The Corsican Caper

The Corsican Caper

When billionaire Francis Reboul finds himself on the wrong side of a Russian tycoon, he’s fortunate to have vacationing friends Sam Levitt and Elena Morales on hand to help him out. Now it’s up to Sam—who’s saved Reboul’s neck before—to negotiate with an underworld of mercenaries, hit men, and Mafioso, to prevent his friend from becoming a victim of “Russian diplomacy.” As usual, Sam and Elena still find time to enjoy the good life, but as Sam’s sleuthing draws him closer to the truth, he realizes Reboul might not be the only one in trouble. Rich with clever twists, sparkling scenery, and mouthwatering gustatory interludes as only Peter Mayle can write them, The Corsican Caper is an adventure par excellence . “A delight to read. . . . [A] romp exhorting the pleasures of the French countryside. . . . Bon appetit!” — The Post and Courier “There is a way to enjoy delicious meals in the south of France amid gorgeous scenery with many bottles of wine (particularly rose) but no calories. You can enjoy it all vicariously through Peter Mayle’s [ The Corsican Caper ]. . . . You’re in good company with Mayle’s cast of characters.” — The Columbus Dispatch “Filled with fascinating characters and punctuated with culinary delights,” — Palm Beach Daily News Peter Mayle is the author of fifteen books, nine of them novels, including the beloved bestseller A Year in Provence . A recipient of the Légion d’Honneur from the French government for his cultural contributions, he lived in Provence with his wife, Jennie, for more than twenty-five years. Mayle died in 2018. Chapter One Francis Reboul sat in the sunshine, contemplating his breakfast: a shot glass of extra-­virgin olive oil, which the French insist is so beneficial for le transit intestinal, followed by a large bowl of café crème and a croissant of such exquisite lightness that it threatened to float off the plate. He was sitting on his terrace, the shimmering sweep of the early morning Mediterranean stretching away to the horizon. Life was good. Sam Levitt and Elena Morales, Reboul’s close friends and partners in past adventures, were arriving from California later in the day for an extended vacation. They had planned to sail around Corsica and perhaps down to Saint-­Tropez then to spend some time at Reboul’s horse farm in the Camargue and to revisit some of Marseille’s excellent restaurants. It had been a year since they had seen one another—­a busy year for them all—­and there was a lot to catch up on. Reboul put down his newspaper, squinting against the glare that bounced off the water. A couple of small sail­boats were tacking their way toward the islands of Frioul. While he was watching them, Reboul’s attention was caught by something that was beginning to appear from behind the headland. It gradually became more visible, and bigger. Much bigger. It was, as he would later tell Sam, the mother of all yachts—­three hundred feet if it was an inch, sleek and dark blue, with four decks, radar, the obligatory helicopter squatting on its pad in the stern, and not one but two Riva speedboats in tow. It was now in front of Reboul, no more than three or four hundred yards offshore. It slowed, and drifted to a stop. A row of tiny figures appeared on the top deck, all gazing, it seemed to Reboul, directly at him. Over the years, he had become quite used to this kind of scrutiny from the sea. His house, Le Palais du Pharo, originally built for Napoleon III, was the biggest private residence in Marseille, and the most glamorous. Everything from one-­man sailboats to the crowded local ferries had stopped, at one time or another, for a long, if distant, inspection of Chez Reboul. Telescopes, binoculars, cameras—­he was used to them by now. He shrugged, and hid behind his newspaper. On board the yacht, Oleg Vronsky—­Oli to his friends and numerous hangers-­on, and “The Barracuda” to the international business press—­turned to Natasha, the statuesque young woman whom he had appointed his personal first mate for the voyage. “This is more like it,” he said. “Yes. This is more like it.” He smiled, making the deep, livid scar on his cheek pucker. Apart from that, he would have been a good-­looking man. Although a little on the short side, he was slim, his thick gray hair was cut en brosse, and his eyes were that shade of icy blue often found in people from the frozen north. He had spent the past week cruising along the Riviera coast, stopping off to look at properties on Cap Ferrat, Cap d’Antibes, Cannes, and Saint-­Tropez. And he had been disappointed. He was prepared to spend serious money, fifty million euros or more, but he had seen nothing that made him want to reach for his wallet. There were some fine houses, certainly, but too close to one another. The Riviera had become crowded, that was the problem, and Vronsky was looking for plenty of space and maximum privacy—­and no Russian neighbors. There were so many of them on Cap Ferrat nowadays that the more enterpris