Aimée was dying to know what they were saying.
Instead of moaning that she hadn’t taken Russian at the lycée like Martine had, she sat within earshot by the walk-in-sized butterscotch stone fireplace. Tried to figure out a plan.
“Madame Bereskova, une petite signature, s’il vous pla?t,” said another waiter, depositing a moisture-beaded bottle of Taittinger in the ice bucket.
The diva signed the bill with a flourish.
“Has Madame’s husband’s driver returned?” said the bodyguard.
“I’ll check, Madame.” The first waiter bowed out with Pinky under his arm.
“Our tour guide should arrive any moment. Please to ask her to join us.”
Aimée had an idea. She pulled out her wallet, chose a card, then stood up.
In the lobby, by a potted palm, stood a young woman with a cell phone to her ear and a badge that read DISCRIMINATING TOURS.
“Mademoiselle Vanya?” Aimée said, reading her badge.
The young woman smiled and clicked off her phone. “You’re Madame Bereskova’s assistant I spoke with?”
She hesitated to get the woman in trouble. Thought fast. “May I speak with you in private?”
“Is there a problem?” Her eyes were unsure. “Where’s the Russian woman who arranged the tour?”
Aimée took her elbow. Guided her behind a pillar. “Change of plans. You’ve taken ill. Food poisoning. Instead of canceling, you’re sending in a replacement. Okay?”
Mademoiselle Vanya’s jaw dropped.
“Nod if you understand, Mademoiselle.”
“I don’t understand. That’s my job.”
Aimée scanned the lobby.
“Who are you?” the young woman asked.
“I’m with Monsieur Bereskova’s Paris security. Reports have alerted us to a threat. I’m to take over. He wishes me not to alarm Madame Bereskova. Compris?”
Aimée saw the questions spinning in the woman’s mind. One was if she’d get paid for her time. Another was whether to believe Aimée or not.
“Not to alarm you, but it’s imperative you cooperate,” Aimée said, flashing the generic security badge she kept for emergencies. “The firm will take care of your fee, of course. Now make the call. Sound convincing and here’s an extra hundred francs.”
“Forget trying to bribe me,” she said. Her jaw stuck out, a defiant look in her eyes. “I’m calling my boss.”
Great.
“Then you’re trained to deal with kidnap attempts? Trained to disarm les explosifs? Handle armed combat and martial arts?”
“But her husband arranged for lunch at the Ritz, a bilingual afternoon cultural tour, some sights—”
“Someone slipped up. You should have been told,” Aimée interrupted, pointing to the one video camera in the ceiling woodwork. “We’re private security hired to guard his wife.”
“You?”
The woman needed more convincing and Aimée needed to hurry. Time for the matter-of-fact approach she’d gleaned from Chirac’s security detail.
“As a woman, I blend in, people assume I’m a personal assistant,” she said. “Bien s?r, I’m trained in firearms, protective driving, countersurveillance, and bomb search. But it’s about being able to read a situation, identify threats—whether it’s the paparazzi, a kidnapper, or an assassin—and get my client to safety. If it comes down to conflict, I’ve failed my client and myself. We like to defuse potential threats before they become issues.”
Aimée pulled out her phone. Pretended to consult it.
“I suggest you cooperate before it’s too late. The doorman, if you didn’t notice, is one of ours.”
She pointed to the uniformed doorman speaking into a headset. De rigueur in five-star hotels these days. She counted on the tour guide not to know that.
“Easy to say. How do I know you’re a bodyguard, not a kidnapper?”
Smart.
“That’s going to have to be your call, isn’t it?” Aimée rolled her eyes. “At this moment we have a situation. A level-three threat.” She continued making it up as she went on. “Wives of Russian businessmen make prime targets these days. Serbians pick them off like candy.”
Horror filled the young woman’s eyes.
“I’d prefer not to make a scene, but either make that call or—”
“Make it two hundred francs more worth my while,” she interrupted.
Aimée cringed, hoping it would be worth it.
In return the woman handed Aimée her tour guide pin. Pulled out her phone and hit speed dial. “Mademoiselle.…” followed by several phrases in hurried Russian. “Dosvedanya.”
She pocketed the money and disappeared without a backward glance. Aimée waited ten minutes, using it to read Le Parisien’s business section, which she scanned until she found an article on the Russian oligarch business deals at the air trade show. The diva’s hubby, Bereskova, was a major player. It seemed the oligarch’s search for composite carbon parts necessary for plane fuselages had hit snags with the Ministry of Defense.
Putting aside the flea market antiquaire, Tatyana stood to gain from the Modigliani—a guaranteed entrée for a babushka girl from the village to ride with the nouveau riche of Moscow.
Tatyana would keep contact with the Serb’s cohort, needing him to make good on the deal. Find the painting.
Aimée would have to get Tatyana aside, threaten her cover if she didn’t call the dog off.
Russian oligarchs belonged to the select economic strata with enough disposable income for a Modigliani. Hadn’t Marcel just pointed out the limos of the Russian oligarchs’ wives—boutiquing while their husbands shopped for an air fleet? A Modigliani would be a plum treasure for a Russian collector.
She prayed she could pull this off. In the marble restroom scented by floating gardenias in a matching marble fountain, she used a gold-braided linen hand towel. Touched up her eyes à la ELLE, smoky shadows to smolder.