Yurgi Prokorhov had booked the chef’s table at La Maison. Unlike the rest of the restaurant (which looked as if the designer had filched the furniture from Versailles), the chef’s table was simple. No gilt. No brocade. No fat-cheeked cherubs. Glass walls offered guests lucky enough to be seated at the table a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of a working kitchen.
What was happening in the kitchen was an elaborate dance in a stainless-steel ballroom. A sous-chef watched over a boucher, a poissonnier, a friturier, a grillardin, a pâtissier, a saucier, and a légumier. And those were just the cooks I could see.
One of Yurgi’s guards stood just outside the kitchen doors. Thor stood just outside the door to our glass box.
Unless one of the chefs moonlighted as an assassin, we were safe.
“That’s Alain Rivard.” Chariss nodded her chin toward a man in a white chef’s coat and hat. Awe made her breathless.
“He is cooking for us tonight,” said Yurgi. “A special menu.”
In a country where top chefs were more famous than rock stars, Alain Rivard stood alone. Having him cook just for us was akin to having Adele perform a private concert.
Chariss smiled bravely. She might recognize Alain Rivard, but that didn’t mean she wanted to eat his food. Chariss was not an adventurous eater. Her usual dinner was a green salad with a squeeze of lemon juice and grilled salmon or chicken on top. Plus, she had to fit into her costumes in the morning.
The black-clad waiter put amuse bouche in front of us. He explained the tiny bit of food art was actually a poached quail egg on an English pea velouté.
Gamely, I picked up my fork.
With a tenuous smile, Chariss did the same.
Of course, the little egg was sublime.
Viktor, who was looking dazed by his proximity to Chariss, wolfed his in one bite. “Please, tell me about your film.”
“This one is all action,” Chariss replied. “It’s about a woman who accidentally gets involved with a drug cartel, then disrupts their operation.”
“Art imitating life?” asked Yurgi.
“Movies aren’t real. What Poppy did may yet get her killed.” Chariss actually sounded worried. She shot me a mother-hen look that communicated her opinion of my plan to go out later in the evening.
My opinion of the plan wasn’t much different. I narrowed my eyes and stared at Thor’s unresponsive back. Thus far, he hadn’t shared much of John Brown’s scheme with me. Both of them were treating me as if I was a ditzy girl who couldn’t handle the truth.
I relaxed my jaw and returned my attention to the people at the table. Chariss and Viktor were talking movies.
Yurgi patted my hand. “My son loves cinema. He wants to produce films.”
Chariss had a pet project or two and Viktor had the money to make them happen. It was a match made in heaven. “I’m sure she has lots of helpful advice.”
“Then we will let them talk. Tell me—” Yurgi took a sip of his wine “—why does this drug lord want you dead?”
Yurgi looked absolutely nothing like my father, but something about him reminded me of my dad. An almost overwhelming urge to tell him everything took hold of me. I twisted the napkin in my lap.
“I’ll keep your secret. I promise.”
I looked into Yurgi’s dark eyes and believed him. “The night I escaped I saw—”
The door to our glass box swung open and Alain Rivard sailed inside. “Bon soir.” He told us what we would be eating. He gave us the ingredients’ provenance. Kissing his fingertips, he explained how each course would be perfectly prepared, then asked us if we had any questions.
I waited for Chariss to request a salad.
Wisely, she kept her mouth shut.
Having reminded us who the real star was in his kitchen and having sufficiently piqued our appetites, Chef Rivard returned to his stove.
Chariss immediately returned her attention to Viktor. “That idea I was telling you about…” I’d been right. She was pitching pet projects.
“Your mother is a smart businesswoman,” observed Yurgi.
I didn’t argue.
“What do you do?”
I was an under-trained spy. But I couldn’t tell him that. “I wrote a book. My agent is finalizing the contract.”
“You wrote a book? A novel?”
“Yes.”
“You are an artist like your mother.”
“I can’t act.”
His eyes twinkled. “I prefer books.”
“What sorts of businesses do you run?”
“Real estate. Banks. A bit of oil.”
“May I ask you a banking question?”
“Of course.”
“It’s about money launder—” My voice faltered at the suddenly dark expression in his eyes. I gathered my courage and continued, “After my experience in Mexico—” I checked his eyes—the darkness had lightened “—I wondered how it all works.”
“How so?”
“In the United States drug money is in small bills. I read somewhere that a kilo of cocaine weighs three kilos in currency.”
Yurgi nodded.
“Smurfs deposit cash—”
“Smurfs?”
“That’s what they’re called in the US. They’re people who deposit illegal money into bank accounts. The deposit is always less than the ten thousand dollar reporting threshold.”
“I understand now.”
I took a sip of wine. “What I don’t get is the scale. Google says drug revenues in the United States top one hundred billion dollars a year. That’s at least ten million deposits to sneak past regulators.”
“My banks do everything possible to comply with international standards.” The darkness in Yurgi’s eyes had returned and his voice was colder than Siberia in January.
Perfect. There was already a hitman after me and now I’d angered an oligarch with unlimited resources. “I didn’t mean to imply you’re involved.”
His expression softened to Siberia in March. He stared at me for a moment, considering my intentions. “Think about places where people spend cash. Casinos. Amusement parks. Resorts. Race tracks.” He shifted his gaze to the busy kitchen. “Successful restaurants and clubs. In places like this, dirty money mixes with clean.”
I nodded. And waited for more.
“After the money makes it into a bank, the shell game begins.”
“The shell game?”
“Shell corporations transfer the money from account to account until it is used to buy a racehorse or a Gulfstream or—” his gaze returned to the kitchen “—an exquisite meal with beautiful women.”
“What are you two whispering about?” asked Chariss.
“Racehorses,” replied Yurgi.
“Poppy loves horses. Always has.”
Yurgi raised one of his bushy brows.
“It’s true. I grew up in Montana. Dad put me on a horse before I could walk.”
Viktor tore his gaze away from Chariss. “My father has a horse being groomed for the Prix de l’Arc.”
That was impressive. The Prix de l’Arc was one of the most storied races in Europe. “I hear the new track is amazing.”
“I will take you to see it,” Yurgi promised.
A waiter served our next course.
Chariss made charming Yurgi her mission. She asked him about his racehorse, made him laugh till tears stood in his eyes with the story of the disastrous time she rode a horse for a role, then entertained us all with anecdotes about actors and actresses most people wished they knew.
Shortly after perfect citron tartes were served, Chariss shifted in her chair. “This has been such a lovely evening. I hate for it to end, but I have an early call in the morning.”
Yurgi, entirely charmed, smiled at her. “A night to remember. Thank you for joining us.”
We returned to the hotel without a single shot fired.
Yurgi and Viktor walked us to our suite. Thor trailed behind.
Yurgi bent over my hand, barely brushing his lips across my skin. “This danger you are in, it will not last. When it is over, I will take you to ParisLongchamp. It is a promise.”
“I’d like that.”
When Chariss and I closed the door on our Russian friends, she asked, “Are you still going out?”
I glanced at Thor.
He nodded.
I nodded.
Chariss crossed her arms. “I’m tired. I’m taking a sleeping pill. Try not to get yourself killed.” Apparently, she was still mad at me.
“I’ll do my best.”
Without another word, she disappeared into her bedroom.
I let Consuela out of my bedroom, then turned to Thor. “What’s the plan?”
“Change clothes.”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” The little black dress and heels were classics.
“You can’t run in that.” The man had a point.
“Fine. Would you please walk Consuela while I change?”
He hesitated.
“Nothing is going to happen in this suite.”
He nodded and clipped Consuela’s leash to her collar.
I went to my room and changed into the outfit I’d bought earlier—without sunglasses, scarf, or pink trench. My nerves jittered as I touched up my lipstick.
My nerves jittered worse when I walked into the bar, Le Squelette, in the Latin Quarter. With its exposed stone walls, the interior felt like a cave—a cave of no return. Someone had painted the ceiling with blackboard paint and an artist, one who would never see his work in a reputable gallery, had rendered a variety of skeletons in chalk.
The actual bar, nicked and dinged and creaky, was painted black. Flickering LED lights illuminated bottles of questionable liquor. The whole place reeked of cigarettes.
It was the kind of bar frequented by locals—and only locals. No self-respecting tourist, not even the most assiduous searcher of local color, would come in here.
Three men gaped at me. Three men and the blousy woman with her hand on the beer tap.
“What do you want?” The woman wiped a grayed rag across the top of the bar.“Kronenbourg 1664.” A bottle of beer seemed the safest choice. Testing my luck with the cleanliness of the glassware or the contents of the liquor bottles seemed totally reckless.
The woman didn’t move, and it occurred to me she hadn’t been asking for my drink order. She wanted to know why I was in her bar.
“Just the beer. In a bottle.” I pulled a ten-euro note out of my handbag.
She took the money, opened the beer, and put the bottle on the bar next to a cloudy glass. She did not offer me change.
I took the bottle, left the glass, and chose a table where my back could press against the stone wall.
Outside, Thor and John Brown’s men were watching me. They wouldn’t let anything happen. At least I hoped not. I crossed my fingers in my lap, took a tiny sip of beer, and looked at the three men holding up the bar. With nicotine-stained teeth, grubby scarves wrapped round their scrawny necks, and listless expressions, they looked as if they belonged there.
This was the place John Brown had set his trap?
Were the full-of-local-color bartender and patrons actually his agents?
I relaxed. Slightly.
I took another sip of beer and waited for something to happen.
It didn’t. Not after ten minutes. Not after twenty. I picked the Kronenbourg label off the bottle. Not after forty-five. I ordered a second beer just so I could have something on the table. Not after an hour. I called Thor and asked, “How long am I supposed to stay here?”
“Five more minutes.”
“Fine, but just so you know, I would never wait this long for a real person.”
“I don’t doubt you for a second, princess.” He hung up before I could come up with a smart reply.
I ground my teeth, waited another five pointless minutes, and walked outside.
A soft, clinging mist filled the streets, giving the light posts halos and making Le Squelette’s dim lights appear far more inviting than they actually were. The mist was cold, and I hadn’t brought an umbrella. I turned up the collar of my trench coat and set off down the hill.
Mr. Brown had picked a bar on a street that didn’t allow cars. If I wanted a cab (I desperately wanted a cab), I’d have to walk a few blocks.
My loafers’ heels rang against the cobblestones. Rainwater trickled down my neck.
If someone was following me, I’d know. I’d hear them. And Thor was out there somewhere—watching.
I stopped and glanced over my shoulder.
Did that shadow move? Was it one of the good guys?
My heart fluttered in my chest and I jammed my shaking hands in my pocket. I was being silly. There were people—good people—watching. Just because I couldn’t see them didn’t mean they weren’t there.
I passed shuttered butcher shops and bakeries and a tabac with dirty windows and a flashing sign for cigarettes electroniques.
Up ahead, there were lights and traffic and people.
I would not glance over my shoulder again—I would not.
I stepped onto the sidewalk of an actual street and realized my hopes for traffic and people had been optimistic.
Except for a taxi lumbering toward me, the street was deserted. I waved.
Thor and John Brown and whoever else was behind me could figure out what had gone wrong at Le Squelette on their own. I was going back to the Ritz.
The phone in my pocket buzzed.
I held it to my ear as I walked toward the cab. “Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
“Going back to the hotel. It’s late. I’m tired. No one is coming.”
“Don’t—”
I hung up and opened the taxi’s back door. “The Ritz au Place Vendôme?”
“Oui.”
I climbed into the taxi, rested my head against the backseat, and closed my eyes. What were the chances that the paparazzi had moved on? I’d seen on the news that Beyoncé was in Paris. Maybe the photographers had given up on me for a woman who’d actually earned her fame. A woman could dream.
I opened my eyes and caught a glimpse of Tour Montparnasse. “You’re going the wrong way.”
The driver didn’t respond.
I tried again. This time in French. “Vous conduisez dans la mauvaise direction.”
The driver looked over his shoulder. His grin told me I was an idiot woman who’d climbed into the wrong cab. What was next? A gun to my head?
Using my trench to hide my hand, my fingers tightened on the door handle. The next time we came to a stop, I’d run.
The light ahead turned yellow.
I was ready. Blood pumped through my legs. My focus narrowed. My mouth dried.
The taxi slowed. Stopped.
I yanked on the door handle and nothing happened. Nothing. I fumbled for a lock. Dammit. The light was going to turn green. Giving up on stealth, I felt for a lock with both hands.
There wasn’t one.
“Vous ne pouvez pas échapper.” You can’t escape.
We’d just see about that. I slid over to the other side of the car and searched for a lock.
Nothing.
“Where are you taking me?” My French had left me.
“Quelqu’un veut vouz parler.” Someone wants to talk to you.
“Who? Who wants to talk to me?” And why?
The driver didn’t respond.
“Where are you taking me?”
Still no response.
I had my cell. Surely Thor and Mr. Brown were tracking my cell. Or—duh—I could call them. I pulled the phone out of my pocket.
The driver jerked the wheel and pulled the car to the curb behind a black sedan.
Two men climbed out of the car and ran toward us. One of them opened my door and grabbed the phone out of my hand. He crushed it beneath the heel of his shoe.
I looked up at him and the cab didn’t seem so bad. I wrapped the seatbelt around my wrist and held on.
He reached into the backseat, grabbed my free arm, and pulled.
I held onto that seatbelt. No way was I letting go.
He pulled harder.
I kicked, connecting with something that made the man grunt in pain. I might have lasted until help arrived if it weren’t for the second man. I was kicking at the first one when a sharp pinch of pain in my arm made me turn—just in time to see the second man inject me with something.
I came to in the back of a new car. Someone had stuffed my mouth with cotton—at least it felt like it. I ran my tongue over my teeth and listened.
Two men in the front seat were speaking in Arabic.
Arabic? What was going on?
Slowly I reached for my pocket, then remembered (with sickening clarity) my phone was in pieces on a Parisian sidewalk. Thor had no way to find me.
This made no sense. Why was I being kidnapped? The taxi driver could have shot me. The man who’d injected my arm could have filled me with poison. Why was I still alive?
Unless…unless someone wanted me dead and someone else wanted me kidnapped.
I knew who wanted me dead. “Where are you taking me? Who wants to talk to me?”
The front passenger—the man who’d sunk a needle into my arm—turned. “Á Ahmed Badawi. Il a des questions pour vous.” To Ahmed Badawi. He has questions for you.
They were taking me to a terrorist. I pushed myself to sitting. “He could have just called.”