The operation was a masterpiece of slapstick strategy. Cruchot signaled his men with bird calls that sounded more like a choking cat. They charged the beach in a pincer movement, whistles blowing, sand flying.

Should I add a scene where has to go undercover as a beatnik to infiltrate a jazz club?

The sun had barely begun to warm the terracotta roofs of Saint-Tropez when the silence of the harbor was shattered by the rhythmic, frantic coughing of a vintage Citroën Méhari. Behind the wheel, Ludovic Cruchot adjusted his kepi with a grimace of absolute authority.

Gerber rubbed his temples. "Tomorrow, Cruchot. We do it all again."