Shadows in the Vineyard: The True Story of the Plot to Poison the World's Greatest Wine Read Online Free PDF Page B

out. The only movement was the headlights out east, well beyond the vines. The cars traveled on Route Nationale 74. Beyond the RN-74, the train tracks. He could once again have his way without fear of detection. It never ceased to amaze him, to please him, that so much value was just left there unprotected.
    The hill—the
côte
—on which he stood is part of a formation that stretches through much of the Côte d’Or, some twenty miles to the north and twenty miles to the south. He turned right and took a footpath south.
    With the vines to his left and the tree line on his immediate right, he took the path for about a half mile. He then descended the slope and entered the vines.
    The vine rows continued as the hill flattened out and then right up to the edge of the small hamlet, less than a mile away. The tiny town’s skyline was humbly marked by a church steeple. Walking through the vines in the direction of the town, he exuded the purpose of someone who knew precisely where he was headed and what must be done when he arrived.
    Midway between the hilltop and the town, on the upper edge of a vineyard that was at the base of the gently sloping hillside, he stopped and fell to his knees. Had anyone happened upon him he might have appeared to be praying. Which he knew would not have been unusual.
    For months, he had been casing the vineyards, on bike and on foot. He watched as people from all over the world arrived everyday at that vineyard. Some were your typical tourists. Many, however, were zealots, passionate about Burgundy wines. Like pilgrims traveling to Mecca, these “Burghounds” came not so much to see the vineyard, but rather to behold its presence. Often these pilgrims quite literally would kneel. Always they would go to the tall, concrete cross towering over the vines and snap a photograph.
    Affixed to the low stone wall, not far from the cross, was a sign. Words written in French and in English stated:
    M ANY PEOPLE COME TO VISIT THIS SITE AND WE UNDERSTAND. W E ASK YOU NEVERTHELESS TO REMAIN ON THE ROAD AND REQUEST THAT UNDER NO CONDITION YOU ENTER THE VINEYARD. T HANK YOU FOR YOUR COMPREHENSION .—T HE M ANAGEMENT
    Truth be told—and the Management realized this—it was not unusual for a visitor to dismiss the sign; to throw a leg over the wall—wait for a moment as if they half expected an alarm to sound—then throw the other leg over the wall and timidly scurry a few feet into the vines and pluck one of the grapes for a taste, or to grab a handful of soil, or even to pocket one of the small chunks of white stone peppered throughout the vineyard.
    It was with a mix of pride and benevolence that the Management had resigned itself to the reality of these occasional acts. Not that the Management encouraged such behavior or would ever look the other way if they were present to witness such an intrusion, but they realized these lawbreakers do what they do only out of admiration, adoration even; they meant no harm; they were misguided but well-intentioned. They were like the touristswho ignore the many clearly posted signs at the entrance of the Sistine Chapel and nevertheless snap photographs of Michelangelo’s ceiling masterpiece.
    Only this vineyard was more ancient; its history every bit as epic, and, to many, even more sacred than that of any of Michelangelo’s sixteenth-century paintings. Unlike a masterwork painting, this scene didn’t seem to come alive—it was alive. And while the wine it produced was out of financial reach for most mortals, locked away in cellars of wealthy collectors, as far as the vineyard goes there were no alarms, no security personnel, no cameras—the vineyard was right there in the open, just off to the side of a strip of crumbling road, within reach of everyone, vulnerable to anyone.

    The man got down on all fours. His barely moonlit face hovered inches above where the vinestocks were married to the earth. The tendrils of his hot breath rose into the night. The topsoil