WATER WORKS: 6) A GOLDEN MOMEMT

Sunday Funnies: A Serial Novel About Intrigue, Lunacy & H2O

9.

I hop an Air France Airbus at Dulles and cultivate claustrophobia in their lame idea of first-class: One partitioned row of sleeper seats.

A commuter from Paris spills me into Nice-Cote d'Azur before noon. A helicopter whirls me over Cap Ferrat to the Principality of Monaco, which attaches itself like bacteria to a French Alp shaped like a dog's head.

I check into the ritzy Hotel de Paris, Pikestaff’s tab. Then I table myself across the street outside Cafe de Paris, allowing sunlight to heal latigue (a combo of jet lag and fatigue) while I swig from a bottle of Heineken.

It isn’t long before Armand Sieff passes by. I half expected this, on the theory that everyone who lives in Monte Carlo walks past Cafe de Paris three times a day.

"Armand," I call out.

Sieff freezes. He does appear to relish chance encounters.

"Bon jour." I wave.

Sieff relaxes.

I smile, amble over. "You speak French?"

"Only seven words," I say. "But they are key words. And my accent is flawless."

"When did you arrive?"

"Twenty minutes ago. Ca va?” I shake Armand's hand. "Join me for a drink."

Armand pulls up a chair. "So, is Morton Levi is interested?"

"Yup. Just a few minor points we need to iron out."

A waiter appears.

"Bon jour, monsieu. Je vous drais the avec lemon, si vous plait." Sieff speaks French like a Frenchman.

The waiter eyes my empty bottle.

"Yeah, another Heineken," I add.

"What minor points?" asks Sieff.

"What time are we meeting your president?" I non-answer.

Sieff consults his wristwatch, a gold Jaeger-Le Coultre Reverso. "I ask her to set aside an hour, from five till six.

"A her?"

Sieff nods.

I recline, facing the sun, eyes closed. "So how long have you been based in paradise."

"Six months."

"Is that how long you've been with Dulci Acqua?"

Armand glances away. "No." He is a man of few words, especially, it seems, when words pertain to himself. Or Dulci Acqua.

"What brought you here?" I press.

"Good communications. Convenient airport. Secure environment."

As if to exemplify Armand's third point, a Monegasque traffic cop whistles at the driver of a beat-up Fiat to pull over—routine in Monte Carlo for owners of non-luxury vehicles.

The waiter reappears with libations.

I toast the sun, take a swig of lager.

Armand sips his tea, then rises. "I have a meeting, I must go."

"Where should I present myself at five o'clock?"

"Our office is in Fontvieille." Armand scribbles the address on a fancy Cartier notecard and bids me au revoir.

I read a Herald Tribune discarded by a corpulent American tourist, order another Heineken. The sun warms my face.

After three trans-Atlantic jaunts in five days, this moment is as golden as they come.