bi disk was not only worth the price of several cities but that a king would ceremoniously feast for many days upon receiving the disk.
Aimée gasped. Was this disk such a rare ancient ritual object?
She pulled out the creased page from the auction catalogue and looked closer at the photo illustration. She hadn’t been able to understand why a Vietnamese emperor would have entrusted the jade figures to the Cao Dai for safekeeping. She’d assumed the emperor would only have Buddhist objects. But how clever it would have been to disguise the ancient disks by using them as part of later figurines—using one treasure to mask a much more valuable one.
Footsteps on the creaking wood came from the hallway.
“You still haven’t explained why Dinard’s being so secretive,” she said. “Why did the RG visit him?”
“They’re not CNN, they don’t broadcast continuous updates,” he said. “I don’t know.”
The footsteps stopped. Fear shone in his eyes and he put a finger to his lips. What was he afraid of?
She went to the peephole in the massive door and peered out. All she could see in the dim hall was the spherical body of a dark suited man.
“He’s shadowed me from the museum,” he said.
“Is he from the RG?”
“Who knows?”
If she left now she’d be recognized. It would be better to have Tessier owe her. Or think he did.
She opened the oval window and set a chair under it. “You’ve seen this disk, now find out who the jade belonged to, Tessier, and who would want to steal it,” she said. “Otherwise, your new job’s in jeopardy. Call me from a public phone, later.”
She swung her leg over the windowsill and climbed outside into the chill air.
AIMÉE PUNCHED in Leduc Detective’s number on her cell phone and listened for messages. One. The reception wavered and cut out as she passed the high voltage lines by the railway.
“I thought we might have a late lunch.”
Guy? Had he reconsidered and forgiven her? But his voice sounded different.
“Place des Ternes. I’m in the bistro across from Villa Nouvelle.” She recognized him now. It was de Lussigny, from the Olf meeting. “I know you were going to call me, but I hoped you could fit it in today. Forgive me for not confirming with you beforehand.”
Merde! She should have checked her messages earlier. Olf was a big account. She looked at her Tintin watch, and called the bistro.
“Please tell Monsieur de Lussigny that I’m en route for our lunch appointment,” she said.
Aimée hailed a taxi and jumped in behind the driver. “Count on a nice tip if I make my lunch date.”
He grinned, ground into first gear, and took off.
She tried René’s number. Again no answer. Why hadn’t the kidnappers called back? What was happening to René? If only she knew what to do. But what else could she do but wait?
In the taxi mirror, she slicked down her spiky hair with gel, reapplied mascara, and touched up her traffic-stopping red lipstick. She pinched her cheeks for color, dotted them with lipstick, and rubbed it in. Thank God she wore a black leather skirt and silk top underneath her sweater. She pulled out a gray silk scarf, knotted it several times and looped it around her shoulders, then found a hip-hugging thin silver chain belt in the bottom of her bag and hooked it on.
Seven minutes later and thirty francs poorer, she was seated in a dark wood-paneled bistro amidst gleaming mirrors, vases of flowers, and the hum of discreet conversation.
De Lussigny, in a black suit, his hair carelessly brushed back, looked younger than she remembered. Soigné, with an effortless air. The small bistro was understated yet the attentive waiters who hovered made her self-conscious. People like nearby resident Jeanne Moreau and cabinet ministers ate here.
“Smells wonderful,” she said.
“And with a wonderful wine list from Languedoc,” he told her. He ordered for them both and requested a demi-bottle from the reserve cellar.
“First, let me apologize again for not helping you when the minister put you on the spot, Mademoiselle Leduc.”
“Please call me Aimée,” she said.
Better watch out, she told herself, lest she run off at the mouth. A man with his corporate power didn’t need to wine and dine her. What was the real purpose of this lunch?
The wine arrived. He sipped and complimented the sommelier who poured the dark red liquid into Aimée’s glass. A Cabernet, full-bodied, tart and a bit pebbly. Nice.
“I realize, after checking with your other accounts, that this Olf project is routine for you,” he said. “Of course, it didn’t hurt for the board to hear it, too.”
“I understood you were testing our firm.”
She placed the napkin on her lap, took a piece of bread from the basket and tore off the crust. “Forgive my directness, but I get the feeling this meeting concerns something else, Monsieur . . .”
“Julien, please. The consortium has an agenda that you should be aware of.”
“I don’t understand. Which hat are you wearing right now?”
He smiled. His large eyes were reddened with fatique.
“Everyone wants the inside track. I’ve attended so many meetings in the past few days, I can’t keep my head straight.”
What did he mean? “But how does that concern me? Our firm does computer security. What agenda are you referring to?”
“We’d like you to keep your eyes open. And I’d like to have copies of your reports sent to me.”
Industrial espionage? What was that saying about no free lunches?
“But Olf is paying me; I don’t understand.”
“Look, to insure this venture overseas will be an immense risk.”
“But the financial rewards would be astronomical, wouldn’t they?”
She was guessing but from the way he drummed on the table with his knife, it looked like her question had hit home. The charts and graphs she’d seen in the conference room indicated the project involved PetroVietnam.
“So Olf’s negotiating, or vying, for oil rights and you want to know about the competition.”
“Under your sweet and innocent exterior,” he said, sitting back, “you’re sophisticated and complex.”
Sweet and innocent? But she had obviously guessed right.
“We know who our competition is. The British and Chinese. We’d like you to monitor the engineering department’s e-mail.”
“I run a detective agency specializing in computer security, not in industrial espionage. Now you don’t have to buy me lunch. I can just leave, no hard feelings.”
A waiter appeared at her elbow with an appetizer of smoked salmon dotted with caviar.
“And you, Aimée, what’s the expression, ‘pack a punch.’ We’ll pay you accordingly. I’ve mentioned this to Verlet, so you’re not going behind his back. But you’re welcome to confirm my request. Why don’t you call him right now?”
“I take your word for it,” she said. But suspicion nagged at her.
What was it about de Lussigny that made her wary? The smile in his tired eyes, the languid way he commanded attention from the waiter, his aura of power, the way he had brushed her hand with his as he reached for the bread?
A slow throb mounted in her head. Centered in her right temple. Fractals of light fused into a bluish fog.
She rubbed her eyes . . . non . . . but it didn’t go away. Fear clutched her. Where were her pills? She reached in her bag, felt for them, and downed two with wine.
“Our consortium finds it prudent to monitor this activity. It’s just a slight extension of your job.”