by Cara Black
Inside the office, René’s desk sat undisturbed since last night. She opened the armoire, pushed aside a streetcleaner’s jumpsuit, Agent Provocateur silk underwear, Italian jeans, and retro boots. In the back she found the black suit, vintage Dior, discovered in a dépôt-vente consignment shop without a tear or slipped seam in it. A classic even to the skirt’s knee-length hem.
She stepped into black sling back heels threaded with bubblegum pink ribbon. Clattering down the stairs, she wondered where René was.
She’d try him later. She ran for the bus.
In the Olf foyer, she signed in at the security post and caught her breath.
Upstairs, Aimée smiled at the secretary, a middle-aged woman with a swollen cheek.
“Root canal,” the secretary explained. “Monsieur Verlet’s in conference but can spare a brief word.”
Or at least that’s what Aimée thought she said.
“But we had an appointment.”
“Some bigwigs appeared—you know how that goes!” she said. “Please, go into the conference room.”
A word? The man was vociferous. He hailed from Perigord and liked to talk.
“Monsieur Verlet . . .” she said, peeking in to the room. “Your secretary said to come in.”
Several men, sitting around a long walnut table, looked up.
“Aaah, Mademoiselle Leduc, glad you dropped by,” he said.
Dropped by? They had an appointment, she wanted to get his signature on a revised contract. And a check.
“Let me introduce you to the board, Mademoiselle Leduc.”
Thank God she’d worn the Dior.
Talk about a power enclave. Most of the men wore the uniform: pinstriped suits, blue shirts, red ties. They emitted a Grandes Ecoles air. Government and corporate types. Graphs and charts lined the wall and someone was giving a presentation. She looked closer: Holdings of PetroVietnam.
PetroVietnam? Might that connect to the Cao Dai?
“Tell us about your work,” Verlet said, “if you don’t mind. Just a quick summary of how your computer security could work for us. I was impressed with your new ideas for the project.”
Why hadn’t he prepared her?
“Mademoiselle Leduc, we’re ready when you are.”
She hesitated, wishing she could have planned a presentation in advance.
“I don’t mind telling you,” Verlet said, grinning, “I had to nudge our board’s thinking toward this new security project but as I told the gentlemen, safeguards and state-of-the art security are demanded today.”
He needed her to dazzle them. Sell them. Convince them they’d make a good choice picking Leduc Detective on his recommendation. When she’d spoken with him last week, he’d been cordial and reasonable. Maybe this had happened too fast for Verlet to warn her.
“Of course, Monsieur Verlet, delighted.” She smiled, figuring she’d throw technical jargon at them, get Verlet’s signature and then beg off on the ground of another appointment. “We’re always thrilled when clients want to understand how our system enhances and builds on their own security.”
She pulled out the proposal, noted the key points. She began, “Gentleman, the web offers unique advantages and security challenges—”
“Would you be so kind as to cut to the heart of why we need your firm, Mademoiselle?” said a white-haired man looking up through reading glasses perched on his nose. “Specifically regarding computer hackers who could explore our data and create a channel to download it?”
Great. One of the elite with a computer attitude, and a bit of knowledge. The type who took a course and knew it all.
“How technical do you want it, Monsieur . . .”
“Monsieur le Ministre Langan,” he said. “When our eyes glaze over might be a good place to stop.”
Nice. Couldn’t Verlet have warned her?
“You posed an excellent question, Monsieur, but if I may backtrack and give some historical perspective, you might understand more of why we do what we do and its impact.”
A few looks of interest came from the men at the table. Langan sat back in his leather chair and crossed his arms.
“If someone tells you they can put an extra security guard on the server, well, they can’t,” she said, walking toward him and pouring herself a glass of water from the carafe. “I assume you’re referring to that when you mentioned exploring data?”
“Something like that,” he said.
A hard sell, this minister in the tailored double-breasted custom made jacket. The others sat and watched.
She smiled and prayed the run on her thigh hadn’t traveled further down her black pantyhose.
“Cyberthreats are really the vulnerabilities, potential open doors in software, that hackers trawl for. All a hacker needs in order to shut down your system is a single Web-connected computer without proper security software; a fourteen-year-old’s desktop Mac, a university’s e-mail server, or a government ministry’s laptop. We see it all the time. Using e-mail software or other applications on an unprotected computer, hackers can bog down your Internet operations with ‘distributed denial of service’ attacks that generate more traffic than the network can handle. Meanwhile, they hack into a vulnerable system undetected in the mass confusion.”
She paused, took a sip of water. Wondering if she’d scored any points yet. But she was telling the truth. And if they didn’t like it, they’d let her know.
Her eyes rested on the PetroVietnam graph of profit and earnings. The connection with the Cao Dai was probably a coincidence; she must be paranoid. Just because there was a Vietnamese connection didn’t mean. . . .
“We watch, warn and share information. Not to mention continual updating and monitoring. And your system has not only firewall protection in place but a backup in the event of a Web attack.”
“And if the firewall is breached, and the back-up?” Langan interrupted.
“Automatic alarms inform us of any attack, monsieur,” she said. “I doubt they’d breach our firewall before we discovered and patched or disarmed the attack.”
“Bon, your firm guarantees this?”
“Of course, that’s what we do 24/7, Monsieur.”
Verlet stood and smiled. Was that relief on his face?
“Mademoiselle Leduc, we appreciate this and don’t want to inconvenience you any more,” he said. “Merci. ”
She took her cue and left. Considering her sweaty palms, it was a good thing she didn’t have to shake anyone’s hand. She leaned against the wall in the video surveillance room and waited for her heart to slow to a normal beat.
A knock sounded on the door. Verlet with the verdict? So quick? She took a deep breath and opened it.
“Oui?”
One of the men from the conference room, all six feet plus of him, stood before her with a copy of Le Monde tucked under his arm. Early forties, brushed back black hair; his pinstriped suit didn’t disguise his muscular frame.
“Good job for being put on the spot, Mademoiselle.” He winked, smiling. A nice smile. “I felt it necessary to go along but forgive me. I mean, for not rising to your defense. You see, we’re part of the consortium insuring this firm and so . . . You handled yourself quite well. Impressive.”
“So my firm passed?”
He nodded.
“We like to establish a relationship of confidence with our clients,” she said, relief flooding her.
“Exactly.” He said, “I’ve already apologized to Verlet, didn’t want him to have an attack of apoplexy in view of his crise de foie and high blood pressure.”
Crise de foie. Why did every Frenchman connect bad health to a mysterious ailment of the liver?
“I’m curious as to why the minister attended this meeting,” she said. She was aware of the rumors that Olf, a state-owned firm, had dealt in backdoor diplomacy since de Gaulle’s era. But she wanted to hear his explanation.
“Why, it’s common practice for the minister to keep informed about investments in unsettled coun
tries. Here, if you need to contact me,” he said, handing her an oversized vellum card engraved with the name Julien de Lussigny.
She handed him hers. “I thought you said you were with the insurance consortium. . . .”
“But I am,” he said. “There are a few things for us to discuss.
Why don’t we have lunch?”
“With pleasure,” she said.
Eager to seal the deal, she tried to ignore the pangs of wariness she felt.
“Say tomorrow?” With people like this one had to smile and nod a lot.
“Bon, I’ll call you to confirm the restaurant tomorrow,” he said.
De Lussigny was distinguished and a tad conservative for her but power oozed from him. His footsteps clicked on the marble floor as he joined the others from the conference room who were spilling into the corridor. By the time they reached the reception area, she’d slipped back into the room and was scanning the PetroVietnam charts. There were lots of arrows on the graph, all pointing upward, indicating profit, staggering profit, in the Gulf of Tonkin. Blue, black, and green triangles indicated British, Chinese, and French drilling areas. Her wariness increased.
“Here you are,” said the nice receptionist who had entered the room silently. “Monsieur Verlet’s engaged now but he asked me to tell you that he’ll sign the addendum and we’ll messenger it over with a check.”
Aimée turned away to hide her relief and the warm flush that now suffused her cheeks. She couldn’t wait to tell René.
Wednesday
RENÉ CHOKED ON THE oily rags filling his mouth. Ropes cut into his tightly bound legs and arms. He could barely move.
If only he’d paid more attenion—not walked into a trap!
His head throbbed from the blows they had inflicted on him. He was in darkness. He could just make out a beeping sound, or was it a muffled honking? But it continued . . . a car alarm? He tried to kick his legs, fighting the terror that flooded him as he lay on a hard surface, trussed like a pheasant. Dull rhythmic flapping echoed near his ear, like the tread of tire on asphalt.
Was he in the trunk of a car? He might be. How long had he been like this?
He worked the tight cord, trying to loosen it, but it only cut harder into his skin. His phone bulged in his jacket pocket, but he couldn’t reach it, or talk if he could.
Make a plan, René. Wasn’t that what Aimée would say? First things first, he must loosen his bonds and work his hands free. If this were a car trunk wouldn’t there be back taillights or a tirejack? Something sharp that might stick out.
And then he remembered his dead phone battery.
But his phone had beeped. He had a message. Was there some life still left in it? He had to reach his phone.
He wiggled his arms, found metal, and rubbed his hands back and forth. Nothing. Where were the rear taillights? Then his wrists struck a sharp edge. A small gleam of red behind it, the rear brakelights. He moved his wrists back and forth, sawing at the cord. Time after time, he missed, and sliced his skin. When he’d freed his hands, he’d try the phone. When the car stopped he’d be ready to spring out and drop kick his assailants.
Why hadn’t he seen the attack coming? All those years of training in martial arts, even a black belt! But hearing Aimée had been hurt, he’d panicked.
Was she? Were the captors taking him to her? Or was that just a ruse?
He’d never let her know. But considering his situation, this was a moot point. His legs hadn’t hurt so much since the doctor had broken, then reset them when he was six. They’d been so severely bowed he could hardly walk. Only after a year in casts with a bar between them to straighten the bones had he walked again.
His neck stung from where his carotid artery had been pinched until he passed out. With all the jerks and starts, he figured they were still in Paris traffic, not all that far from the city center.
He tried to ignore the sharp pain and keep sawing away. The rope finally loosened and gave way. With bloody hands he reached for the rope around his legs, tied in a double knot. Now the phone! He pulled it out of his pocket, sticky and mute. He punched the numbers. Nothing.
And then the car stopped. Panic gripped him. Footsteps crunched on gravel. His hands . . . what should he do with his hands?
Don’t freeze. Yell, he told himself. But he hadn’t yet worked the tape off his mouth.
The trunk opened. Dim light and the sway of branches overhead in the wind. Dark figures huddled; he couldn’t see their faces.
“Don’t his kind work in carnivals?” asked someone with a gravelly voice. “Freak shows? With two hundred kilo women and two-headed snakes.”
A blanket whipped over him, smothering him, blocking out the light. Arms gripped and carried him, bumping him over the back of the trunk.
“Over here,” a voice said.
A blow struck his jaw and he moaned.
“Quick!” Cold air and footsteps echoing on stone. Down, they were going down. A cellar . . . a basement? He was thrown down on something hard. Pain shot up his hip socket. The blanket was removed and a bag slipped over his head. Rough, with the texture of burlap.
“He’s been a quick worker,” the gravel voice said. “Tape those hands.”
“Water every four hours,” said a higher pitched voice. “Let him pee. Here’s his phone. Anyone got a battery charger?”
René shivered as hands taped up his bloody wrists.
“Does this cord fit?”
“Bon,” the voice said with a chuckle. “We’ll wait and use his own phone for the phone call. Have fun.”
“Don’t worry, I will,” the gravel-voice said.
Wednesday Early Evening
THE RINGING OF THE phone woke Aimée. She must have nodded off at her desk at Leduc Detective while finishing the stats. On the green computer screen her eyes focused on the bright cursor blinking by her face. Familiar and reassuring. She’d promised herself never to take her eyesight for granted again but of course she had, more and more, as she recovered and tried to forget.
“Oui . . . allô?”
“We’ll give you forty-eight hours,” said a hoarse voice.
She rubbed her eyes and sat up. Yellow rays from rue de Louvre’s streetlights slanted across her legs. The old station clock above her desk read 6 P.M.
“What? Who’s this?”
“Then we start sending you the dwarf. In little pieces.”
She froze.
René.
“What do you want?”
“Thadée’s backpack.”
Aimée stared at the flickering cursor, trying to think fast. They hadn’t mentioned jade. Did they know what was inside?
“Who are you?” She glanced at René’s untouched desk. “How do I know you have my partner?”
A sound like the muffling of a receiver came over the line. Choking.
“Aimée, don’t. I’m OK—” said René.
The line went dead.
She panicked. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Let them have all her money, the jade . . . anything to get René back.
How could this be happening? Thadée shot to death, then the jade stolen, the RG tracking her, and now René, kidnapped! She hit the call back number. It was René’s own cell phone. No answer. Smart.
Her head whirling, she had to figure something out and rescue René. She thought of his hip and . . . didn’t want to think of what they could do to him.
Calm down. She had to calm down.
They’d call back. And she’d arrange to meet them. Try and convince them to accept the fifty thousand franc check and call it quits.
They’d let her stew before calling to give her the “drop.” But what if they never handed René over? Terror clutched her.
Never rely on criminals to do the expected.
She thought of Louis; “Nut,” as she and René had nicknamed him since he kept bags of nuts in his pockets at all times, saying he was determined to eat healthily in the radar infested world he worked in. They’d met him at an electronics s
eminar when they’d skipped out of Sorbonne classes.
He worked at France Télécom. He’d know a way to trace the kidnappers, if anyone did. She dialed.
“CPMS division.”
“Bonsoir, Nut?” she said, pulling on jeans and a worn cashmere sweater from the office armoire.
“Aimée . . . hold on,” Nut said. She heard beeping in the background. Clicks. “Ça va? I’m the night network supervisor, so I need to monitor transmissions and take calls.”
“I’ll make it quick,” she told him, keeping her voice steady with effort. “Triangulation, can you do it?”
“To a land line or cell phone?”
“René’s cell phone. He’s been . . . kidnapped.”
“You’re joking.”
“I wish,” she said. ”Listen, no time to explain but. . . .”
She heard him take a deep breath.
“Only in Paris within the service antenna’s or tower’s range,” Nut said. “No suburbs or outlying districts. Paris maintains multi-antennas. Even so we’ve had only limited success. Montmartre and the Butte Chaumont hill give us trouble.”
“Will you try?” she asked, turning off her computer, switching off the lights.
“Picking through voluminous CDR records and verifying the data from the base stations which pick up calls to reconstruct and pinpoint the whereabouts of phone users, that’s worse than dental extraction. And more time-consuming.”
“I can give you the number to trace,” she said.
“That lessens it a bit but not enough,” Nut said.
She heard beeps and clicks in the background.
“Talk to a ham radio operator,” he advised. “They monitor cell phone transmissions all the time.”
“René needs help, right away. There’s no time to lose.”
“Go to Club Radio, 11 rue Biot,” he said. “Tell Léo I sent you. That’s the best I can do, Léo helped another friend last week. And don’t forget, Aimée.”
“That I owe you?”
“René’s a black belt. Give him some credit.”
Nut clicked off.
Fear rippled through her as she stepped into her boots and grabbed her knee-length suede shearling coat in the hallway. She ran down the stairs, onto rue du Louvre and found a taxi letting out passengers.