A tad too inquisitive? She threw René a look. He put his hands together in supplication, so she kept talking.
“Monsieur de Brosselet, the British have been undertaking security operations in this way since 1994 under protection of the Intelligence Services Act. And you think our own government hasn’t been doing the same thing? I say we need to keep up with the hackers. Or hire them ourselves—just like the government does.” She smiled. “You didn’t know that, did you? That’s the truth, and the other companies won’t admit it. They hire hackers for security purposes; it’s the cheapest way to get the most sophisticated programmers. And we do the same.”
He grinned. “You’re outlaws.”
“The Internet’s like the Wild West these days. Does your firm want to be left behind? Can you fight back with a club when your opponents are using laser guns?”
René piped up. “Too many times we’re hired after the fact. Statistics show it’s not whether your firm will fall under cyber attack but when and how many times your vulnerabilities will be exploited.”
De Brosselet crossed his legs. “As you must know, Villeroi’s a family firm, old school—handcrafted products, world renowned. I married into the family, took my position ten years ago.”
Aimée nodded. Villeroi was on a par with Hermès, but the true cognoscente believed Villeroi’s wares were the more finely crafted. She’d lusted after a bag herself, but Villeroi never showed up at the flea market.
“Counterfeiters are stealing our designs, destroying our market,” he said. “You come personally recommended.” He recrossed his creased trouser leg. “By my uncle, the comte. Seems you’re working for him.”
Yet another nephew? Aimée rewound her memory but she didn’t recall de Brosselet’s name among the comte’s family members. Or on the board of the comte’s engineering firm. She’d have remembered that even with baby brain. Had René forgotten to do his research? Or was this a lie, an attempt to infiltrate the comte’s company?
Maxence turned from the espresso machine with a raised eyebrow. René had gripped the back of his ergonomic chair. Merde. They couldn’t play both sides.
“We can’t speak to that, as you must understand.” She paused, hating to pull away from such a lucrative client. “We’d need to explore for any conflict of interest,” she said. “I don’t want to waste your time, Monsieur de Brosselet, but I’m afraid …”
“My family allegiance would cloud things?” He grinned. “My uncle’s quite taken with you, you know. But feel free to ask him.”
Wary, Aimée wondered if she’d read him wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Excusez-moi.” Aimée pulled out her phone, dialed. A moment later, after a quick query, the comte confirmed there was no conflict of interest.
“He’s my sister’s boy, got his own inheritance. From the right branch of the family, if you get my meaning, Mademoiselle,” said the comte. “Snag his contract if you can, his firm’s loaded.”
“Merci.”
She clicked off, caught René’s gaze and nodded.
“Villeroi’s looking to safeguard our communications system worldwide,” de Brosselet said, consulting his notes. “Can you convince me Leduc Detective would do a better job of providing a comprehensive computer-security system than the five other firms bidding for the contract?”
Aimée knew all their rivals, competitors with large offices and lots of people power.
“Monsieur de Brosselet, your designs and sensitive data could be stolen in myriad ways,” she said. “That’s why we cover all the bases, not just the technical ones. Maybe someone’s walking out with designs the old-fashioned way and photocopying them. Or someone’s bugging the phone of the president of the company. Which is why we’re experts in surveillance and counter-surveillance.”
René’s eyes popped.
“And of course we’d do computer security as all the other firms do,” she said, stirring her espresso.
“Interesting. How many employees do you have?” de Brosselet asked, smiling as he accepted a demitasse from Maxence. “Merci.”
“Who you see and Saj, our permanent part-timer.”
“I’d like to meet him.”
“Of course,” said René, shooting Aimée a look. “He’s on assignment in India right now.”
Assignment? More like meditation retreat.
She wished she’d prepared more. “We keep lean, if that’s what you’re asking. And we bring a special skill set to the table. My background in criminal investigation provides an unusual list of contacts, freelancers I trust for certain types of surveillance.”
“Lean works if it delivers, Mademoiselle Leduc,” he said.
She smiled at him and nodded to a wide-eyed René. “Shall we get started?”
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, René stood and stretched. “I’ve done my bit on the proposal. Your turn, Aimée. Think we hooked de Brosselet?”
“Time will tell. That is, if I finish these last projections.”
“Lean, I like that.” René grinned. “We’re a lean machine.”
She glanced at the time. She had a surveillance coming up, but there was still so much to do. No return call yet from Madame Uzes. Nor had she heard from Morbier. No chance to follow up on La Bouteille aux Puces for information or on Nicu’s uncle, who should be questioned. And Drina Constantin, wherever she was, was running out of time, if she was even still alive.
“What’s with the old newspaper? Qu’est-ce que c’est, Aimée, a procès-verbal and a torn drink receipt?”
Then an idea surfaced. “Remember that book you gave me, Mamans Can Have Lives, Too? It says delegate when your plate’s full.”
René nodded. “Bien s?r. It’s a best seller, so it must work. Delegate away.”
She wrote out La Bouteille aux Puces’s name and address and slid it across her desk to him. “Sit down a moment. Let me explain.”
She did.
“Delegating?” René shook his head. “That’s asking me to go on a wild Gypsy chase. And it’s personal.”