by Cara Black
“Went the way of the ghost. Vanished. Or so the rumor goes.”
“Care to elucidate, Luebet?”
Luebet shrugged. “Use your imagination.”
“Any Baltic accents attached to the rumors?” Dombasle asked. Eastern Europeans exchanged stolen paintings for arms or jewels or drugs—not so picky. Last year a Serbian militant was caught pulling Chagalls from his Zagreb basement to trade for a fleet of armor-plated Land Rovers. In turf wars, art was a gold bar of exchange for such gangs, who cared nothing for it but as a commodity.
Luebet, who had been prominent in the art world for forty years, sighed. “Or they’ve gone to Moscow-on-Thames.” The Russian oligarch billionaires bought up country manors around London with irritating efficiency. Kept the UK economy afloat. Too bad that hadn’t happened here since the eighties with the Japanese château-buying frenzy. “The young breed operates pipelines outside my sources.” Luebet shrugged. “We’re old, compris? There’s a new generation.”
True. Dombasle wanted to get this over with, but sensed Luebet had another agenda. “Bon, I’ll contact the chief, he’ll inform the comtesse.” Dombasle grinned. “The usual drill. Tell your seller you’ve found a client who wants a verbal provenance. Arrange a meeting. Say you’ll bring the money. We’ll do the rest.” A cut-and-dried sting operation.
Luebet seemed to weigh his options. “D’accord,” he said finally. That hesitation in the dealer’s look indicated he had more information—a tip, a name.
“Something else on your mind, Luebet?”
“Rumors.”
“Concerning what, Luebet?”
“That’s just it, rumors,” Luebet said. “Years ago a story surfaced about a Modigliani that went missing in 1920—only shown once. Whispers only, you understand. That it’s been found in France. Worth … well, for years its existence was the stuff of dreams. Now the whispers say right after it was discovered it went missing.”
Dombasle knew the art dealer was fishing for something. Teasing the story out to find what Dombasle knew. But he wouldn’t play.
“Luebet, is there a point to you spreading rumors?”
“Word goes a fixer, une Américaine, runs a network transporting certain objets d’art.”
Dombasle’s nose twitched in full gear now. “The Modigliani?”
“Just rumors, as I said.”
“I need more than rumors, Luebet,” he said.
“Alors, I told you everything.…”
“Cut the act,” Dombasle said. “You owe me, remember?”
Monday Morning, San Francisco International Airport
RENÉ FRIANT’S HIP ached after the eleven-hour flight and the long line at US immigration. Four feet tall, he stood on tiptoe at the glass booth to pass over his French passport.
He smiled at the immigration officer. “Bonjour.”
“You’re a tourist, Mr. Friant?”
His promised work visa hadn’t come through. Perspiration dampened his shirt. Nervous, his mind went back to Tradelert’s last fax, which he’d memorized on the plane: No problem, H-1B visa’s in the works. Soon as the green light comes, we whisk you over the border at Mexicali, you come back in legal to work. Meanwhile say you’re consulting on a project for the week from Paris, no visa required.
René preferred to follow the rules and laws, at least more than Aimée did. But the less said the better.
“For now, Monsieur.”
A loud thump and TOURIST stamped on his passport. “Enjoy your vacation.”
Then an endless walk through the terminal with his bags, goading the hip dysplasia pain. But currents of excitement ran through him as he waited at the airport curb. The air felt different, the colors—the newness of everything struck him. Fog settled over the taxis, the huge American cars.
“Over here, Tattoo,” Kobo, Tradelert’s rep, yelled from a battered Volkswagen.
René grinned. “Where’s the sun, Kobo?”
“You’re thinking of LA.” Kobo, tall and gangling, bent to give René a high five. A matchstick of a man, René thought, smelling of onions. Kobo tossed his bags in the backseat.
“But Zeelakon Vallaaay.…”
“We call it ‘The Valley,’ Tattoo,” Kobo interrupted.
“What’s with ‘Tattoo’?”
“De plane, de plane!” Kobo laughed. “From the TV show Fantasy Island. Get it? You’re wearing the same suit, too.”
Wasn’t Kobo too young to have seen that eighties show? Strange, but René recalled that Americans watched the télé all the time. René’s aunt in the countryside stayed up late watching old reruns and made the same joke. Not that he found it funny. “Suit? Oui, but the weather doesn’t cooperate.” René smoothed down his beige linen jacket, wishing he’d packed his wool pinstripe.
The cramped VW was littered with food wrappers. “Andy’s meeting with our investor angels.” Kobo ground into first gear. “So I’ll drop you off at the car rental and meet you at Tradelert later, okay?”
René needed to fire his brain cells for the meeting. Hit the ground running. There had to be a café somewhere.
The drive-through, as Kobo called it, served brown piss for coffee. Back on the highway, everything spread out before him was giant—the quadruple lanes, the cars, the sprawling flat buildings, the signs and billboards advertising lawyers to call if you’ve been in an accident. It all felt more foreign now than it had on his brief weekend trip for the interview.
He’d made the jump to a new life in a new country: a job—writing code, designing mainframes, running security—his métier—and a mission: to meet a woman, preferably a tan, leggy Californian who would sit with him under the palm trees and eat hamburgers. He felt the thrill of possibility. Time to leave the ghost of Meizi, that heartbreak.
“Everyone’s so glad you’re on board, part of the team.”
“Me, too.” René felt a flutter of pride.
“You’re our distinguished French connection!” Another laugh as Kobo nudged him. He pulled into the parking lot of a car rental agency, let René out, waved, and took off in his battered VW.
Excited, René imagined the awaiting Jeep Cherokee he’d reserved. The job recruiter had raved about company bonding powwows in the countryside, “off-road”—wasn’t that the term?
“Your reservation’s confirmed for tomorrow,” said the car rental agent, “not today, Mister Free-ant.” René peered up at the Formica rental-car counter. The voice continued to boom like a loudspeaker above him. The gist of it was that the car with adaptations for his height hadn’t arrived. He needed to clear his jetlag-fogged brain and think. He had a meeting with Tradelert’s CEO in an hour. Thank God he’d gotten the international cell phone.
Kobo didn’t answer. Time to call another friend.
“WELCOME TO THE Valley, René,” said Bob, one hand on the baby-blue steering wheel of his big, finned 1974 Cadillac, the other draped over the passenger seat’s shoulder rest. René had met Bob, a fellow programmer, last year when he’d come to Paris to work on a Netscape project. They had discovered a shared passion for vintage cars.
“Smart to snap you up,” Bob said. “But why the hurry?”
“Seems everybody’s gone into overdrive,” René said. “New venture capital interest, so the agenda’s on warp speed. We’ve got to get the security system up now. Such a challenge and thrill to get in on the ground floor.”
“They’re offering you stock options, right?” Bob turned down the radio, which was blasting Creedence Clearwater Revival.
René nodded. “I’m more interested in the work visa. I came in on a tourist—”
“Whoa, René, look out the window. See that temple?”
A gated block, the peaks of a tiled Japanese roof hinting at the wooden temple.
“No time for the scenic tour, Bob.”
“A twenty-four-year-old owns that. Took it apart, brought it over piece by piece from Japan and reassembled it.”
René nodded. “It’s a gold rush, eh, Bob?”
As they drove south, the fog evaporated into piercing blue sky. To the west, clouds like tufts of cotton hovered over the range of coastal blue-purple mountains. Again he was hit by the immensity of everything.
“All this feels like CinemaScope. The colors like Technicolor. But I thought California would be hot.”
“We’re in the land of microclimates, René.” Bob pulled into the motel off Alameda de las Pulgas. “Translates to ‘Avenue of the Fleas.’ ”
A bilingual country—would he need to learn Spanish?
Bob grinned. “The fleas thrived here, sucking the conquistador’s blood. But anyone can thrive here, René.” Bob flicked the transmission into park. “No matter who you are, where you’re from, or where your daddy went to school. Parlay your concept into money—that’s what talks here. That’s the Valley—never forget.”
René checked into the motel. The receptionist shook his head. “We have your reservation booked for tomorrow.”
Again?
“Alors, there’s some mistake. I reserved one room.”
“Mister Free-ant, right now the honeymoon suite’s all that’s available.”
Complete with pink Jacuzzi.
René shrugged and passed over his credit card.
Ten minutes later, Bob dropped him off at Tradelert. “How about dinner where Steve and Larry eat sometimes?”
Bob spoke fast and René had trouble keeping up. Half the time he didn’t catch what Bob meant and had to pretend otherwise. Had Bob mentioned these mecs before? “Your friends, Steve and Larry?”
“When anyone mentions Steve and Larry.…”
René caught himself before he gasped. Swallowed. “You mean Jobs and Ellison.”
“As in Apple and Oracle, René. You need to pick up Valley lingo.”
A different language all right.
Full of excitement at the vista opening up before him, René adjusted his new silk tie, the cuffs on his handmade Charvet shirt, and walked into the former Buick showroom, now Tradelert’s new suite of offices. Bob had told him start-ups scrambled for space, often operating out of warehouses, attics, and garages until funded by venture capitalists; after they hit it big, they bought the building. Like Tradelert had.
The ceiling loomed over him, lost in popcorn stucco and fluorescent lighting. Everything was so high up. The office directory loomed several feet above his head on the wall. He bit his lip, wondering how he’d find his office and the meeting room. Of course, he was supposed to have been there five minutes ago. What about that special-needs accommodation, or whatever they called it, that he’d read about?
Feeling self-conscious, he grabbed an orange plastic chair and climbed up to read the office directory sign. But his name wasn’t there. His nerves overtook him. Had he made a mistake, or had they changed their mind and hired someone else? Here he’d left Aimée and flown thousands of miles from his home and life.
To the left, on a corridor wall, in bright brass shone SECURITY DIVISION MEETING ROOMS 101–106. ROOM 104—RENÉ FRIANT, CHIEF TECHNOLOGY OFFICER. Pride coursed through him. He stepped off the plastic chair and ran down the corridor.
My new life’s beginning, René thought. Forget the old, the past. Forget that momentary tug for Aimée, wondering if she was all right.
Of course she was.
Tuesday Morning, Paris
THE MIST CURLING on the Seine furred dawn’s silver glow. Rain pattered on the grilled balcony outside Aimée’s bedroom window. Miles Davis, her bichon frise, nestled on the silk duvet beside her while she monitored security reports on her laptop. Sleep eluded her. Images of the Serb on the windshield, the horrible thump, and that prison tattoo spun through her head.
Down on the quai a car’s engine whined, a door slammed, and she heard a loud curse. Just the reaction René would have over his damaged car. The repairs would consume a big chunk of their bank account, but she had little choice. Volodya’s refusal to report the robbery and his connection to her mother played in her head. A lie? If not, what was his debt to her? Had he been a snitch or some criminal involved in her past?
It smelled like ripe, three-day-old cheese. When it smells, Aimée’s father always used to say, sniff it out.
Her phone rang. So early—but it was nine hours earlier in California. René calling to let her know he’d landed?
“Satisfied you’ve made me the laughingstock of the department, Leduc?” Morbier growled. “Count your favors used up.”
Aimée cringed. So soon? She had to whip up a counterpoint defense for using his name last night. Deflect him. “Bonjour to you too, Morbier. Meaning what, exactly?”
“Moi, un végétarien?”
That’s all? Miles Davis’s wet nose nuzzled her elbow.
“Morbier, you’re in desperate need of a healthy lifestyle to lower your cholesterol. Just listen to your doctor.”
A snort. “Doctor? But I haven’t seen him in.…”
“Two years. You keep putting off that appointment. But that’s what he’d tell you.”
“Seems you killed someone last night and involved me.”
She chewed her lip. Word traveled fast. “Quite the way with words, Morbier,” she said. “But you don’t understand.”
“Giving up meat, that’s … that’s so.…” Morbier’s words failed him for once. “I’ve got a meeting in two minutes,” he said. “Start talking, Leduc.”
She hit SAVE on her laptop, pulled the duvet closer, took a breath and told him.
“Wait une petite seconde.” Morbier sighed on the other end of the line. “You discover a Russian’s sent you a retainer, c’est ça?”
“It’s not like I planned this, Morbier.…”
“Then in front of this Russian’s place Saj plows over a Serb with prison tattoos, damages René’s car and the Russian’s Mercedes. The Russian insists his painting was ’stolen.’ Now he wants you to recover it.” Another sigh. “That sum it up?”
Almost. She’d left out the part about her mother. Ever since the GIGN intelligence service had tried using her to find out whether her mother was alive, she trusted no one.
“The old man, Volodya, refused to report the robbery,” she said. “Yet we hit a Serb in front of his place fleeing the scene. Strange, non?”
“You’re implying a snatch-and-grab gone wrong? Easy to find Serbs for hire, a franc a dozen,” Morbier said. “But not my call.”
She didn’t care for his brush-off, but it made her think. “Serbs working for a big cheese, you mean? If the Serbian mafia wants vengeance, that puts Saj in trouble.”
“Manslaughter’s what I call trouble, Leduc.”
He had a point.
“What’s the matter? It’s not the first time you’ve knocked someone off, Leduc.”
She wanted to hit him. “You call an accident knocking people off, Morbier?”
“Shaken a chink loose in your couture armor?”
Last night had rattled her more than she cared to admit. Why couldn’t Morbier show sympathy? She jumped out of bed and hit the ancient steam radiator. For once it responded with a cranking noise and a welcome dribble of heat.
“I’d appreciate a flicker of sensitivity for once, Morbier.” If only René hadn’t left, if only the knot in her stomach would go away. Somehow her heart wasn’t into toughing it out as usual. “The man fell on the windshield, we didn’t run him over. Saj is injured and is being held in garde à vue. It’s wrong.”
“Traffic’s not my territory, Leduc.”
She wouldn’t let him off. He owed her. “Who’s the lord of the traffic division?”
“Mais you know him, Leduc, the officer who thinks I’m végétarien.”
She groaned inside. “Put in a good word for Saj, eh?”
“Over lunch while I watch him consume a bifteck?”
“Amaze him with your power salad, Morbier. It’s the new lunch. Get Saj released.”
“Nothin
g happens until the autopsy report. You know that, Leduc,” he said. “Like I haven’t got enough on my plate without you restricting my diet. Compris?”
Over the phone came the familiar whistling of his old kettle in the background. How many times had she heard it in his kitchen as a child? The little girl inside her ached to question him about her mother’s past, how Volodya might have known her. To throw away caution and endanger their rocky new reconciliation.
“The old Russian says he knew my—”
A woman’s voice—“Coffee’s ready”—interrupted her in the background.
She almost dropped her phone. Morbier with a woman? Only a few months after his lady friend Xavierre’s death? “Did you get lucky last night, Morbier?”
He hung up.
Tactless again. She should be happy for him. Not let it jar her.
This conversation had done little to further Saj’s cause. Yet despite Morbier’s usual gruffness, she’d learned he had a new girlfriend, and that the Serb had probably worked for hire. That wouldn’t help much with Saj’s defense.
She speed-dialed her pathologist friend Serge’s extension at the morgue. Voice mail. Frustrated, she left a detailed message asking for his assistance. Saj needed her help right now.
She scouted for something clean to wear in her armoire, settled on a Lurex metallic T-shirt under a ribbed oversize black cashmere cardigan, threw it on over leggings and ankle boots, and added her flea market Hermès scarf. At the porcelain sink in her bathroom, she scrubbed her face with a new bar of black clay soap guaranteed to ward off wrinkles, rimmed her eyes with kohl and smudged the lids, then accentuated them with mascara. She shoved the laptop in her leather bag and grabbed her agnès b. leather coat. With Miles Davis in tow, she hurried down the deep grooved steps of the marble staircase into the puddled courtyard. Patches of azure among the clouds promised a respite from the rain. She deposited Miles Davis with Madame Cachou, her concierge. From the courtyard’s garage, once the carriage house, she walked her scooter across the cobbles. A jump on the kick-start pedal and her Vespa roared onto the quai.
“SAJ DE ROSNAY? He’s in stable condition. No visitors,” said the nurse at the criminal ward of Hôtel-Dieu. The ward, which was guarded by police, smelled of antiseptic and despair. What if the flics pressed manslaughter charges? Saj needed to keep his mouth shut. Not say anything the flics would use against him.
