Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard by Martin Walker

open-necked white silk shirt, and he wore what looked like a very expensive watch, as well as a chain bracelet of white gold dangling from his other wrist and a large ring on his right hand. Bruno did not care for jewelry on men. Bondino pulled a slim laptop from his briefcase, turned it on and slowly ran his index finger over a small sensor below the keypad.
    He noticed Bruno watching, held up his finger withoutsmiling and said, “Security.” It had to be one of those devices that read fingerprints, locking the computer until it identified the correct digit. Bondino leaned back casually in his chair, letting one leg dangle over the other as if to show off his black moccasins, the leather so thin they could have been slippers. Bruno felt an instinctive dislike for the man.
    “Might I begin, gentlemen, by requesting your assurance that this meeting is confidential and that nothing that we communicate to you will be repeated outside this room?” Dupuy began. He wore large, black-rimmed spectacles and a severe blue suit with a bright pink tie.
“Monsieur le Maire?”
    “We’re accustomed to commercial discretion, monsieur,” the mayor said. “Perhaps you could ask your colleague with the machinery to be careful with that table. It’s said to be nearly seven hundred years old, which may be an exaggeration, but it is certainly older than all of us in this room put together.”
    Bondino took a glossy magazine from his briefcase and slid it beneath the computer. It was
Marie Claire Maison
, Bruno noted, a French magazine of decor and design that suggested Bondino might be fluent in the language. Of course, he might just be looking at the photos.
    “Bondino Wines was founded in California by the grandfather of the present chairman, Francis X. Bondino—” Dupuy began.
    “In 1906,” interrupted the mayor, addressing the room but turning to look directly at Bondino. “I should say,
messieurs
, that Bondino Wines needs no introduction, even here in rural France. We know of your interests in South America and South Africa, of your three thousand employees, so we may be able to dispense with your introduction and come directly to the point.”
    Dupuy seemed about to speak again when Bondino held up his hand. Dupuy sat.
    “It all comes down to one question,” said Bondino, speaking heavily accented but serviceable French, keeping his eyes on the mayor. “Do you have the political juice to get this valley made into an
appellation contrôlée
region within the next twelve months? Our embassy is pretty well plugged into Paris, and Dupuy makes a living at this stuff, and they both tell me that you have the political connections to do it.”
    “And if I do?”
    “Then I’m prepared to invest an eight-figure sum in your district. That means over ten million dollars. Correction, I mean over ten million euros. That’s a lot of jobs and a big new tax base for Saint-Denis.”
    “And you would do what with that large sum of money?”
    “Buy land, build a state-of-the-art modern winery with a visitor center, run a hotel, grow vines, make fine wine and export it all over the world.”
    “How much land would you need and how much wine would you intend to produce?”
    “Our business plan calls for a minimum of a million bottles a year within seven years. That means about two hundred hectares.”
    “And how many jobs?”
    “Full-time, probably about fifty when the visitor center is up and running, plus some seasonal employees.”
    Bruno noticed how Bondino and the mayor appraised each other. Each kept his eyes fixed on the other man. There was no staring match, no play for dominance, just two experienced men coolly taking each other’s measure without any apparent emotion. It was clear to Bruno that the American had been through dozens of meetings with politicians, and that the mayor had held just as many meetings with businessmen. Bruno began to temper his dislike for Bondino with a little respect.
    “I see. That’s a very