A few looks of interest came from the men at the table. Langan sat back in his leather chair and crossed his arms.
“If someone tells you they can put an extra security guard on the server, well, they can’t,” she said, walking toward him and pouring herself a glass of water from the carafe. “I assume you’re referring to that when you mentioned exploring data?”
“Something like that,” he said.
A hard sell, this minister in the tailored double-breasted custom made jacket. The others sat and watched.
She smiled and prayed the run on her thigh hadn’t traveled further down her black pantyhose.
“Cyberthreats are really the vulnerabilities, potential open doors in software, that hackers trawl for. All a hacker needs in order to shut down your system is a single Web-connected computer without proper security software; a fourteen-year-old’s desktop Mac, a university’s e-mail server, or a government ministry’s laptop. We see it all the time. Using e-mail software or other applications on an unprotected computer, hackers can bog down your Internet operations with ‘distributed denial of service’ attacks that generate more traffic than the network can handle. Meanwhile, they hack into a vulnerable system undetected in the mass confusion.”
She paused, took a sip of water. Wondering if she’d scored any points yet. But she was telling the truth. And if they didn’t like it, they’d let her know.
Her eyes rested on the PetroVietnam graph of profit and earnings. The connection with the Cao Dai was probably a coincidence; she must be paranoid. Just because there was a Vietnamese connection didn’t mean. . . .
“We watch, warn and share information. Not to mention continual updating and monitoring. And your system has not only firewall protection in place but a backup in the event of a Web attack.”
“And if the firewall is breached, and the back-up?” Langan interrupted.
“Automatic alarms inform us of any attack, monsieur,” she said. “I doubt they’d breach our firewall before we discovered and patched or disarmed the attack.”
“Bon, your firm guarantees this?”
“Of course, that’s what we do 24/7, Monsieur.”
Verlet stood and smiled. Was that relief on his face?
“Mademoiselle Leduc, we appreciate this and don’t want to inconvenience you any more,” he said. “Merci. ”
She took her cue and left. Considering her sweaty palms, it was a good thing she didn’t have to shake anyone’s hand. She leaned against the wall in the video surveillance room and waited for her heart to slow to a normal beat.
A knock sounded on the door. Verlet with the verdict? So quick? She took a deep breath and opened it.
“Oui?”
One of the men from the conference room, all six feet plus of him, stood before her with a copy of Le Monde tucked under his arm. Early forties, brushed back black hair; his pinstriped suit didn’t disguise his muscular frame.
“Good job for being put on the spot, Mademoiselle.” He winked, smiling. A nice smile. “I felt it necessary to go along but forgive me. I mean, for not rising to your defense. You see, we’re part of the consortium insuring this firm and so . . . You handled yourself quite well. Impressive.”
“So my firm passed?”
He nodded.
“We like to establish a relationship of confidence with our clients,” she said, relief flooding her.
“Exactly.” He said, “I’ve already apologized to Verlet, didn’t want him to have an attack of apoplexy in view of his crise de foie and high blood pressure.”
Crise de foie. Why did every Frenchman connect bad health to a mysterious ailment of the liver?
“I’m curious as to why the minister attended this meeting,” she said. She was aware of the rumors that Olf, a state-owned firm, had dealt in backdoor diplomacy since de Gaulle’s era. But she wanted to hear his explanation.
“Why, it’s common practice for the minister to keep informed about investments in unsettled countries. Here, if you need to contact me,” he said, handing her an oversized vellum card engraved with the name Julien de Lussigny.
She handed him hers. “I thought you said you were with the insurance consortium. . . .”
“But I am,” he said. “There are a few things for us to discuss.
Why don’t we have lunch?”
“With pleasure,” she said.
Eager to seal the deal, she tried to ignore the pangs of wariness she felt.
“Say tomorrow?” With people like this one had to smile and nod a lot.
“Bon, I’ll call you to confirm the restaurant tomorrow,” he said.
De Lussigny was distinguished and a tad conservative for her but power oozed from him. His footsteps clicked on the marble floor as he joined the others from the conference room who were spilling into the corridor. By the time they reached the reception area, she’d slipped back into the room and was scanning the PetroVietnam charts. There were lots of arrows on the graph, all pointing upward, indicating profit, staggering profit, in the Gulf of Tonkin. Blue, black, and green triangles indicated British, Chinese, and French drilling areas. Her wariness increased.
“Here you are,” said the nice receptionist who had entered the room silently. “Monsieur Verlet’s engaged now but he asked me to tell you that he’ll sign the addendum and we’ll messenger it over with a check.”
Aimée turned away to hide her relief and the warm flush that now suffused her cheeks. She couldn’t wait to tell René.
Wednesday
RENÉ CHOKED ON THE oily rags filling his mouth. Ropes cut into his tightly bound legs and arms. He could barely move.
If only he’d paid more attenion—not walked into a trap!
His head throbbed from the blows they had inflicted on him. He was in darkness. He could just make out a beeping sound, or was it a muffled honking? But it continued . . . a car alarm? He tried to kick his legs, fighting the terror that flooded him as he lay on a hard surface, trussed like a pheasant. Dull rhythmic flapping echoed near his ear, like the tread of tire on asphalt.
Was he in the trunk of a car? He might be. How long had he been like this?
He worked the tight cord, trying to loosen it, but it only cut harder into his skin. His phone bulged in his jacket pocket, but he couldn’t reach it, or talk if he could.
Make a plan, René. Wasn’t that what Aimée would say? First things first, he must loosen his bonds and work his hands free. If this were a car trunk wouldn’t there be back taillights or a tirejack? Something sharp that might stick out.
And then he remembered his dead phone battery.
But his phone had beeped. He had a message. Was there some life still left in it? He had to reach his phone.
He wiggled his arms, found metal, and rubbed his hands back and forth. Nothing. Where were the rear taillights? Then his wrists struck a sharp edge. A small gleam of red behind it, the rear brakelights. He moved his wrists back and forth, sawing at the cord. Time after time, he missed, and sliced his skin. When he’d freed his hands, he’d try the phone. When the car stopped he’d be ready to spring out and drop kick his assailants.
Why hadn’t he seen the attack coming? All those years of training in martial arts, even a black belt! But hearing Aimée had been hurt, he’d panicked.
Was she? Were the captors taking him to her? Or was that just a ruse?
He’d never let her know. But considering his situation, this was a moot point. His legs hadn’t hurt so much since the doctor had broken, then reset them when he was six. They’d been so severely bowed he could hardly walk. Only after a year in casts with a bar between them to straighten the bones had he walked again.