Switch. Charlie Brooks

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       2

       Monaco

      Max thanked the sweet girl who had tried every gambit in the book to sell him the Vacheron Constantin and stepped gingerly back out on to the pavement. The two guys digging up the road stopped and looked at him. He told himself not to be paranoid and walked another fifty metres down the street. He could feel the cold flushing his cheeks.

      He was glad the Restaurant Rampoldi was right there. The Sass Café would have been his choice, but it was closed at this time of year. And Rampoldi was very cosy. There were only a couple of other diners inside, so he had no problem getting the table right at the back of the restaurant. The owner, who looked like he’d had an eventful life, showed him over to it.

      Max liked the simplicity of the place. The starched white tablecloths; the black-and-white cartoon prints of fat, jolly waiters. The unashamed stuffiness.

      He quickly flicked to the red wines when the sommelier brought the wine list. And he was impressed. They had two of his favourites.

      The 1997 Solaia made by the Antinori family was, in Max’s opinion, the finest wine to come out of Tuscany for a long time. He was amazed they had it. The production had been small and it was hard to find outside Italy. At eight hundred euros a bottle it was expensive, but rightly so. Yet how could he ignore the Château Lafite Rothschild 1990? Such an understated wine. He loved the clever combination of delicate and yet powerful and intense flavours. They also had the 1982 and 1986 vintages, but they were, as far as Max was concerned, for ignorant tourists. Any idiot could buy the most expensive wine on the list. So he went with the Solaia.

      Under normal circumstances, such wine would have caused ructions had it appeared on his expenses. But he’d been told to look after his guest, so look after him he would.

      Max knew Jacques Bardin would be getting on a bit, so when an old boy, probably in his seventies, with thin eyes above a beaky nose, wire-framed glasses and a long, scruffy tweed coat walked in, he was sure it was his man.

      Jacques hesitated a moment to talk to the jovial maître d’ by the door. He declined the offer to take his coat, then headed over towards the table. He was much frailer than Max had imagined.

      ‘Monsieur Bardin?’ Max smiled formally as he stood up to greet his guest. Jacques simply bowed his head in acknowledgement and sat down.

      ‘A little red?’ Max asked, trying to put his guest at ease.

      ‘Thank you,’ Jacques said, again nodding his head. He took a sip as soon as the waiter had poured, and smiled. The waiter showed him the bottle, but he didn’t comment on the wine or the year, which surprised Max.

      ‘Très bon,’ was all he said.

      There was a slight silence, which Max filled awkwardly.

      ‘Hope it wasn’t too much bother to get here?’

      Jacques pursed his lips. He never told anyone where he lived. ‘It was no trouble.’ He helped himself to some bread. Clearly, this put an end to the subject.

      Max took the hint. Jacques was not a conversationalist – or, if he were, not with strangers.

      ‘Tryon is sorry he couldn’t join us. He was most intrigued by your communiqué.’

      Jacques took another sip of his wine and contemplated the young Englishman in front of him.

      ‘Tell СКАЧАТЬ