Arriving at the garden out of breath, we hide behind a gelato stand near the fountain while Rikash prepares his surveillance equipment.
“I hope we aren’t recognized by anyone from Dior,” I worry. “That could blow our cover.”
“This is no time to worry, dearest. Just cover my back while I set things up.”
I take off my khaki Marc Jacobs jacket and hold it open, making a screen while Rikash works his magic.
“I still have trouble believing that Le Furet is collaborating with an international counterfeit ring,” I say quietly. “It’s preposterous.”
“He’s not the first person in the corporate world to have gone bad. We know a few,” Rikash says, playing with some wires.
“You’re right, but it creeps me out that he had my job at Dior. I wonder if he’s threatened anyone else. We need to nail this guy fast.”
“I hear you.” He looks at his watch. “It’s five to four. They should be here any minute.” He plugs a wire into his phone, then pulls his video camera out of his leather saddle bag. He pulls off the cap, adjusts the lens, and pretends to film me.
“Please, no close-ups. I’m getting too old for that.”
“Come on, sweetie, talk some more. I need to make sure this baby works before the gang shows up.”
“You’re going to delete this, right?”
“Of course, it’s just a test. Say whatever’s on your mind.”
“Antoine and I had dinner at Sandrine’s apartment last night. Let’s just say that it wasn’t exactly a rollicking old time.”
“Right, I forgot to ask you about that,” he says, peering into the camera lens while adjusting some buttons. “Go on.”
“It was so strange. She invited us over so she could get better acquainted with Antoine, but she and her husband ended up airing their dirty laundry in front of us instead.”
“She does tend to be rather unpredictable,” Rikash murmurs, still looking down at his camera.
“She looks at her husband with such disdain, it’s disheartening.”
“Not surprised—she seems like the domineering type.”
“It got me thinking. She might not be too happy that we’re spying on a former Dior employee behind her back. I really think we should come clean soon.”
“That seems like a very unlikely scenario at this point,” Rikash says, having turned his camera toward the fountain, “given that she’s just showed up with three policemen to arrest Le Furet.”
I whirl around to see Sandrine near the fountain in dark sunglasses, a beige trench coat, and towering nude heels. Sergeant Larivière and two other gendarmes are close behind her. She points to Le Furet, who is in the midst of handing over a suitcase to one of the vendors we saw on our first raid. One of the men who pushed me down the stairs in New York is there too. The policemen close in on them, carrying handcuffs and holding guns close to their chests. In the commotion, a man I’ve never seen before manages to break away, escaping arrest.
What’s happening? I’m running through all the possibilities in my head, but only one makes sense: somehow Sandrine has found out what we were doing and is trying to take credit for our work. Given her heavy workload and managerial responsibilities these days, it’s nearly impossible that she could have figured things out without listening in on our conversations and having us followed. Rikash and I kept our sleuthing to ourselves.
“This can’t be happening.” My voice is weak.
“Oh my god!” Rikash exclaims. “I just recognized the man running away.” He adjusts the focus on his camera while turning it to follow the man as he runs out onto rue de Rivoli.
“Who is it? Tell me!”
His face goes white as a sheet. “One of the most notorious criminals in the Indian underworld.”
“What?” I can hardly wrap my mind around it. How far do these networks reach?
“He’s feared all over India, especially in Mumbai. They call him the Godfather of Mumbai, and he’s at the top of India’s most-wanted list. He just ran into the Saint James & Albany Hotel.” He puts down his camera and turns to me, his eyes nearly bursting out of their sockets.
“It looks like he’s on the run again,” I note.
“No kidding.” He shakes his head, disappointed.
“So, should we do something about—”
“Shh, I’m trying to hear what Sandrine is saying.” He holds the phone between us so we can follow the conversation.
“Merci beaucoup, Pierre.” Sandrine’s voice transmits clearly through the tiny device. “You’ve led us right to the counterfeiting ring we’ve been trying to catch. Too bad you weren’t more careful.” I look across the park and see her place her hands on her hips with a superior air. “I knew you couldn’t be trusted—that’s why I fired you. I just wish I’d done it sooner.”
That’s a little ironic, since it seems she can’t be trusted either.
Larivière secures the handcuffs on Le Furet’s wrists.
“Shame on you for collaborating with them,” Sandrine continues, her face just a few inches from his. “You’ve undermined everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve.”
I turn toward Rikash and see that he’s just as flabbergasted as I am. We’ve played a part in this too. What about our contributions?
“No, thank you, Sandrine,” Le Furet retorts. “Working for you gave me all the inside information we needed.” He spits on her Louboutins before Larivière pushes him toward a police truck that’s waiting on rue de Rivoli. Sandrine seems unfazed.
“Do you think she saw us?” I wonder aloud.
“Maybe. I can’t believe she did this. What a selfish cow!” Rikash’s voice is shrill.
Blindsided, I pace a little, trying to put the pieces together. Sandrine had no contact with the counterfeiters on the street and acted aloof when Le Furet’s name came up. And then there was her husband’s cryptic comment about how she always saves the day. I have no doubt Sandrine is using the fruits of our labour to get ahead at Dior. It’s unthinkable! I’ve been subject to threats, blackmail, embarrassment, and harassment. And for what? So that Sandrine can get the credit in front of the company’s board of directors? She’s been manipulating me just like Jeffrey did.
“I’m kind of speechless,” I say, watching Sandrine get into the police truck.
“Not for long, I hope. We can’t let her get away with this.”
I know Rikash is right—he’s worked so hard to get us here—but I’m too angry to think. “I’m not sure who we should talk to. Who we can talk to, even.”
“Well, let’s scoot out of here before anyone sees us.”
“Where to?”
“We need to devise a strategy …” He perks up, pointing toward Place de la Concorde. “I know! Let’s go to the Vogue Bar at Hôtel de Crillon.
Inside the luxurious hotel, we walk through the grand marbled lobby and past Les Ambassadeurs, the hotel’s restaurant. We wander down the hall and stop at the bar, settling onto one of its comfortable sofas. During Fashion Week, it’s renamed the Vogue Bar, so that fashionistas know where to go between shows. The cocktail menus feature pictures from recent fashion editorials, and magazine covers hang on the walls. I recognize British fashion icon Alexa Chung giving an interview to Vogue Nippon.
Just then, Rikash’s photographer friend Edouard appears.
“Ah, mon cher ami, I knew I’d find you here during Fashion Week, he says, air-kissing Rikash. “Were you at the Valentino show? It was sublime!” Edouard kisses his thumb and index finger. “The princess dresses were to die for.”
“It’s lovely to see you again, Edouard,” I say, smiling, then signal to Rikash to cut the conversation short. After the two of them air-kiss for about five minutes more, Edouard disappears and we begin our official debriefing session.
“I can’t believe what I captured on film—it’s unreal,” Rikash whispers as a posse of models and editors strut in. “I could be killed for it.” He’s referring to the footage of the Indian mafia king.
His face is sombre.
I nod, his words slowly sinking in. “And we need to be extra-careful about how we manage this. If we go over Sandrine’s head, we could lose our jobs.” I’m gun-shy about grand disclosures since Jeffrey’s arrest. How can we keep this low-profile but still stand up for ourselves? “Perhaps I should talk to Frédéric about it?” I offer.
“I’m not sure we can trust him,” Rikash says, taking a sip of his juice. “What if he’s in on it with Sandrine? It’s hard to tell.”
“I trust him. He can be … difficult sometimes, but he’s reliable, and I think he would want us to get the recognition we deserve.”
“I want to find a way to get Sandrine to admit what she’s done.” He smirks. “And I just had an idea.”
“Oh boy, here we go.” I gently poke him in the ribs. “I hope it’s nothing too crazy. Remember, the key word here is ‘subtlety.’ Our jobs are at stake.”
“Trust me: I know what I’m doing. Besides, for me it’s more than just my job that’s in danger. I don’t want my body to end up floating in the Ganges.”
Mon dieu! “I assume that whatever you have up your sleeve will take care of both Sandrine and your friend from Mumbai?”
He grimaces. “I sure hope so.”
At that moment, every head in the room turns toward the bar’s entrance. I look too, and see our very own chief designer, Wolfgang de Vrees, wearing dark sunglasses and a fitted suit, and surrounded by an entourage of assistants, models, and journalists trying to catch him on film. He struts in at top speed, waving away the bloggers and photographers. His eyes meet mine and, to my surprise, he stops right in front of us. His entourage is forced to a halt as well, creating a giant pileup in the middle of the bar.
“Well, well, what do we have here, hmm? It looks like the legal department is out on the town.” Is he implying that we ought to be at home ironing our shirts for work on Monday morning?
“We were invited to lunch by some journalists after the Valentino show,” Rikash lies, not wanting to appear uncool, I guess.
“Ah bon.” Wolfgang points to the hallway. “Please do stop by the Salon Marie-Antoinette. We’re showing the new, ultrasecret, ultra-luxe, ultra-spéciale, limited-edition resort collection.
You’re part of the family now, après tout.” He signals for the group to proceed, the assistants tottering on their stilettos while managing mountains of bags and hangers. They parade away like a circus act in motion. A few of the photographers snap our picture, assuming that we must be pretty important if we’ve stopped such an impressive cavalcade.
Rikash looks at me with raised eyebrows. “I suppose we should drop by, since the great man himself invited us.”
I shrug. “Okay, but I want to be out of there in less than ten minutes. My head is spinning.”
“That makes two of us.”
At the salon, we’re greeted by two young women decked out in tight black Dior dresses and layers of pearl necklaces. They’re reaching for the guest list when Wolfgang appears.
“Non, non, there’s no need for that. They’re from Dior. You’ve probably never met them, though—they work in the legal department.” He laughs, once more acting as though we’re the scum of the earth. “Please do have some Champagne.” He snaps his fingers, and a waiter in black tie magically appears with a silver tray filled with bubbly. Boy, this guy runs hot and cold.
I’d much rather have a tall glass of water and a couple of Aspirins, but I grab a flute, then look around the majestic room. My jaw literally drops: a crystal chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, a gorgeous tapestry inspired by a Boucher painting is displayed on one wall, and tall doors open onto a terrace overlooking Place de la Concorde. Wolfgang joins me.
“Beautiful, non? It is said that Marie Antoinette took music lessons here.” He points to a rack of clothing at the far end of the room and leads us toward it. “Please come see my darlings.” He spins the rack around, then nods to an assistant. I guess the show’s about to begin.
A woman in a silver sequined mini dress begins to strut around the room. Wolfgang places a finger on his chin, clearly satisfied with his creation. Rikash and I can’t help but nod in approval.
“This is a line we’ve created for a younger, very fashionable client: the socialite who jet-sets across Europe and spends her time on the Riviera.”
“My kind of client,” Rikash pipes up.
“They’ve become an important target group, you know—the ultra-wealthy.” Wolfgang sprints over to the model to remove a loose thread, and I imagine a stunning European royal dancing the night away in Ibiza or on a yacht.
But Rikash and I have less superficial concerns to attend to. It’s time for a quiet exit. I’m about to tap Rikash on the shoulder when my eyes are caught by a pair of models walking half-naked around the room. One is bare-breasted and wearing only a nude-coloured feathered skirt and sky-high heels; the other is in barely there panties that emphasize her buttocks. It’s one thing to see sexually provocative ads in glossy magazines, but I’m disarmed by the sight of virtually undressed women in broad daylight in the name of fashion.
Wolfgang catches me frowning. “You are displeased with my work, Mademoiselle Lambert?” His tone is a touch accusing.
I’ve had more than my share of drama for today; nevertheless, I decide to be upfront with him. “It’s not that I find your work unpleasant. I just feel sorry for those poor girls. They’re walking around almost naked, and they look miserable.”
He gives me a withering look. “It’s important for me to create sexy clothes that your boyfriend will want to tear off you. Are you a prude, ma chérie?” His expression changes to amusement.
“No, I just appreciate it when people are treated with respect. And, by the way, those girls look younger than sixteen.” The few sips of Champagne seem to have rid me of my usual reserve.
“Is that a reproach or some unsolicited legal advice?” Now he looks annoyed.
I put my glass down next to the collection catalogues. “Consider it both.”
I signal to Rikash that I’m ready to leave. If Mr. de Vrees wants my head on a platter, so be it. He’ll have to wait in line on Monday morning.
Rikash and I part company in the Crillon’s lobby. I need to get out of this crazy scene. Antoine agrees to meet me in front of Le Bon Marché, the venerable department store in the 7th arrondissement, on rue de Sèvres. The cosmetics, shoe, and handbag departments are enough to make any woman squeal with delight, but today, I’ve had enough of fashion. I step instead into the food hall, La Grande Épicerie, where I find a mind-boggling array of delicacies such as exotic mustards, dried mushrooms, and jams made of rose petals, raspberries, and violets. There are imported products here too: the American section contains M&Ms, Twizzlers, and Ocean Spray cranberry juice—not exactly fine foods stateside, but exotic to the French, I suppose.
I walk through the aisles like a puppy that’s lost her master. I can’t believe I’ve been bamboozled again. I trusted Sandrine and have tried to do good work for her. And this is the second mess I’ve gotten myself into in less than two years. Have I turned into a major caca magnet? The singer Lena Horne once said, Always be smarter than the people who hire you. My advice would be somewhat different: Always run a background check on the people who hire you.
I make my way to the café and order a green tea and a crème brûlée à la framboise to calm my nerves. This situation with Sandrine is bound to affect my professional future: no one in the fashion world will take me seriously if I’m fired for complaining that my boss took credit for my work. It’ll make me look like une enfant gâtée. But I can’t help but be resentful.
Antoine appears in shorts and a T-shirt, having just been for a run along the Seine. He can tell by the look on my face that something’s wrong. “What is it, Catou? You look like someone just died.”
I finish my tea. “Well, that’s not too far off.”
“What do you mean?” He sits down and wipes the sweat off his face with his
T-shirt.
“It’s Sandrine. We caught her apprehending Pierre Le Furet and some other counterfeiters in the Tuileries Garden today. She somehow got access to our information and beat us to it.”
Looking stunned, he shakes his head and reaches for my hand. “Here we go again.”
Chapter 40
I show up for work on Monday morning unsure what to expect. Antoine suggested I send the video from the gardens to the police and plead my case with senior management to protect my security.
I’m waiting for Rikash to show up so we can put our heads together when I hear voices in the hallway. Sandrine is outside her office, wearing new gold jewellery and a look of satisfaction, while the president of Dior and two senior executives shower her with praise. I’m at a loss.
Rikash saunters into our office looking like the cat who’s just swallowed the canary. “I think I’ve managed to execute my plan flawlessly. You’ll be proud.” He sounds very sure of himself.
“Oh, really? What did you do?” I try to downplay my doubts.
He turns on his computer and brings up a video entitled “Sandrine in the Tuileries Garden.” Whatever this is, it certainly doesn’t look like it will be drama-free.
“And now, the pièce de résistance.” He logs onto Facebook and shows me that he’s just loaded the video onto the site. “They say privacy is dead and that social networking holds the smoking gun. So there you have it.”
He presses Play. First we see Le Furet shaking hands with the street vendors; then shots of us in the Tuileries, setting up the electronic devices; then Sandrine showing up to arrest the group; then the Indian criminal running away on rue de Rivoli. The words “Sandrine Cordier drops the ball in major Dior investigation” appear in bright red letters at the end of the clip.
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