Page 28 of French Escapade

Ken

Ted leading the way, we climb the steps to the venue. Two men are talking on the landing. Even without the earpiece, they are easy to identify as the security team. They are taller and more well-built than the average French man that I have seen since I arrived in country. Furthermore, under his left arm, each has the telltale gun-in-a-holster bulge.

“Good evening,” Ted says as we come closer. I’m a member of Patrick Lemittre’s team.”

One of the two goons looks at a small tablet while the other studies us. “Your name,” the first guy asks, without looking up.

“Ted Carter.”

“You’re good to go. You’re on my list,” he says raising his head. “And those two? I’m assuming they are Ivan’s security.”

Ted nods. It’s not what we had planned, but who cares? The main thing is to get in. “Don’t know why they think we’re not enough, but the more the merrier, right?”

“Yeah, if you say so,” the man with the tablet says. “But we’ve been supervising their monthly bash for over a year and it’s always gone without a hitch, so I find it insulting.”

“I get it. I wouldn’t be happy either,” Ted agrees with a conciliatory tone. “But I’ve heard that this Dmitri guy, he’s the cream of the crop. He never goes anywhere without his small army to protect him.”

“If you say so,” grumbles the other guy. “Well, since you’re here and a member of Patrick’s team, I’m going to let you handle the front door, and lead our colleagues to the rooms they’re supposed to supervise.”

“He steps forward and signals for us to follow. Do you at least speak French?”

“We do understand French,” Jimmy answers, with a weird accent that is so intentionally heavy it’s likely to discourage any attempt to strike up a conversation.

Our escort rolls his eyes and mumbles something I don’t understand. I’m guessing he’s wondering why they didn’t hire French guards.

Ignoring his grumbling, I look around and can’t help admire the amazing work done by the decorators since we were here a few hours ago. Once past the reception area, we enter a hallway covered with more gold than Fort Knox.

There’s a lavish display of exotic trees and cut flowers in metallic vases. A lot of red, even more gold … not my taste, but it’s spectacular. The birthday boy is getting his money’s worth.

“So, your client rented three rooms,” our guide explains, once we reach the end of the hallway. “The first one is where the dinner will be served.”

He pushes open one side of a double door, revealing a large room where tables have been set for the evening meal. Here again, the decorator has invested in shiny and sparkly.

“The second is the room they will move into after dinner for the rest of the party. I’m not certain what they will be auctioning tonight,” he says with a jaded tone, while pushing open a heavy, soundproofed door.

It reveals a smaller room where rows of seats have been set up, like they would be for a wedding. And at the end of the room there is a pulpit that could very well be used by a religious person or civil servant or by an auctioneer to carry out a sale.

He lets the door close and asks if we have questions. His tone is clear. As far as he’s concerned, he’s done with us and wasted enough time. Nevertheless, if I had, actually, been hired to watch over this party, I would have a question for him.

“Didn’t you say three rooms?” I ask, making my American accent heavier than usual as he turns his back to us.

“Yep, I did, but the third one will be used as a coat room, and the Eagle has the key.”

“Arkady?” The question comes out before I have a chance to decide if it’s wise to ask it.

“Well, sure, he’s the one who brings in the prizes every month,” he says, walking away again. “And no matter where the party is held, he’s the only one with access.”

“Is that where he stores the goods?”

The man turns around and looks at me weirdly.

“Well, I thought the Russians were heartless, but now I see the Americans are no better. I know that when they are ready to offer the type of services your clients are looking for, those girls are desperate, but I wouldn’t have called them goods…”

Without finishing his sentence, he leaves, acting outraged.

I have to restrain myself not to run after him. Who does he think he is? He’s looking down on us, while he’s just admitted that young women are offered to the patrons of his employer to perform who knows what services. If he thinks that’s unacceptable, why doesn’t he do something about it? Even if he’s not brave enough to do something directly, he could drop a dime and call the police.

But this is not the time nor the place to lecture a perfect stranger about moral values. No, it’s time for recon. I want us to be able to make a quick getaway as soon as we find Madison. Even though we looked at the layout of the place at Élodie’s, it’s safer to take advantage of the time we have before the guests arrive to check that there are no unexpected obstacles in our way.

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