She lifted a slim, colorless strand, little thicker than a hair, from the drawer. “Like this?”
René blinked. “Fiber optics is a hot market in telecommunications these days,” he said. “Bundle that up with more strands and it will carry up to ten million messages, using light pulses.” He shot her a look. “Not chump change either.”
“Bon, I’ll ask my dinner date about it,” she said, applying Chanel Red to her lips. “He runs one of those things.”
“The same mec from last night?”
Odd, she could have sworn René sounded … non, not jealous, he had Meizi. But concerned.
“How’s Meizi?”
His brow creased. “I’m worried. She’s at the hotel, but doesn’t answer the phone.”
Aimée buttoned her coat. “You’re staying until I come back?”
“Until I find something,” René said, a grim set to his mouth. “I’ll have Saj bring what he finds over and we’ll work on this together.”
A quiver ran down her spine. “Whoever murdered Samour didn’t find this place, René. The murderer is still looking.”
“Then make sure you’re not followed, Aimée.” René pulled out the diagram. “According to this, if you go left in the courtyard there’s an exit to rue de Picardie.”
Her heeled boots clicked down the tower’s steep, damp staircase. And then she missed a step, lost her balance. She caught a rusted ring in the wall and held on for dear life. No broken bones, no fall, but a scuffed leather heel and a pang in her sore wrist. Damn medieval towers.
Her phone beeped. One new message. Prévost.
“Give me Clodo’s phone and I’ll tell you when the raid’s scheduled.”
Nothing else.
She hit callback. Tried to leave a message, but his voice mail was full.
She had to find Clodo’s phone.
“WHAT’S THE WEATHER report tonight, Monsieur?” She smiled at the homeless man on the grate at Carreau du Temple.
“Radio’s broken, ma chère.”
“This should help,” she said, laying twenty francs on his sleeping bag. “How’s your daughter?”
“Doing her homework.” His face lit up.
“Don’t you have something for me?”
He handed her the prepaid phone card she’d given him. “Desolé, I couldn’t find a phone cabin. Everyone has mobiles.”
Disappointed, she wanted to kick the grate. She needed a bartering tool for Prévost. A way to protect Meizi.
“But you’re interested in this, non?” A cell phone. “I can’t vouch it’s the one Clodo took, but rumor goes it is.”
“Brilliant.” She slipped him a hundred francs. “Don’t forget I count on your weather predictions for my wardrobe.”
Now she had something to bargain with Prévost. Finally, the trail smelled like it went somewhere.
But she was late. At the small square, she spied a taxi, ran to catch it and jumped in, and overtipped the driver for the short six-block ride.
But the maître d’ at the bistro shook his head. “Desolé, the monsieur changed your dinner reservations to seven thirty. An urgent meeting. He apologizes.”
More than an hour away. Why hadn’t Jean-Luc called her? Then she remembered she hadn’t given him her number. Stupid.
But she had his. She got only his voice mail, left a message to call her.
“Why don’t you wait at the bar? I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, blame it on the symposium. The attendees booked the whole bistro.”
She glanced around. Suits in earnest conversations, consulting handheld calendars under the dark oak beams. Great. “Any idea where the symposium’s held?”
He shrugged.
So now she’d have to wait in the crowded bistro where she couldn’t hear herself think, or roam the dark, wet street?
She didn’t think so. She wedged a place at the bar by an engineering type, a young man with thick-framed glasses, an ill-fitting suit, and licorice-black hair.
“My friend Jean-Luc’s late to meet me from the symposium.” She smiled.
“Which symposium?” he asked, his eyes catching on her cleavage. The pianist in the corner struck up “L’Heure Bleue,” the Françoise Hardy version.
“You know … he’s with Bouygues … I forgot …”
“Do you mean fiber optics in today’s world? Or fiber optics infrastructure in the Third World?”
Fiber optics. “I’m not sure.”
“No matter, they’re both held at the old cloister, on rue des Archives. Cloître des Billettes.”
Close by.
He smiled, revealing a set of braces that caught the light. He looked twelve. “Like a drink?”
“Next time.”
She’d crash the symposium and find Jean-Luc. Too bad she didn’t have her business suit.
Three blocks away, she only had to wait a few minutes before a group of men exited the arched doors of the cloister. She slipped inside. Quiet reigned, broken only by the drip of melting snow on worn pavers. She passed under the fifteenth-century vaulted arcade surrounding the small courtyard.
She half expected robed religious figures treading in prayer. But at the far end, a door opened to a crack of light and voices. A place to start, she thought. Inside, she found a cavernous chapel with men huddled by pillars, signs posting seminars in various rooms, and a label reading Wine Reception on the sacristy door. But the sacristy was empty. Jean-Luc could be in a meeting anywhere here, or somewhere else entirely.
But she could learn about fiber optics. She consulted a symposium schedule in the main chapel and headed to the first room on the right. The meeting had broken up. A few people lingered by a grouping of red velvet gilt-backed chairs, thick binders under their arms. Above them on the sandblasted stone wall, a canvas banner read: Information Highways—Fiber Optics in the 21st Century. René would eat this up. And ask for another helping.
A man in a suit was speaking. “As outlined in our presentation, clients should connect with solar companies like ours via infrastructures with up-to-date fiber optics …”
Weren’t solar and fiber optics two different things? Her eyes began to glaze until she saw his name tag: Rimmel, Solas Energie. De Voule, the Gadz’Arts she spoken with on the phone, headed the company.
“Excusez-moi, Monsieur.” She smiled, stepping into the group. “That’s like connecting apples and oranges, non?”
He took in her leather pants, faux fur coat. “If you interns bothered to attend our presentation, the correlation would be obvious.” A sneer appeared on his long, pale face.
Intern? Thank God the concealer had masked the shadows under her eyes. She’d buy it by the kilo.
“Who do you work with, Mademoiselle?”
She thought quickly. “Jean-Luc at Bouygues,” she said. “Have you seen him?”
“The symposium’s finished for today,” he said dismissively.
His condescending air rankled, yet who better to ask about fiber optics than one in the business? “I’m assembling a marketing proposal for a fiber-optics campaign, Monsieur. I’d like to get a handle on it. Maybe you could elaborate?”
His sneer relaxed. He seemed the type who enjoyed imparting his expertise.
“Third World countries, without existing infrastructure, can put fiber optics in place immediately without expensive adaptations to outdated and often malfunctioning systems,” he said, flicking lint off his tweed jacket.
Patronizing, too.
“The goal would be to provide renewable energy coordinating with a basic delivery infrastructure,” he said. “The horse with the buggy.”
A young engineer type nodded. “Brilliant. Basket the services.”