by Cara Black
“They’re holding something over you, aren’t they?” Aimée asked.
A flash of anger lit his eyes and she knew. That’s what the RG did. Intimidation, threats of blackmail, wiretaps. Sickening. Regnier was probably overseeing the campaign.
“Look, you’re not my business,” she said. “All I want to know about is the jade.”
“They know about you,” he said, his anger replaced by a cunning look.
“Pleyet and the RG? Tell me something new.”
The phone rang. Was this a signal?
“I have to leave,” he said to her. “I don’t have much time. To do the research properly we need the jade pieces.”
“Like I said, I prefer to give them to Professor Dinard myself. When can I meet him?”
“In Dinard’s position, he can’t be seen dealing with you.”
“So that’s why you wanted to meet here?”
He nodded, turning toward the window. The parquet floor creaked as he shifted his stance.
Aimée said, “I have a question. Since the pieces have such a high value and the art world is so small, Professor Dinard must know the identity of the last owner.”
“We work in a museum.”
“But you deal with collectors, n’est-ce pas? You would know those with jade collections.”
“I thought you wanted help, Mademoiselle.”
But not the help he wanted to give her. “Who’s interested in the jade?” she asked.
“Do you have it with you?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think you’re a jade expert. You’re just full of hot air and questions.”
From his expression, she’d struck a nerve. He froze.
There was a pause. She heard a clock ticking, saw the shadows in the courtyard. Felt the chill in the room which had no working heater.
“I assist and help curate exhibitions,” Tessier said, his voice lowered. His eyes darted around the room. “But you’re wrong. The study of jade is my passion.”
Unease filled her. “Did Dinard mention the jade to you the other day after I left?”
Tessier shook his head.
“Or his conversation with the RG?”
“I’m not privy to Professor Dinard’s conversations.”
Shadows lengthened from the trees casting a dim light in the room. Tessier wiped his brow.
“Tessier, you’re wasting my time,” she said, heading for the door.
“Wait.” He took a deep breath. “Dinard’s on the way out,” he said. “Museum politics. They offered me his post, but only if I perform like a seal.” He wiped his brow. “My life’s devoted to art. Why should my education and expertise be wasted?”
“I had the collection, then it was stolen. But I still have this.” She held up the jade disk.
Tessier’s eyes widened. He took a magnifying glass from the desk. “May I examine this, please?”
“Tell me about the jade,” she said. “Then I won’t bother you. Tell them anything you want. I’ll leave you in peace.”
His eyes shone. “The first Emperor of China waged war for some jade beads. We call them disks. They symbolize the sky and the earth, hence the round shape. Jade’s more than a stone, it’s an integral part of an ancient system of worship, essential in the ritual propitiation of the gods and in the performance of homage. There’s a cultural parallel with our discipline of philosophy; it had both a political meaning and a practical function.”
He studied the disk, then shrugged. “But I don’t know if this small disk decorated jade astrological figures or belonged to another, older piece,” Tessier said. “The original disks were small. And sacred. It’s so hard to tell.”
“You’re saying these disks could be older than the zodiac animals they were attached to like halos.”
“I’m speculating,” he said. “The original meaning of the Chinese word for “ritual” was “to serve the gods with jade.”
Tessier pulled a small book from his pocket and translated from Chinese:
Shamans, represented by the earliest Chinese character (wu), used tools to draw circles superimposed at right angles. From this we may deduce that shamans monopolized the technology for making circular bi disks or beads, and thus had the exclusive power to present sacrifices to the gods and ancestral spirits. The round shape of the bi is said to derive from the circular path that the sun follows in the sky. According to accounts from 283 B.C. we know an unblemished 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.”
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 ove
r 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.
