I’m going to France for a few days.”
“Cool,” said Cecilia. “I love Paris.”
“Me, too,” said Sam. “Tell Mr. Roth I’ll be in touch.”
Seven
Waiting his turn to go through security at LAX on his way to Paris, Sam watched, with mounting sympathy, the plight of the man in front of him. He was short, plump, and jolly-looking. From the sound of his accent, he was German. He had made the mistake of smiling at the security agent and attempting a joke: “Today off with the shoes, tomorrow the underpants, eh?” The stone-faced security agent stared at him in silence. And then, clearly suspecting the poor German of trying to smuggle a potentially dangerous sense of humor onto the aircraft, ordered him to step aside and wait for the supervisor.
Shoeless and beltless, his arms raised in the crucifix position while the electronic wand was passed over his body, Sam reflected on the joys of modern travel. Overcrowded, often grubby airports, surly personnel, a better than average chance of delays, and, before every flight, the tedium and humiliation of the security check. No wonder the first thing most passengers wanted when they finally reached the plane was a drink.
The first-class cabin, a cocoon of peace after the bedlam of the terminal, came as a blessed relief. Sam accepted a glass of champagne, slipped off his shoes, and glanced at the menu. As usual, there were optimistic attempts to replicate dishes one might find in an earthbound restaurant, and today sauces were very much in favor. There were noisettes of lamb in a sweet spice sauce, pan-seared monkfish with a sage sauce, a vegetable pancake served over a basil cream sauce, smoked salmon cannelloni with a balsamic sauce. The menu writer, a prince of deception, made it all sound delicious. The reality, as Sam knew from past experience, would be dry and disappointing, the sauces wrinkled in shock from a blast of sudden heat, the vegetables tasting anonymous.
Why was it that airlines tried to conjure up haute cuisine with no more than the impossibly limited facilities of a cramped galley and a microwave? It never worked. He decided to stick to bread and cheese and good red wine, but even this was less than he had hoped for. The label on the bottle was impressive, the pedigree irreproachable, the vintage excellent. But somehow wine never tastes as it should when drunk at thirty thousand feet. With altitude, it seems to lose weight. The turbulence of flying affects the balance and flavor. In the words of an eminent critic, “After the hurly-burly of takeoff and landing, takeoff and landing, wine never has enough time to regain its composure.” Sam tried one glass, switched to water, swallowed a sleeping pill instead of dessert, and didn’t wake up until early morning, when the plane was beginning its descent over the English Channel.
It always felt good to be back in Paris. As his cab made its way down the Boulevard Raspail toward Saint-Germain, Sam was struck once again by the beautiful proportions established by Haussmann in the mid-nineteenth century-the generous width of the principal streets, the human-sized buildings, the magnificent gardens, and the unexpected pocket parks. Then there was the Seine and the graceful swoops of its bridges, the abundance of trees and heroic monuments, the long and majestic vistas. All these combined to make Paris one of the great walking cities of the world. And it was, by big-city standards, clean. No piles of garbage bags, no gutters choked with food wrappers and Styrofoam and crushed cigarette packets; a welcome absence of urban squalor.