“Hold that.” He handed her his burning filter-tipped Gitane and winked. “She loves me. Back in a flash.”
Aimée pretended to take a hit. The minute the door closed, she tossed it, shouldered the laundry bag, and sprinted down the alley. She put every ounce of energy into reaching the next street before the former KGB—or whatever he was called—discovered her ruse in the laundry.
Praying for a return on her taxi karma, she ran through the rain-slicked cobbled streets, the laundry bag thumping against her thigh. The muscles in her calves burned. She zigzagged onto rue Marbeuf and, her chest heaving, reached broad Avenue George V.
The first taxi stopped. “Late for work?” the driver asked.
“You could say that,” she said, catching her breath. “Rue du Louvre at Saint Honoré. Extra if we get there in ten minutes.”
He hit the meter and took off. She hunched down in the backseat, pulled the trench coat over the maid’s uniform embroidered with H?tel Plaza Athénée on the pocket. Marina’s phone vibrated. Six calls. She needed to think.
Two blocks past the Champs Elysées, her own phone rang. Dombasle.
“The buy’s on. Where do I pick you up?” he said, horns blaring in the background.
“I’m in a taxi. Look.…”
“Meet me at Parc Montsouris. Café on the corner of Avenue Reille. Hurry.” He clicked off.
She debated, torn. She needed to get to the office. Enlist the help of Saj—and René, if he was still around. But she couldn’t chance missing the Modigliani.
“Change of plans, Monsieur,” she said, and gave him the address at Parc Montsouris. “Mind closing your ears?”
“Wear these, you mean?” He held up red fur earmuffs.
“Parfait.”
As the taxi sped over Pont Alexandre III, she called Saj. Outside the window, globed candelabra lights lined the bridge, misted in the fog. The Seine below, a dark gelatinous ribbon, caught furred glints of light.
“Before you say anything, Aimée, I found what Bereskova’s angling for at the trade show.”
Now?
“I dug around,” Saj said, excited. “His parent company manufactures guidance-system onboard electronics—”
“Hold on, Saj,” she interrupted, “you mean like in airplanes?”
“All aircraft, including missiles,” Saj said. “Specializing in carbon-composite materials technology needed to manufacture those wafer-thin components. He’s wining and dining, aiming to seal the manufacturing contract for the Moscow parent company.”
Now it made sense. “Not only wining and dining, Saj. He’s got an account set up for bribes and kickbacks.”
“You can prove that?”
“Shouldn’t be hard with this deposit slip in my hot little hand.” She dictated the Swiss bank account and routing numbers on Marina’s check. “Think Rasputin can help you?”
“He hates apparatchiks like Beresekova taking advantage of the system,” Saj said. “That’s the plus side. Whether he agrees.…”
“What about René’s relay and delay switch for that mainframe? Same principle, non?
“Worked this time, thank God,” Saj said.
She allowed herself an inner sigh of relief. Clutched her bag closer on the worn leather seat. Thought as she rubbed her sore calves.
“But if you and René work out how to delay the funds transfer, Dmitri Bereskova can’t pay his bribes.” She remembered Hervé now from the newspapers. “At least one of the culture ministers won’t get his nice cut.” A patter of raindrops beaded the taxi’s side windows. “Wouldn’t Rasputin like to expose the oligarch’s faux museum?”
“I’ll get René on it,” Saj said. “He’s closer to Rasputin than I am.”
But the SIM card from Marina’s phone had a limited life. Before Dmitri stopped service and canceled, she needed to save the call log and numbers.
“Any ideas how I can clone a SIM card in ten minutes?”
“Got the ESN and the MIN—the electronic serial number and the mobile identification number?”
“Right here.”
“You’re talking to the right person,” Saj said. “But it might take me a while. Say an hour?”
“Worth a shot. Meanwhile, I’ll copy down the numbers that come up most in the dialed log, just in case.” Budding tree branches shivered in the night wind on broad Avenue du Général Leclerc.
“What does all this have to do with the Modigliani?” Saj asked.
“Didn’t I explain?”
“That you’re chasing the people chasing the painting.…”
Until now. The buy was on. And she’d have to figure it out as it played.
“What else could I do?”
“You’re the detective,” Saj said. “Follow clues, question suspects, go over evidence.…”
She heard music in the background. Japanese. “What’s going on?”
“My acupuncturist made an office call. He does massage too. René needed a shiatsu treatment.”
She could use one right now as well, but the taxi was approaching the gates of the Parc Montsouris. Dombasle’s red Fiat was parked on the curb. An uneasy feeling came over her.
“DON’T TELL ME,” Dombasle said. “You’re moonlighting as a maid? Or you’re an actress auditioning for a role?”
“I like to dress up, Raphael.” The smell of sodden chestnut leaves rose from the pavement.
“Undercover, that’s it,” he said.
“Where’s the buy?”
“Postponed.” He shook his head. “The antiquaire says tomorrow.”
“Didn’t you know that ten minutes ago?” Aimée said, frustrated. “Yet you insisted I come here.”
He shrugged.
“What’s going on?” The red taillights of the taxi disappeared in the mist. Too late to call it back.
“Come inside the café. Let me explain.”
Wet and tired, she agreed.
A glass of wine later, he was holding her hand. “Don’t get mad, but I wanted to see you. Hear you laugh.”
And waste her time.