“A problem, René?”
“Nothing I can’t deal with. You’re in Paris, I can tell. And Martine will tell me where.”
“Non, René, it’s not safe—”
“Attends, you’re at Dussollier’s daughter’s big to-do, non?”
Why did she always forget how smart he was?
“Shhh, listen, he’s Morbier’s contact in the seventh. Says he’s found what I’m looking for.”
“And you believe him, just like that?”
She wasn’t sure anymore; there was a bad feeling gnawing at her gut. But this was the man who had attended the police academy with her papa, played cards at their kitchen table throughout her childhood, who came to Chloé’s christening and insisted she attend his daughter’s engagement reception. Right now, since Morbier had gone to ground, she needed his information. “Security’s tighter than an unshucked oyster here.”
“Where’s Chloé?”
The garden was suddenly filled with notes from a violin quartet.
Dussollier was walking beneath the lanterns on the terrasse with his arm around his daughter, accompanied by applause and raised champagne flutes from the guests.
“She’s safe. Got to go.”
“WELCOME, AIMéE.” DUSSOLLIER’S flushed face beamed at her. He handed her a fizzing flute of champagne.
“Félicitations, your daughter’s lovely. A perfect evening.” She clinked his glass. “Santé.”
“Magical, non?” He sipped. “Rodin’s sculptures, this garden.” Beyond the wall, the gold dome of les Invalides glinted in the last rays of twilight.
She congratulated his wife, a matronly woman in powder blue whom she’d met before. Then she made her way through the receiving line of assorted family, who had come all the way from Toulon in Provence. She smiled through the tedious introductions, burning to take Dussollier aside.
At last, they were through all the relatives. “I don’t want to take you from your guests this evening, but … you’ve got something to tell me, non?”
He nodded. His face turned serious. “Meet me in five minutes inside the room by the wheelchair ramp on the lower-ground floor, on the Invalides side. That’s a quiet place where we can talk.”
AIMéE PASSED SEVERAL catering trucks parked discreetly under the trees against the back wall. A steady flow of white-aproned servers looped back and forth carrying service trays, their feet crunching on the gravel path. She turned the corner and descended the ramp. The door at the bottom opened at her touch, and she stepped into a hallway. Rough stone walls covered in crumbling grey stucco led to what she figured had once been the boiler room and laundry. A bare bulb illuminated the earthen floor.
She pulled Martine’s cashmere shawl tighter, wished she’d borrowed a jacket. Where was Dussollier? Uneasy, she looked back, worried someone had followed her. No one there. But an odd place to meet. Her thoughts were at war inside her. Every nerve was on alert, her instincts telling her she was in danger. But could Dussollier, the warm, avuncular man who had just introduced her to his entire extended family, have invited her here, to his daughter’s special day, just to set her up?
She stepped into the vaulted room on her left. Another bare bulb, yellowed with age, hung from a frayed wire in the curved stone ceiling, casting a dim glow over gilt and red satin-backed chairs stacked in piles.
“Mademoiselle Leduc?”
She turned to see the security guard she’d spoken to at the entrance. Her stomach knotted. What was he doing down here?
“Are you lost?” she said, stepping back, her heels sinking into the rough earth.
He shook his head and smiled.
Her hands clenched. “Take a hint and leave. I’m meeting someone.” Since he was blocking the door, she moved back toward a sink. “What do you want?”
“You.” He lunged, but she was ready, and she sidestepped him. He stumbled, knocking over a stack of chairs. Quick to recover, he gripped her arm and shoved her against the wall. Her shoulders shivered against the cold stone, and crumbling stucco trickled inside the back of her dress and down her spine.
“I like a tigress.” He grinned, pulling a roll of duct tape from inside his jacket with his free hand. She saw that he was wearing a shoulder holster.
Her insides crawled. Think. “Why didn’t you just say so? Not now, we’ll—”
“Shut up.” He pinned her to the wall, unwinding a strip of duct tape.
“The host will be here any minute. Don’t you understand? Let me go.”
The sound of footsteps came from the corridor. Dussollier at last! The guard put his thick hand over her mouth. The footsteps kept going. She bit him hard enough to draw blood.
He pulled back in pain, just far enough for her to wedge her knee up into his groin. He doubled over in a spasm. Then she pushed off from the wall with all her might, knocking him sideways against the sink. Heard the loud crack as his shiny shaved head hit the old porcelain rim. He crumpled to the ground with his eyes rolled up in his head. Knocked out cold.
Shaking, she stumbled and heard static coming from his pocket. His security monitor. “All done?” Static. “… taken care of yet?”
The hair rose on the back of her neck. The guard had come down here to subdue her. He had to be acting on Dussollier’s orders. She reached into his shoulder holster and took the pistol, a Glock. Stuck it in her clutch. Merde, her bag wouldn’t snap shut.
And then her phone rang. Martine. She checked the area, saw the corridor was clear. Then edged out, keeping low, intent on finding another exit so she wouldn’t be seen leaving. Better take Martine’s call to get backup. Security.
“Martine,” she said, catching her breath. “Listen, I’m in—”
“A fax just came through from Martinique,” she interrupted. “From that Blauet. I think you should hear this.”
A bead of perspiration dripped down her neck. “Go ahead.”