“Sounds good to me!” Noah boomed, turning heads. “I don't suppose you have satellite TV?” He laughed at his own joke, totally transformed into the nouveau-riche dot-commer he had come there to portray. “You know women,” he added, with an indulgent pinch of Sydney's cheek. “Better bring the bottle.”
“Whatever you like, monsieur— er, Nick.” The man gestured for them to walk ahead of him. “But first, if you'll please choose a seat . . .”
The interior of Monique Larousse looked more like a huge formal living room than a store. The walls were papered in an antique floral pattern, the ceiling was intricately plastered, and the overhead light came from chandeliers. Several groupings of antique furniture were arranged on rich rugs, with not a rack of clothing in sight. Monique Larousse sold only custom and one-of-a-kind designs, and only by appointment; browsers seeking sales were in the wrong place.
Five other customers, a couple and a group of three women, were seated near the far end of the room, being catered to by saleswomen. As Sydney watched, three models wearing summer suits and hats came through a curtained doorway and stood before the women.
Noah selected a place to sit near the center of the store, a spot with good visibility in all directions. Their attendant disappeared to fetch the champagne while Sydney perched on the edge of a striped silk chair.
“So, here we are,” she said, trying not to sound nervous.
Noah stretched back in a settee, his hands locked comfortably behind his neck. “Here we are,” he agreed.
She glanced around her, wondering what to do first. In a row across the inside of her left palm, five surveillance cameras—flesh-colored lumps the size of half a pea, with adhesive on the back—waited to be transferred to strategic areas of the building. The clutch purse in her lap contained a box of bugging devices disguised as tiny breath mints. But now didn't seem like the moment to break any of those things out. Instead, she fidgeted with her necklace, trying to feel the stone that held the transmitter.
She and Noah had practiced in the hotel before they'd left—all she had to do was whisper and he heard her in his earpiece. She had a duplicate earpiece, like a miniature hearing aid, which received Noah's voice from a transmitter in his top shirt button.
Sydney's hand drifted up to her earlobe as she pretended to adjust an earring that was actually another camera. In less than a second, she'd snapped several pictures of the room, not knowing what might be useful. Then it occurred to her to focus on the employees, any or all of whom could be working for K-Directorate.
Keeping her movements casual, Sydney snagged shots of all three models, the two saleswomen, and a thirty-something woman who had appeared through a distant doorway. Her flawless skin was the color of milk, her hair an unnatural black, and her lipstick neon red. She watched the models a moment, scowling, then disappeared again just as the doorman reemerged with a tray of champagne and hors d'oeuvres, a smiling young saleswoman in tow.
“I am Yvette,” the woman announced as the champagne and food were offered. Sydney took a flute of champagne but declined the hors d'oeuvres, while Noah filled a napkin with crab puffs as if oblivious to the fact that the tray was about to be set down right beside him.
“Thank you, Henri,” Yvette told the man. “You may go now.”
Henri bowed slightly before disappearing into the back of the shop, giving Sydney the perfect opportunity to catch both him and Yvette with a single shot of her earring cam.
“So! What are we looking at today?” Yvette asked cheerfully. “Daywear? Eveningwear? Perhaps a peek at our fall collection?”
“Daywear. And eveningwear,” Sydney added quickly. Noah had said to make things take as long as possible.
Yvette ran off and Sydney sipped her champagne. The wine tasted nearly as bitter as the unexpected memory it provoked. She remembered the first time she'd had champagne, at a cold Christmas dinner with her father—his closed-off, brooding face, her desperate need to impress him with how much she'd matured at boarding school. She had badgered him until he'd let her have the drink, so even after she'd discovered she didn't like it, she'd had to finish it all, afraid of looking foolish. It hadn't mattered to him, of course. She understood that now.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Noah said.
She managed a noncommittal smile and put her champagne down on the table, grateful to see Yvette reapproaching with two models in evening dresses.
For the next forty minutes, Sydney and Noah watched as store models paraded back and forth wearing Monique Larousse originals. Sydney was overwhelmed, both by the outré fashions and by the mere idea of what they must cost. She pointed at items on impulse, knowing none of the clothes would be hers anyway. Eventually Yvette decided it was time to move on to a fitting.
“We will get your measurements, then perhaps you would like to try on some of the samples, just to get a feeling,” she said. “Of course, anything you select will be made to order.”
“How long is that going to take?” Noah asked. “We're only here for a week, and we want to bring these clothes back to the states with us.”
Yvette looked surprised but recovered quickly. “That might be possible. For some of the gowns. If we alter the samples.”
Noah nodded. “That's what I like to hear, Yvette. Think outside the box.”
The saleswoman smiled uncertainly and whisked Sydney off through a wide doorway. On its other side, a long hall extended to the left and right. Yvette turned left. Following her, Sydney glimpsed two well-furnished, bedroom-sized rooms through open doorways before Yvette stopped in front of a third.
“We will be in here,” she said, motioning Sydney inside. “Madame Monique prefers that we fill the other rooms first—she thinks they are better decorated—but I favor this one because it is largest. It's nice, don't you think? Look, your choices are already here.”
Sydney walked in, noticing that opposite the dressing room doorway the hall took a ninety-degree turn toward the back of the building. Unfortunately, a dividing curtain across the second hallway kept Sydney from seeing more, and Yvette quickly shut the dressing room door.
The room they were in seemed much like the others Sydney had glimpsed. One wall was completely mirrored, and several freestanding mirrors were placed about to allow viewing from all angles. The other three walls were paneled with wood, and the floor was wood as well, enhanced by a colorful area rug. A tall bureau, several white brocade chairs, and a loaded chrome clothes rack accounted for the rest of the furniture in the room.
“First, I will take your measurements,” Yvette announced, removing a measuring tape from the bureau's top drawer.
Over the next few minutes, Sydney submitted to an intricate series of measurements, keeping her left hand curled to conceal the cameras and trying not to betray her increasing impatience.
She'll get the measurements, then she'll leave so I can try on the clothes, she reassured herself. That will be my chance to do a little exploring.
But when Yvette attempted to unzip Sydney's sheath, Sydney realized that wasn't going to happen. The woman planned to stay and dress her like a doll.
“You know what? I can do this by myself,” she said, twisting away from Yvette's fingers. “In fact, I'd prefer to. I'll call you if I need help.”
“Madame Monique will not like that,” Yvette said uncertainly. “I am supposed to assist the customer at all times.”
“How about assisting my husband for a while, then? He's probably totally bored out there.”
“Oh. Well . . . if you wish, I'll go see.”
“Thanks. I won't be long,” Sydney promised, shooing the woman out the door.
She was finally alone in Monique Larousse.
“Noah! Noah!” Sydney whispered, kicking off her spike heels. “Yvette's coming your way. Can you hear me?”
He coughed—their signal for yes.
“Keep her busy.”
Sydney opened her purse and took out her packet of “breath mints.” Trying to move casually i
n case she was under surveillance, she pretended to put a mint in her mouth but actually dropped the chalky white bug behind one of the white chair cushions.
“Have you got her?” she whispered, barely moving her lips. “I'm going out.”
“Hey, Yvette, what's the verdict?” Noah's voice came back in her ear. “Did Carrie already buy up the shop?”
Yvette's answer was crystal clear; she had to be standing nearby. “She is, um . . .”
“Listen, these crab cakes are great. Where do you buy these?”
“I do not know. Let me ask Henri.”
Sydney was already reaching for the doorknob when she heard something she hadn't expected: Noah speaking French.
“Vous êtes très aimable,” he said.“Merci beaucoup.”
“Vous parlez français!” Yvette cried delightedly.
“Pas très bien. Je prends des leçons depuis une année maintenant. J'ai appris les verbes mportants et la plupart des animaux de ferme.”
Yvette giggled.
One hand on the doorknob, Sydney nearly burst out laughing as well. She had no clue what Noah was saying, but she'd heard enough French to realize how painfully American his accent was. It gave her a perverse sort of pleasure to know that Mr. Perfect had a weakness after all.
Yvette's voice grew flirtatious.“Vous parlez très bien, monsieur.”
Noah's rambling reply was punctuated by more giggles from Yvette, and Sydney felt an unexpected pang. Even with his lousy accent, she had to admit that Noah's French sounded kind of romantic.
Yvette obviously thought so.
For a moment, Sydney wanted to march out to the front of the store and break things up.
Which would mean I was jealous, which would mean . . . Get a grip, Sydney, she thought, annoyed with herself. I told him to stall Yvette, and he is. Besides, even if he's totally hitting on her—
“I'm going in,” she whispered abruptly, opening the dressing room door.
Noah interrupted his conversation long enough to clear his throat.
Her heart fluttering with adrenaline, her purse in her left hand and bugs in her right, Sydney slipped barefoot into the hall.
6
JUST OUTSIDE HER DRESSING room door, at the corner where the hall changed direction, Sydney peeled a camera off her hand and, pretending simply to brush against the wall, stuck it to the wallpaper. The paper's busy floral pattern and a special coating on the camera made the device virtually disappear.
That's one, she thought, breathing fast with excitement and a little fear. Even though the mission was a simple recon, with Noah right outside, she couldn't stop imagining someone from K-Directorate watching her at that very instant. Taking a deep breath, she continued nervously forward, ducking around the dividing drape in the second hallway.
The change in décor was immediate. While the front of the store was all opulence and antiques, the hallway behind the curtain was strictly utilitarian. Plain white walls, industrial gray carpeting, and overhead fluorescent lights made a charmless combination. The only grace note was a large window at the end of the hallway, clearly original to the old building. Walking quickly to the window, Sydney leaned on the sill and looked out, letting a bug tumble into a crack in the wood there while she was at it.
Outside, a familiar alley greeted her eyes; she was gazing through one of the ground-level windows she had passed on her jog that morning. On the other side of the pavement, the Dumpster cast a block of shade onto the bushy ground behind it. And to her right was the exterior staircase that led to the basement door, where the mysterious men in the van had dropped off their parcel that morning.
If I could just get down a floor and over a bit, she thought, I could see where they came in. Maybe I could even find that package.
Pushing off from the window, she looked around as if lost, then opened the nearest door. As she had hoped, a staircase lay on its other side.
Sydney's heart was beating double-time as she padded down the stairs, planting another camera halfway to the bottom. She was far from the dressing room now, and every step she took was putting her more at risk. The sound of Noah's voice, still nattering on in French, was her lifeline now. She had long since quit trying to understand what he said, but his calm, steady tone emboldened her to keep going.
At the bottom of the stairs, a doorway opened into a short, grubby hallway lined on both sides with closed wooden doors. Sydney recognized the single steel door at its end as the exit to the outdoor stairway.
That's where those men came in! she thought excitedly. She quickly placed a camera in the hallway, where it would film any further deliveries, and dropped a bug into the crack between the filthy carpet and baseboard.
Now, where would that package be?
If she could find it and prove it was something important, Noah would have to admit that her unauthorized snooping that morning had been pretty smart after all. The problem was, she didn't know which door to look behind, and she could hardly run around opening them at random—someone might be behind one.
She was still trying to work out a plan when she heard heavy steps clomping down the stairs outside. Somebody was coming!
With no time left to be cautious, Sydney yanked open the nearest door and dodged inside, closing it behind her just as two men entered the hallway. She could hear their muffled voices from the dark, windowless office where she found herself.
That was close, she thought, pulse pounding. Pressing her ear to the door, she listened to the men talk in the hall, but couldn't make out what they said. Her just-placed bug and camera would catch everything, though, and she felt kind of proud of how skillfully she'd managed the situation. All she had to do now was wait for the hallway to clear.
Which hopefully won't take long. There has to be a limit to how long Noah can charm Yvette.
Not that he seems to be reaching it.
He was still chatting and Yvette was still giggling, their voices crystal clear in Sydney's hidden earpiece. If he weren't supposed to be married to me, he'd probably have asked her out by now!
Meanwhile, the two men were still yakking in the hall, keeping her trapped. Sydney glanced back into the small, dark office, then decided to search it more thoroughly. Taking a tiny flashlight from her purse, she shone it around the room.
An old wooden desk and two cobweb-covered bookcases were the primary furniture, and judging from the layer of dust covering everything, they didn't get used very often. Sydney eased a couple of desk drawers open, but found nothing more exciting than pens. The mysterious package of that morning was nowhere in sight, nor was there anyplace to hide something that big. She dropped a bug into the crack between the bookcases and returned to listen at the door.
The men were still out there, still talking, when all of a sudden a different voice rose in Sydney's ear—Noah's. Speaking English.
“She's not in the dressing room?” he said loudly.
Sydney's heart vaulted into her throat. They'd noticed she was missing!
“But Madame Monique,” Yvette protested, “I just left her there.”
“Then I suggest you find her,” a sour third voice replied. “Now.”
“Nothing to get in a panic about.” Noah spoke as if he were cautioning Sydney directly. “Knowing my wife and her peanut bladder, she's probably in the bathroom.”
Sydney strained against the closed door. Noah's message was clear: She had to get back upstairs fast and pretend to have needed the toilet. But the men were still in the hallway, and there was no way to get past them.
“So, you're Monique Larousse,” Noah continued conversationally. “My wife sure likes your clothes.”
“Thank you. That's very flattering,” the third voice replied stiffly.
“I'll go look in the ladies' room,” Yvette said nervously.
The next second there was silence.
Are they still there? Sydney wondered frantically. Did I lose my transmission?
She adjusted her earpiece, but still heard nothing.
>
Suddenly, Noah cleared his throat. “So . . . here I am, all by myself,” he muttered lightly, as if simply uncomfortable at being left alone.
Sydney felt sick. He wanted her to know that he'd lost sight of both Yvette and Madame Monique. They could be anywhere, and they were looking for her. She had to get out of there!
But the men were still talking . . . talking . . . talking. . . .
Sydney was ready to scream when the voices suddenly stopped. She heard the sound of heavy boots, followed by a slamming door. Silence.
A few more seconds: still no sound.
Yes! she thought gratefully.
She bolted out of her hiding place—only to come face to face with the huge bald man she'd seen driving the van that morning.
He had stayed behind to smoke in the hall. Now a barely lit cigarette dangled, forgotten, from his thick fingers. He stared at Sydney, as shocked as she.
And then the expression on his coarse face turned into something less pleasant.
“Que faîtes-vous ici?” he barked, dropping his cigarette on the carpet.
His eyes smoldering like its embers, he started walking toward her.
7
SYDNEY NEARLY PANICKED AS the heavyset man came toward her. She tried to remember her Krav Maga training, but everything she'd learned swirled through her brain in a frightened blur. Could she really defend herself hand to hand against an opponent so much bigger? Her instincts told her to bolt into the alley and run for her life.
But running will prove I'm guilty, she thought. And leave Noah and SD-6 exposed.
She had to try to bluff.
“Finally!” she exclaimed huffily, walking forward to meet her assailant. “I was starting to think no one worked down here!”
The man's steps faltered in confusion.
“Do you speak English? My husband speaks French, but he's upstairs and I'm hopeless with languages.”
“I speak English,” the man admitted cautiously.
“Great! Fantastic! What's your name?”
“Arnaud.”
“Arnaud— Isn't that pretty? Pretty in a manly way, of course. I'm Carrie Wainwright.”
A Secret Life Page 5