Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,73

martial arts?”

“But her husband arranged for lunch at the Ritz, a bilingual afternoon cultural tour, some sights—”

“Someone slipped up. You should have been told,” Aimée interrupted, pointing to the one video camera in the ceiling woodwork. “We’re private security hired to guard his wife.”

“You?”

The woman needed more convincing and Aimée needed to hurry. Time for the matter-of-fact approach she’d gleaned from Chirac’s security detail.

“As a woman, I blend in, people assume I’m a personal assistant,” she said. “Bien sûr, I’m trained in firearms, protective driving, countersurveillance, and bomb search. But it’s about being able to read a situation, identify threats—whether it’s the paparazzi, a kidnapper, or an assassin—and get my client to safety. If it comes down to conflict, I’ve failed my client and myself. We like to defuse potential threats before they become issues.”

Aimée pulled out her phone. Pretended to consult it.

“I suggest you cooperate before it’s too late. The doorman, if you didn’t notice, is one of ours.”

She pointed to the uniformed doorman speaking into a headset. De rigueur in five-star hotels these days. She counted on the tour guide not to know that.

“Easy to say. How do I know you’re a bodyguard, not a kidnapper?”

Smart.

“That’s going to have to be your call, isn’t it?” Aimée rolled her eyes. “At this moment we have a situation. A level-three threat.” She continued making it up as she went on. “Wives of Russian businessmen make prime targets these days. Serbians pick them off like candy.”

Horror filled the young woman’s eyes.

“I’d prefer not to make a scene, but either make that call or—”

“Make it two hundred francs more worth my while,” she interrupted.

Aimée cringed, hoping it would be worth it.

In return the woman handed Aimée her tour guide pin. Pulled out her phone and hit speed dial. “Mademoiselle.…” followed by several phrases in hurried Russian. “Dosvedanya.”

She pocketed the money and disappeared without a backward glance. Aimée waited ten minutes, using it to read Le Parisien’s business section, which she scanned until she found an article on the Russian oligarch business deals at the air trade show. The diva’s hubby, Bereskova, was a major player. It seemed the oligarch’s search for composite carbon parts necessary for plane fuselages had hit snags with the Ministry of Defense.

Putting aside the flea market antiquaire, Tatyana stood to gain from the Modigliani—a guaranteed entrée for a babushka girl from the village to ride with the nouveau riche of Moscow.

Tatyana would keep contact with the Serb’s cohort, needing him to make good on the deal. Find the painting.

Aimée would have to get Tatyana aside, threaten her cover if she didn’t call the dog off.

Russian oligarchs belonged to the select economic strata with enough disposable income for a Modigliani. Hadn’t Marcel just pointed out the limos of the Russian oligarchs’ wives—boutiquing while their husbands shopped for an air fleet? A Modigliani would be a plum treasure for a Russian collector.

She prayed she could pull this off. In the marble restroom scented by floating gardenias in a matching marble fountain, she used a gold-braided linen hand towel. Touched up her eyes à la ELLE, smoky shadows to smolder.

Smiling with an apologetic shrug, Aimée introduced herself to the women. “Your guide took ill,” she said, re-explaining the situation.

Tatyana and the bodyguard looked her up and down. Did Tatyana’s gaze linger a second longer before turning to the diva?

“The boring Ritz and some cultural tour?” The diva laughed. “No way.”

Aimée’s heart sank. Thought fast on how she could use this. “Actually, the tour company suggested me because I conduct shopping tours also. I’m collaborating with my journalist friend on her book—Chic Pas Cher—a fashion guide to what Parisians wear. We’re doing a spread in ELLE.”

That much was almost true.

“ELLE?” The diva sat up. “Vogue’s my, how you say, bible.”

Aimée beamed her a smile. “But ELLE’s au courant for the young set like you.”

The diva ate that up—Aimée could tell—cocking an eyebrow at Tatyana, who grinned back like a lapdog. “I like this idea. We go shopping. You take us to where Parisiennes go.”

“Hermès, Vuitton, you mean?” Aimée asked.

“Nyet. Like you. You do good job, get good tip.”

In the Mercedes limo, the chauffeur tipped his blue cap. Large shoulders, Slavic cheekbones, and an accent. “The Ritz first, Madame Bereskova?”

The diva leaned back in the seat and pointed at Aimée. “Change plans. Tell him.”

Tatyana and the diva drank champagne from the bar in the back. The bodyguard, Svetla, poured and checked her cell phone. The women weren’t much for small talk with the