A blurred fuzz bordered her vision. The sideboard with assorted tarts and pastries tilted, the walls unfolded. Panic overtook her and she felt sick to her stomach.
“As I suggested, confer with Verlet,” he said, taking a forkful of salmon. “The salmon’s Norwegian, why don’t you taste it?”
Guy had warned her that stress would affect her optic nerve. She took a deep breath. Tried to relax.
But she couldn’t.
She wanted to leave the resto before her eyesight blurred even further; before she saw two of everything. She had to get away from this man who had just asked her to spy on the Brits and Chinese. But one didn’t say no to a client. At least not to his face. What if he put pressure on her, or Verlet, threatening to withdraw their contract? Would René think it best to cooperate?
“I’d appreciate your help,” he said, his voice pleasant. “Just copy me on your reports.”
Her peripheral vision was fading. She gripped the napkin, felt the crumbs on the table.
“That’s all?” she asked.
He made it sound easy. But she sensed there was more to it. “I don’t foresee a problem but I need to let my partner know; he’s the one who’d coordinate our other jobs while I did this.”
She had to get away and think: the oil rights, PetroVietnam, the Chinese. Did the jade link up to any of this?
“So, it’s a workload issue?” de Lussigny asked. “Of course, I understand.”
The fog began to recede to the edges of her vision. She prayed it would stay there. She pulled on her dark glasses.
“I need to check with him. Now.”
She put her napkin on the table.
“But your food!”
“Please, excuse me.”
She stumbled, gathered her bag and left. Outside, in the chill wind, she had to grab the stair railing to orient herself. If she could just get back to the office. If only she could talk to René and figure out what to do. If only she could be sure René was safe. She had to put an ice pack on her eyes.
Someone familiar approached. She recognized that gait, the roll forward on the balls of his feet, even if she couldn’t see him clearly. It was Guy. His office was a few blocks away. Now she felt guilty for having lunch with de Lussigny. She was about to run and hug Guy, apologize again. Explain about René. Somehow convince him . . . and then she realized he was engrossed in conversation. Non, kissing someone. His arm was around a petite blonde.
A sharp pain pierced her. She stumbled and turned away. Afraid to believe what she thought she saw. She looked again as they walked right past, too busy to notice her, and studied the resto menu.
Aimée took a few steps, trying to blend with passersby and reach the Métro entrance. Could she have mistaken someone else for him?
And then she heard laughter, a woman saying “Stop teasing, Guy.”
Ahead, the green metal around the red Métro plaque glinted. The pills were taking effect. Her vision was clearing. She kept walking: telling herself to concentrate, to make it to the Métro steps, then to the platform. Trying to ignore the recollection of Guy’s invitation to move in together. How quickly he’d forgotten. Only a few stops and then she’d reach Leduc Detective and could collapse. She had to keep going while she could.
The womanizing traitor! A wave of dizziness overcame her and she reached for the side of the magazine kiosk. Missed. Caught herself on the newspaper rack.
“Ça va? You look green,” Julien de Lussigny said, catching her arm.
Startled, she froze. “Please, I feel terrible if you left your meal on my account—”
“Just got a call and have to rush off to a meeting,” he inter- rupted, buttoning his coat. “The investors have questions. As always!”
No aura of power or mystique surrounded him now as he gave her a tired grin. Or maybe it was the concern in his eyes. He looked more human. Light drizzle misted the gray pavement.
He unfurled an umbrella and held it over them.
“Merci, but I’m headed to the Métro,” she said.
“Look, my driver’s here, let me give you a ride.”
Right now it sounded wonderful. Gratefully, she entered the black Citroën idling at the curb. She slumped in the back seat and kept from turning to look out the back window for Guy and the blonde.
“Ça va?” he asked. “Should we stop at a pharmacy?”
“Non, merci,” she said. “My office on rue du Louvre, if you don’t mind.”
He was strangely quiet in the few minutes it took them to get there.
Aimée thanked him and mounted the steps to Leduc Detective, feeling her way up by clutching the cold banister. Crystalline streaks webbed her vision, like the fleur de sel salt crystals she’d seen harvested in the Mediterranean, floating sheetlike to the water’s surface.
She opened the frost-paned office door, now fractaled with light. Inside the office, she dropped her bag, her hands shaking. Would her vision clear?
René was in danger, the RG threatened her and she still hadn’t found the jade. And Guy. . . .
She rooted in her desk drawer for more pills, found two and a bottle of Vichy water. When her hands steadied she downed them, sat, and took deep breaths. Think, she had to think. To calm her mind. She tried to visualize a river, flowing and smooth, with a current like a dark ribbon.
A loud knock on the door startled her. “Who’s there?”
“Linh,” the voice said.
“Come in please,” Aimée replied, and opened her eyes to see a blurred Linh, her hands upheld in a gesture of greeting.
“I’m sorry Linh . . . my vision.”
“Chaos fights your spirit,” Linh interrupted.
“We call it inflammation of the optic nerve,” Aimée said. “Please, do sit down.” She indicated the Louis XV chair, then reached for an ice pack from the first aid kit.
“Non,” Linh said. “Cold chills the channels.” She reached into her bag for an embroidered pouch and pulled out a small packet. “Try the Eastern way. Herbs. Let me take your pulse.”
Long deft fingers pressed Aimée’s wrist in several places.
“Open your mouth.”
“What?”
“Like this.” She stuck out her tongue and Aimée did the same.
“Abnormality of the liver is evidenced by a tense, pounding pulse and red tipped tongue indicating post-traumatic stress,” Linh said. “For this we build the fever, let the heat burn out the infection, unlike doctors in the West.”
Aimée smelled mint. To each his own, Aimée thought. It was worth a try.
“You’re an herbalist, too?” she asked.
Linh shook her head as she applied mint oil to Aimée’s temples and brow. “Everyone in my country treats it this way. From when we’re little babies.”
So they carried herbs instead of aspirin?
“Close your eyes. Take deep breaths,” Linh said, massaging Aimée’s hands. “Let the mint oil take effect.”
Aimée felt a warmth and slight tingling on her brow. The curious warmth traveled to the top of her skull and down her neck.
“René’s been kidnapped,” she told Linh. “The kidnappers want the jade. I found no clues at the auction house. And Gassot’s proving elusive.”
“Mon Dieu!” Linh leaned forward, worrying her beads. “I will pray for him tonight.”
“Linh, an RG agent is seeking the jade, too,” Aimée said. “What do they have to do with it?”
“Who?”
“The RG’s a secret service, affiliated with the Préfecture and National Police.” And under the watchful eyes of the Ministry, she added silently.
Aimée felt a cold ruffle of wind by her knee, the musk of incense, and Linh’s hand on her shoulder.